By rapid flight Marsile reached Sarraguce.—

Dismounting 'neath a shady olive-tree,

He strips himself of breast-plate, helmet, sword,

And sinks upon the sward with ghastly look.

His right hand severed from the wrist whence blood

Is gushing forth, has made him swoon with pain.

Before Marsile, his spouse, Queen Bramimunde,

Bursts into tears, and cries, and woeful moans.

Around stand more than twenty thousand men

Who with one voice accuse Sweet France and Carle;

Apollo's grotto seek they, and with taunts,

Profane, insulting words, their God revile:

"What ails thee, evil God, to shame us thus,

And to confusion bring our Lord the King?

Who serves thee well vile guerdon gains from thee!"

Despoiled of crown and scepter, by the hands

They hang him on a column—neath their feet

They roll him down.—They with great clubs deface

And beat him; then from Tervagant they snatch

His carbuncle; Mohamed in a ditch

Throw down—there bitt'n, trampled on, by swine and dogs.

Aoi.