When soldiers on the battle-field expect

No quarter—desperate they fight; and thus

The French, like lions, fiercely stand at bay.

Like a true baron King Marsile rides forth

Upon his steed Gaignon, and spurs him on

Against Bevum, of Belne and Digun lord,

His buckler cleaves, his hauberk with a blow

Shatters, and lays him dead upon the field.

Then fall beneath the Pagan King, Ivoire

And Ivun; then Gerard de Roussillon.—

The Count Rollánd is nigh and cries aloud:

"God give damnation unto thee who thus

So foully slay'st my friends! But ere we part,

Dearly shalt thou abye it, and to-day

Shalt learn the name my good sword bears."—He strikes

The King a true Knight's stroke, and his right hand

Lops at the wrist; then Turfaleu the fair,

Marsile's own son, beheads. The Pagans say:

"Aid us, Mahum! Avenge us, Gods of ours,

On Carle, who brought such villains to our land,

As rather than depart will die."—And each

To each cries: "Let us fly!"—Upon the word,

A hundred thousand turn in sudden flight.

Whoever calls them, ne'er will they return.

Aoi.