When Count Rollánd sees Sansun lifeless fall,

You may well know what grief was his. He spurs

His horse down on the Pagan. Durendal

More worth than precious gold he lifts to strike

With all his might; gold studded helm, head, trunk,

Hauberk asunder cleaves; the blow, e'en through

The gold boss'd saddle, strikes the courser's back,

Killing both horse and man. Blame or approve

Who may. The Pagans say:—"Hard is this blow!"

Retorts Rollánd:—"For yours no pity can

I feel—With you the vaunting and the wrong!"

Aoi.