CI

     At the Almasour’s shield Duke Samson rode—­
     With blazon of flowers and gold it glowed;
     But nor shield nor cuirass availed to save,
     When through heart and lungs the lance he drave. 
     Dead lies he, weep him who list or no. 
     The Archbishop said, “’Tis a baron’s blow.”

     CII

     Anseis cast his bridle free;
     At Turgis, Tortosa’s lord, rode he: 
     Above the centre his shield he smote,
     Brake his mail with its double coat,
     Speeding the lance with a stroke so true,
     That the iron traversed his body through. 
     So lay he lifeless, at point of spear. 
     Said Roland, “Struck like a cavalier.”

     CIII

     Engelier, Gascon of Bordeaux,
     On his courser’s mane let the bridle flow;
     Smote Escremis, from Valtierra sprung,
     Shattered the shield from his neck that swung;
     On through his hauberk’s vental pressed,
     And betwixt his shoulders pierced his breast. 
     Forth from the saddle he cast him dead. 
     “So shall ye perish all,” he said.

     CIV

     The heathen Estorgan was Otho’s aim: 
     Right in front of his shield he came;
     Rent its colors of red and white,
     Pierced the joints of his harness bright,
     Flung him dead from his bridle rein. 
     Said Otho, “Thus shall ye all be slain.”

     CV

     Berengier smote Estramarin,
     Planting his lance his heart within,
     Through shivered shield and hauberk torn. 
     The Saracen to earth was borne
     Amid a thousand of his train. 
     Thus ten of the heathen twelve are slain;
     But two are left alive I wis—­
     Chernubles and Count Margaris.

     CVI

     Count Margaris was a valiant knight,
     Stalwart of body, and lithe and light: 
     He spurred his steed unto Olivier,
     Brake his shield at the golden sphere,
     Pushed the lance till it touched his side;
     God of his grace made it harmless glide. 
     Margaris rideth unhurt withal,
     Sounding his trumpet, his men to call.

     CVII

     Mingled and marvellous grows the fray,
     And in Roland’s heart is no dismay. 
     He fought with lance while his good lance stood;
     Fifteen encounters have strained its wood. 
     At the last it brake; then he grasped in hand
     His Durindana, his naked brand. 
     He smote Chernubles’ helm upon,
     Where, in the centre, carbuncles shone: 
     Down through his coif and his fell of hair,
     Betwixt his eyes came the falchion bare,
     Down through his plated harness fine,
     Down through the Saracen’s chest and chine,
     Down through the saddle with gold inlaid,
     Till sank in the living horse the blade,
     Severed the spine where