eleventh-century hero, on the first crusade. First or last, the whole company died in fight, or in prison, or on crusade, while the monks shrived them and prayed.

Then Taillefer certainly sang the great death-scenes. Even to this day every French school-boy, if he knows no other poetry, knows these verses by heart. In the eleventh century they wrung the heart of every man-at-arms in Europe, whose school was the field of battle and the hand-to-hand fight. No modern singer ever enjoys such power over an audience as Taillefer exercised over these men who were actors as well as listeners. In the melee at Roncesvalles, overborne by innumerable Saracens, Oliver at last calls for help:—

Munjoie escriet e haltement e cler.
 Rollant apelet sun ami e sun per;
 "Sire compainz a mei kar vus justez.
 A grant dulur ermes hoi deserveret." Aoi.

"Montjoie!" he cries, loud and clear,
 Roland he calls, his friend and peer;
 "Sir Friend! ride now to help me here!
 Parted today, great pity were."

Of course the full value of the verse cannot be regained. One knows neither how it was sung nor even how it was pronounced. The assonances are beyond recovering; the "laisse" or leash of verses or assonances with the concluding cry, "Aoi," has long ago vanished from verse or song. The sense is as simple as the "Ballad of Chevy Chase," but one must imagine the voice and acting. Doubtless Taillefer acted each motive; when Oliver called loud and clear, Taillefer's voice rose; when Roland spoke "doulcement et suef," the singer must have sung gently and soft; and when the two friends, with the singular courtesy of knighthood and dignity of soldiers, bowed to each other in parting and turned to face their deaths, Taillefer may have indicated the movement as he sang. The verses gave room for great acting. Hearing Oliver's cry for help, Roland rode up, and at sight of the desperate field, lost for a moment his consciousness:—

As vus Rollant sur sun cheval pasmet
 E Olivier ki est a mort nafrez!
 Tant ad sainiet li oil li sunt trublet
 Ne luinz ne pres ne poet veeir si cler
 Que reconuisset nisun hume mortel.
 Sun cumpaignun cum il l'ad encuntret
 Sil fiert amunt sur l'elme a or gemmet
 Tut li detrenchet d'ici que al nasel
 Mais en la teste ne l'ad mie adeset.
 A icel colp l'ad Rollanz reguardet
 Si li demandet dulcement et suef
 "Sire cumpainz, faites le vus de gred?
 Ja est co Rollanz ki tant vus soelt amer.
 Par nule guise ne m'aviez desfiet,"
 Dist Oliviers: "Or vus oi jo parler
 Io ne vus vei. Veied vus damnedeus!
 Ferut vus ai. Kar le me pardunez!"
 Rollanz respunt: "Jo n'ai nient de mel.
 Jol vus parduins ici e devant deu."
 A icel mot l'uns al altre ad clinet.
 Par tel amur as les vus desevrez!

There Roland sits unconscious on his horse,
 And Oliver who wounded is to death,
 So much has bled, his eyes grow dark to him,
 Nor far nor near can see so clear
 As to recognize any mortal man.
 His friend, when he has encountered him,
 He strikes upon the helmet of gemmed gold,
 splits it from the crown to the nose-piece,
 But to the head he has not reached at all.
 At this blow Roland looks at him,
 Asks him gently and softly:
 "Sir Friend, do you it in earnest?
 You know 't is Roland who has so loved you.
 In no way have you sent to me defiance."
 Says Oliver: "Indeed I hear you speak,
 I do not see you. May God see and save you!
 Strike you I did. I pray you pardon me."
 Roland replies: "I have no harm at all.
 I pardon you here and before God!"
 At this word, one to the other bends himself.
 With such affection, there they separate.

No one should try to render this into English—or, indeed, into modern French—verse, but any one who will take the trouble to catch the metre and will remember that each verse in the "leash" ends in the same sound,—aimer, parler, cler, mortel, damnede, mel, deu, suef, nasel,—however the terminal syllables may be spelled, can follow the feeling of the poetry as well as though it were Greek hexameter. He will feel the simple force of the words and action, as he feels Homer. It is the grand style,—the eleventh century:—

Ferut vus ai! Kar le me pardunez!

Not a syllable is lost, and always the strongest syllable is chosen.
Even the sentiment is monosyllabic and curt:—

Ja est co Rollanz ki tant vus soelt amer!

Taillefer had, in such a libretto, the means of producing dramatic effects that the French comedy or the grand opera never approached, and such as made Bayreuth seem thin and feeble. Duke William's barons must have clung to his voice and action as though they were in the very melee, striking at the helmets of gemmed gold. They had all been there, and were to be there again. As the climax approached, they saw the scene itself; probably they had seen it every year, more or less, since they could swing a sword. Taillefer chanted the death of Oliver and of Archbishop Turpin and all the other barons of the rear guard, except Roland, who was left for dead by the Saracens when they fled on hearing the horns of Charlemagne's returning host. Roland came back to consciousness on feeling a Saracen marauder tugging at his sword Durendal. With a blow of his ivory horn—oliphant—he killed the pagan; then feeling death near, he prepared for it. His first thought was for Durendal, his sword, which he could not leave to infidels. In the singular triple repetition which gives more of the same solidity and architectural weight to the verse, he made three attempts to break the sword, with a lament—a plaint—for each. Three times he struck with all his force against the rock; each time the sword rebounded without breaking. The third time—

Rollanz ferit en une pierre bise
 Plus en abat que jo ne vus sai dire.
 L'espee cruist ne fruisset ne ne briset
 Cuntre le ciel amunt est resortie.
 Quant veit li quens que ne la fraindrat mie
 Mult dulcement la plainst a sei meisme.
 "E! Durendal cum ies bele e saintisme!
 En l'oret punt asez i ad reliques.
 La dent saint Pierre e del sanc seint Basilie
 E des chevels mun seignur seint Denisie
 Del vestment i ad seinte Marie.
 Il nen est dreiz que paien te baillisent.
 De chrestiens devez estre servie.
 Ne vus ait hum ki facet cuardie!
 Mult larges terres de vus averai cunquises
 Que Carles tient ki la barbe ad flurie.
 E li emperere en est e ber e riches."

Roland strikes on a grey stone,
 More of it cuts off than I can tell you.
 The sword grinds, but shatters not nor breaks,
 Upward against the sky it rebounds.
 When the Count sees that he can never break it,
 Very gently he mourns it to himself:
 "Ah, Durendal, how fair you are and sacred!
 In your golden guard are many relics,
 The tooth of Saint Peter and blood of Saint Basil,
 And hair of my seigneur Saint-Denis,
 Of the garment too of Saint Mary.
 It is not right that pagans should own you.
 By Christians you should be served,
 Nor should man have you who does cowardice.
 Many wide lands by you I have conquered
 That Charles holds, who has the white beard,
 And emperor of them is noble and rich."

This "laisse" is even more eleventh-century than the other, but it appealed no longer to