Xcvii

     A duke was there, named Falsaron,
     Of the land of Dathan and Abiron;
     Brother to Marsil, the king, was he;
     More miscreant felon ye might not see. 
     Huge of forehead, his eyes between,
     A span of a full half-foot, I ween. 
     Bitter sorrow was his, to mark
     His nephew before him lie slain and stark. 
     Hastily came he from forth the press,
     Raising the war-cry of heathenesse. 
     Braggart words from his lips were tost: 
     “This day the honour of France is lost.” 
     Hotly Sir Olivier’s anger stirs;
     He pricked his steed with golden spurs,
     Fairly dealt him a baron’s blow,
     And hurled him dead from the saddle-bow. 
     Buckler and mail were reft and rent,
     And the pennon’s flaps to his heart’s blood went. 
     He saw the miscreant stretched on earth: 
     “Caitiff, thy threats are of little worth. 
     On, Franks! the felons before us fall;
     Montjoie!” ’Tis the Emperor’s battle-call.

     XCVIII

     A king was there of a strange countrie,
     King Corsablis of Barbary;
     Before the Saracen van he cried,
     “Right well may we in this battle bide;
     Puny the host of the Franks I deem,
     And those that front us, of vile esteem. 
     Not one by succor of Karl shall fly;
     The day hath dawned that shall see them die.” 
     Archbishop Turpin hath heard him well;
     No mortal hates he with hate so fell: 
     He pricked with spurs of the fine gold wrought,
     And in deadly passage the heathen sought;
     Shield and corselet were pierced and riven,
     And the lance’s point through his body driven;
     To and fro, at the mighty thrust,
     He reeled, and then fell stark in dust. 
     Turpin looked on him, stretched on ground. 
     “Loud thou liest, thou heathen hound! 
     King Karl is ever our pride and stay;
     Nor one of the Franks shall blench this day,
     But your comrades here on the field shall lie;
     I bring you tidings:  ye all shall die. 
     Strike, Franks! remember your chivalry;
     First blows are ours, high God be praised!”
     Once more the cry, “Montjoie!” he raised.

     Xcix

     Gerein to Malprimis of Brigal sped,
     Whose good shield stood him no whit in stead;
     Its knob of crystal was cleft in twain,
     And one half fell on the battle plain. 
     Right through the hauberk, and through the skin,
     He drave the lance to the flesh within;
     Prone and sudden the heathen fell,
     And Satan carried his soul to hell.

     C

     Anon, his comrade in arms, Gerier,
     Spurred at the Emir with levelled spear;
     Severed his shield and his mail apart,—­
     The lance went through them, to pierce his heart. 
     Dead on the field at the blow he lay. 
     Olivier said, “’Tis a stirring fray.”