Throughout the camp the drums sonorous beat,

With bellowing horns and blasts of trumpet clear.

The Pagans arm themselves, and least of all

The Emir would th' advance delay—He wears

A hauberk saffron—'broidered round the sides,

And clasps his helm with gold and gems inlaid.

On his left side a sword whereto, in pride,

He gave a name, as Carle had named his sword,

And called the blade his Precieuse. This name

Shall be the battle-cry his warriors shout——

Hangs from his neck a large and spreading shield

Whose golden boss shines with a crystal ring;

The strap of silk with rosy 'broidery;

The lance he bears is named Mallet, the shaft

Of which so huge, more than a beam it looks,

And steel so strong, beneath its weight a mule

Would groan. Upon his steed mounts Baligant;

His stirrup held by Marcule d'Ultremer.

Mighty the Emir's stride across the selle;

Thin-loined, wide-flanked, deep-chested, all his form

Well molded; broad his shoulders; clear his eye,

His visage haughty, curls around his brow.

White as a summer blossom he appears;

His valor proved by many feats of war.

God! what a Baron, had he Christian faith!

He spurs his horse until the crimson blood

Reddens its flanks, and lightly bounds across

A mighty chasm full fifty feet in width.

The Pagans cry:—"He can defend his marche.

With him none 'mong the French can cross a lance;

Will they or not, their lives are forfeit now.

Yea Carle was mad who did not shun the field."

Aoi.