The Archbishop Turpin rides across the fields;

No shaven priest sang ever mass so well

As he, and showed such prowess in his deeds.

He to the Pagan:—"May God send all ills

To thee, who slew the knight my heart bewails!"

Turpin spurs hard his good steed 'gainst the wretch;

One blow strikes down his strong Toledo shield:

The miscreant dead upon the green sward falls.

Aoi.