all open tore;
     In went the pennon, so fierce the shock,
     And he cast him, dead, on a lofty rock;
     Then he slew his comrade in arms, Gerier,
     Guy of Saint Anton and Berengier. 
     Next lay the great Duke Astor prone. 
     The Lord of Valence upon the Rhone. 
     Among the heathen great joy he cast. 
     Say the Franks, lamenting, “We perish fast.”

     CXXXV

     Count Roland graspeth his bloody sword: 
     Well hath he heard how the Franks deplored;
     His heart is burning within his breast. 
     “God’s malediction upon thee rest! 
     Right dearly shalt thou this blood repay.” 
     His war-horse springs to the spur straightway,
     And they come together—­go down who may.

     CXXXVI

     A gallant captain was Grandonie,
     Great in arms and in chivalry. 
     Never, till then, had he Roland seen,
     But well he knew him by form and mien,
     By the stately bearing and glance of pride,
     And a fear was on him he might not hide. 
     Fain would he fly, but it skills not here;
     Roland smote him with stroke so sheer,
     That it cleft the nasal his helm beneath,
     Slitting nostril and mouth and teeth,
     Cleft his body and mail of plate,
     And the gilded saddle whereon he sate,
     Deep the back of the charger through: 
     Beyond all succor the twain he slew. 
     From the Spanish ranks a wail arose,
     And the Franks exult in their champion’s blows.

     CXXXVII

     The battle is wondrous yet, and dire,
     And the Franks are cleaving in deadly ire;
     Wrists and ribs and chines afresh,
     And vestures, in to the living flesh;
     On the green grass streaming the bright blood ran,
     “O mighty country, Mahound thee ban! 
     For thy sons are strong over might of man.” 
     And one and all unto Marsil cried,
     “Hither, O king, to our succor ride.”

     CXXXVIII

     Marvellous yet is the fight around,
     The Franks are thrusting with spears embrowned;
     And great the carnage there to ken,
     Slain and wounded and bleeding men,
     Flung, each by other, on back or face. 
     Hold no more can the heathen race. 
     They turn and fly from the field apace;
     The Franks as hotly pursue in chase.

     CXXXIX

     Knightly the deeds by Roland done,
     Respite or rest for his Franks is none;
     Hard they ride on the heathen rear,
     At trot or gallop in full career. 
     With crimson blood are their bodies stained,
     And their brands of steel are snapped or strained;
     And when the weapons their hands forsake,
     Then unto trumpet and horn they take. 
     Serried they charge, in power and pride;
     And the Saracens cry—­“May ill betide
     The hour we came on this fatal track!”
     So on our host do they turn the back,
     The Christians cleaving them as they fled,
     Till to Marsil stretcheth the line of dead.