There was a Saracen from Sarraguce

Lord of one half the city—Climorin,

Unlike a Baron; he received the faith

Of Ganelon, and sealed the treacherous bond

By pressing on his lip a kiss—Besides

Unto him gave his sword and carbuncle.

"I will," said he, "put your great France to shame

And from the Emperor's head shake off the crown!"

Mounted on Barbamouche that faster flies

Than hawk or swallow on the wing, he spurs

His courser hard, and dropping on its neck

The rein, he strikes Engelier de Gascuigne;

Hauberk nor shield is for him a defense:

Deep in the core the Pagan thrusts his spear

So mightily, its point comes out behind,

And with the shaft o'erturns him on the field

A corse;—he cries. "Fit for destruction these!

Strike, Pagans, strike, and let us break their lines!"

The French cry: "God! to lose so brave a Knight!"....

Aoi.