The Pagans, when they mark how few the French,

Are filled with pride and comfort, and they say

One to the other:—"Their King Carle is wrong!"—

Upon his sorrel steed sits Marganice;

Urging him hard with pricking spurs of gold,

Encounters Olivier—strikes him behind,

Drives his white hauberk-links into his heart,

And through in front came forth the pointed lance.

The Kalif cries:—"That blow struck home! Carlmagne,

For thy mishap, left you to guard the Pass!

That he has wronged us, little may he boast.

Your death alone for us a vengeance full!"

Aoi.