To lie on its holy flowerets fair,
     Dastard never shall enter there.” 
     Say the Franks, “We will win it every one.” 
     The archbishop bestoweth his benison. 
     Proudly mounted they at his word,
     And, like lions chafed, at the heathen spurred.

     CXXVII

     Thus doth King Marsil divide his men: 
     He keeps around him battalions ten. 
     As the Franks the other ten descry,
     “What dark disaster,” they said, “is nigh? 
     What doom shall now our peers betide?”
     Archbishop Turpin full well replied. 
     “My cavaliers, of God the friends,
     Your crown of glory to-day He sends,
     To rest on the flowers of Paradise,
     That never were won by cowardice.” 
     The Franks made answer, “No cravens we,
     Nor shall we gainsay God’s decree;
     Against the enemy yet we hold,—­
     Few may we be, but staunch and bold.” 
     Their spurs against the foe they set,
     Frank and paynim—­once more they met.

     CXXVIII

     A heathen of Saragossa came. 
     Full half the city was his to claim. 
     It was Climorin:  hollow of heart was he,
     He had plighted with Gan in perfidy,
     What time each other on mouth they kissed,
     And he gave him his helm and amethyst. 
     He would bring fair France from her glory down
     And from the Emperor wrest his crown. 
     He sate upon Barbamouche, his steed,
     Than hawk or swallow more swift in speed. 
     Pricked with the spur, and the rein let flow,
     To strike at the Gascon of Bordeaux,
     Whom shield nor cuirass availed to save. 
     Within his harness the point he drave,
     The sharp steel on through his body passed,
     Dead on the field was the Gascon cast. 
     Said Climorin, “Easy to lay them low: 
     Strike in, my pagans, give blow for blow.” 
     For their champion slain, the Franks cry woe.

     CXXIX

     Sir Roland called unto Olivier,
     “Sir Comrade, dead lieth Engelier;
     Braver knight had we none than he.” 
     “God grant,” he answered, “revenge to me.” 
     His spurs of gold to his horse he laid,
     Grasping Hauteclere with his bloody blade. 
     Climorin smote he, with stroke so fell,
     Slain at the blow was the infidel. 
     Whose soul the Enemy bore away. 
     Then turned he, Alphaien, the duke, to slay;
     From Escababi the head he shore,
     And Arabs seven to the earth he bore. 
     Saith Roland, “My comrade is much in wrath;
     Won great laud by my side he hath;
     Us such prowess to Karl endears. 
     Fight on, fight ever, my cavaliers.”

     CXXX