An African fresh from the desert land

Was there, Malquidant, son of king Malcud;

His armor highly wrought in beaten gold

Outshines all others in the sun's bright rays.

Mounted upon his horse named Salt-Perdut,

He aims a blow at Anseïs' shield, and cuts

The azure and vermillion all away.

His hauberk rives asunder, side from side,

And through his body pass both point and shaft.

The Count is dead.—His last breath spent and flown.

The French say:—"Baron, such great woe for you!"

Aoi.