The battle rages fierce. All men engage.

Rollánd, the dauntless, combats with his lance

As long as holds the shaft. Fifteen good blows

It dealt, then broke and fell; now his good sword,

Loved Durendal, he draws, spurs on his steed

'Gainst Chernubles, splits his bright helm adorned

With gems; one blow cleaves through mail-cap and skull,

Cutting both eyes and visage in two parts,

And the white hauberk with its close-linked mail;

Down to the body's fork, the saddle all

Of beaten gold, still deeper goes the sword,

Cuts through the courser's chine, nor seeks the joint.

Upon the verdant grass fall dead both knight

And steed. And then he cries: "Wretch! ill inspired

To venture here! Mohammed helped thee not....

Wretches like you this battle shall not win."


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