Then comes a Duke whose name is Falsarun;

He is the brother of the King Marsile.

The lands of Dathan and of Abirun

He holds: no viler wretch lives under Heaven.

Vast is his forehead, and the space between

His deeply sunken eyes is half a foot.

Seeing his nephew dead, in grief he bounds

Forth from the serried ranks, and shouts aloud

The Pagan war-cry, furious 'gainst the French.

"To-day," he cries, "at last sweet France shall lose

Her fame!"—When Olivier heard this, in wrath

He pricks with golden spurs his charger's flanks,

And, like true baron, lifts his arm to strike,

Shivers the Pagan's shield, his hauberk tears

Apart. The pennon's folds pass through his breast

As with the shaft he hurls him from the selle,

A mangled corpse;—here lies he on the ground.

Unto the prostrate body Olivier

Says proudly:—"Wretch, to me thy threats are vain!

Strike boldly, Franks! The victory shall be ours!

Montjoie!" he shouts, the battle-cry of Carle.

Aoi.