Then came the Saracen Valdabrun,
     Of whom King Marsil was foster-son. 
     Four hundred galleys he owned at sea,
     And of all the mariners lord was he. 
     Jerusalem erst he had falsely won,
     Profaned the temple of Solomon,
     Slaying the patriarch at the fount. 
     ’Twas he who in plight unto Gan the count,
     His sword with a thousand coins bestowed. 
     Gramimond named he the steed he rode,
     Swifter than ever was falcon’s flight;
     Well did he prick with the sharp spurs bright,
     To strike Duke Samson, the fearless knight. 
     Buckler and cuirass at once he rent,
     And his pennon’s flaps through his body sent;
     Dead he cast him, with levelled spear. 
     “Strike, ye heathens; their doom is near.” 
     The Franks cry woe for their cavalier.

     CXXXI

     When Roland was ware of Samson slain,
     Well may you weet of his bitter pain. 
     With bloody spur he his steed impelled,
     While Durindana aloft he held,
     The sword more costly than purest gold;
     And he smote, with passion uncontrolled,
     On the heathen’s helm, with its jewelled crown,—­
     Through head, and cuirass, and body down,
     And the saddle embossed with gold, till sank
     The griding steel in the charger’s flank;
     Blame or praise him, the twain he slew. 
     “A fearful stroke!” said the heathen crew. 
     “I shall never love you,” Count Roland cried,
     “With you are falsehood and evil pride.”

     CXXXII

     From Afric’s shore, of Afric’s brood,
     Malquiant, son of King Malcus stood;
     Wrought of the beaten gold, his vest
     Flamed to the sun over all the rest. 
     Saut-perdu hath he named his horse,
     Fleeter than ever was steed in course;
     He smote Anseis upon the shield,
     Cleft its vermeil and azure field,
     Severed the joints of his hauberk good,
     In his body planted both steel and wood. 
     Dead he lieth, his day is o’er,
     And the Franks the loss of their peer deplore.

     CXXXIII

     Turpin rideth the press among;
     Never such priest the Mass had sung,
     Nor who hath such feats of his body done. 
     “God send thee,” he said, “His malison! 
     For the knight thou slewest my heart is sore.” 
     He sets the spur to his steed once more,
     Smites the shield in Toledo made,
     And the heathen low on the sward is laid.

     CXXXIV

     Forth came the Saracen Grandonie,
     Bestriding his charger Marmorie;
     He was son unto Cappadocia’s king,
     And his steed was fleeter than bird on wing. 
     He let the rein on his neck decline,
     And spurred him hard against Count Gerein,
     Shattered the vermeil shield he bore,
     And his armor of proof