no joint was found,
     And horse and rider lay dead on ground. 
     “Caitiff, thou earnest in evil hour;
     To save thee passeth Mohammed’s power. 
     Never to miscreants like to thee
     Shall come the guerdon of victory.”

     CVIII

     Count Roland rideth the battle through,
     With Durindana, to cleave and hew;
     Havoc fell of the foe he made,
     Saracen corse upon corse was laid,
     The field all flowed with the bright blood shed;
     Roland, to corselet and arm, was red—­
     Red his steed to the neck and flank. 
     Nor is Olivier niggard of blows as frank;
     Nor to one of the peers be blame this day,
     For the Franks are fiery to smite and slay. 
     “Well fought,” said Turpin, “our barons true!”
     And he raised the war-cry, “Montjoie!” anew.

     CIX

     Through the storm of battle rides Olivier,
     His weapon, the butt of his broken spear,
     Down upon Malseron’s shield he beat,
     Where flowers and gold emblazoned meet,
     Dashing his eyes from forth his head: 
     Low at his feet were the brains bespread,
     And the heathen lies with seven hundred dead! 
     Estorgus and Turgin next he slew,
     Till the shaft he wielded in splinters flew. 
     “Comrade!” said Roland, “what makest thou? 
     Is it time to fight with a truncheon now? 
     Steel and iron such strife may claim;
     Where is thy sword, Hauteclere by name,
     With its crystal pommel and golden guard?”
     “Of time to draw it I stood debarred,
     Such stress was on me of smiting hard.”

     CX

     Then drew Sir Olivier forth his blade,
     As had his comrade Roland prayed. 
     He proved it in knightly wise straightway,
     On the heathen Justin of Val Ferree. 
     At a stroke he severed his head in two,
     Cleft him body and harness through;
     Down through the gold-incrusted selle,
     To the horse’s chine, the falchion fell: 
     Dead on the sward lay man and steed. 
     Said Roland, “My brother, henceforth, indeed! 
     The Emperor loves us for such brave blows!”
     Around them the cry of “Montjoie!” arose.

     CXI

     Gerein his Sorel rides; Gerier
     Is mounted on his own Pass-deer: 
     The reins they slacken, and prick full well
     Against the Saracen Timozel. 
     One smites his cuirass, and one his shield,
     Break in his body the spears they wield;
     They cast him dead on the fallow mould. 
     I know not, nor yet to mine ear was told. 
     Which of the twain was more swift and bold. 
     Then Espreveris, Borel’s son,
     By Engelier unto death was done. 
     Archbishop Turpin slew Siglorel,
     The wizard, who erst had been in hell,
     By Jupiter thither in magic led. 
     “Well have we ’scaped,” the archbishop said: 
     “Crushed is the caitiff,” Count Roland replies,
     “Olivier, brother, such strokes I prize!”