ffers he bids them lay those counts
At Saint Romain: So rest they in that ground.
Franks them to God and to His Angels vow.
Charles canters on, by valleys and by mounts,
Not before Aix will he not make sojourn;
Canters so far, on th'terrace he dismounts.
When he is come into his lofty house,
By messengers he seeks his judges out;
Saxons, Baivers, Lotherencs and Frisouns,
Germans he calls, and also calls Borgounds;
From Normandy, from Brittany and Poitou,
And those in France that are the sagest found.
Thereon begins the cause of Gueneloun.

CCLXVIII

That Emperour, returning out of Spain,
Arrived in France, in his chief seat, at Aix,
Clomb to th' Palace, into the hall he came.
Was come to him there Alde, that fair dame;
Said to the King: "Where's Rollanz the Captain,
Who sware to me, he'ld have me for his mate?"
Then upon Charles a heavy sorrow weighed,
And his eyes wept, he tore his beard again:
"Sister, dear friend, of a dead man you spake.
I'll give you one far better in exchange,
That is Loewis, what further can I say;
He is my son, and shall my marches take."
Alde answered him: "That word to me is strange.
Never, please God, His Angels and His Saints,
When Rollant's dead shall I alive remain!"
Her colour fails, at th' feet of Charlemain,
She falls; she's dead. Her soul God's Mercy awaits!
Barons of France weep therefore and complain.

CCLXIX

Alde the fair is gone now to her rest.
Yet the King thought she was but swooning then,
Pity he had, our Emperour, and wept,
Took her in's hands, raised her from th'earth again;
On her shoulders her head still drooped and leant.
When Charles saw that she was truly dead
Four countesses at once he summoned;
To a monast'ry of nuns they bare her thence,
All night their watch until the dawn they held;
Before the altar her tomb was fashioned well;
Her memory the King with honour kept.
AOI.

CCLXX

That Emperour is now returned to Aix.
The felon Guene, all in his iron chains
Is in that town, before the King's Palace;
Those serfs have bound him, fast upon his stake,
In deer-hide thongs his hands they've helpless made,
With clubs and whips they trounce him well and baste:
He has deserved not any better fate;
In bitter grief his trial there he awaits.

CCLXXI

Written it is, and in an ancient geste
How Charles called from many land