Alas, it not avails! If Marsile flies,

His uncle Marganice unhurt remained.

'Tis he who held Carthage, Alferne, Garnaille,

And Ethiopia, a land accursed;

Chief of the Blacks, a thick-nosed, large-eared race.

Of these he more than fifty thousand leads,

Who ride on proudly, full of wrath, and shout

The Pagan war-cry.—"Here," said Count Rollànd,

"Here shall we fall as martyrs. Well I know

Our end is nigh; but dastard I count him

Who sells not dear his life. Barons, strike well,

Strike with your burnished swords, and set such price

On death and life, that naught of shame shall fall

On our sweet France. When Carle, my lord, shall come

Upon this field, and see such slaughter here

Of Saracens, fifteen to one of ours,

Then will he breathe a blessing on his Knights."

Aoi.