When Carle the Angel's heavenly accent hears,

All thought or dread of death forsakes his soul,

And in him springs again his former strength.

The Emir by the royal sword of France

Is struck, his helm all bright with gems is rent,

His cloven skull pours out the brain, his face

Is cleft to the very roots of his white beard:

Dead falls the Pagan past recovery.

Then shouts the King his rallying cry, "Montjoie!"

Hearing his shout, Duke Naimes hastes up, and brings

The charger Tecendur for Carle the great

To mount. The Pagans turn their backs—God wills

They should not stay. The Franks have their desires.

Aoi.