Marsile his warriors massacred beholds,

And, bidding all his horns and trumpets blow,

Rides forward, and his whole van rides with him.

In the van rode a Saracen, Abisme,

The vilest wretch among his men, sunk deep

In crimes and shame, who has no faith in God,

Sainte Marie's son; as black as melted pitch

His face; more fond of blood and treason foul

Than of the gold of all Galice. None saw

Him laugh or play; for courage and rash deeds

He pleased the vile Marsile whose dragon flag

He bears. No pity can the Archbishop feel

For him, and at his sight he craves to try

His arm, all softly saying to himself:

"This Saracen is but a heretic;

Far better die than not to give him death.

Ne'er cowardice nor coward I endured!"


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