LXVIII.
The gentill Knicht Schir Rolland come rydand ful richt,
And ruschit fra his Runsy, and ran thame betwene;
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He sayis: "Thow art ane Saraȝine, I se be my sicht,
For to confound our Cristin men that counteris sa kene;
Tell me thy name tyte, thow trauelland Knicht!
Fy on thy fechting! fell hes thow bene,
Thow art stout and strang, and stalwart in fecht,
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Sa is thy fallow in faith, and that is weill sene;
In Christ and thow will trow, thow takis nane outray."
"Forsuith," the Saraȝine said,
"Thy self maid me neuer sa affraid,
That I for souerance wald haue praid,
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Na not sall to day."
LXIX.
¶ "Breif me not with ȝour boist, bot mak ȝow baith boun,
Batteris on baldly the best, I ȝow pray."
"Na," said Schir Rolland, "that war na resoun,
I trow in the mekle God, that maist of michtis may.
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The tane is in power to mak that presoun,
For that war na wassalage sum men wald say.
I rid that thow hartfully forsaik thy Mahoun;
Fy on that foull Feind, for fals is thy fay!
Becum Cristin, Schir Knicht, and on Christ call.
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It is my will thow conuert,
This wickit warld is bot ane start,
And haue him halely in hart
That maker is of all."
LXX.
¶ "Schir Rolland, I rek nocht of thy Rauingis,
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Thow dois bot reuerence to thame that rekkis it nocht;
Thow slane hes oft, thy self, of my Counsingis,
Soudanis and sib men, that the with schame socht.
