CXL

     King Marsil looks on his legions strown,
     He bids the clarion blast be blown,
     With all his host he onward speeds: 
     Abime the heathen his vanguard leads. 
     No felon worse in the host than he,
     Black of hue as a shrivelled pea;
     He believes not in Holy Mary’s Son;
     Full many an evil deed hath done. 
     Treason and murder he prizeth more
     Than all the gold of Galicia’s shore;
     Men never knew him to laugh nor jest,
     But brave and daring among the best—­
     Endeared to the felon king therefor;
     And the dragon flag of his race he bore. 
     The archbishop loathed him—­full well he might,—­
     And as he saw him he yearned to smite,
     To himself he speaketh, low and quick,
     “This heathen seems much a heretic;
     I go to slay him, or else to die,
     For I love not dastards or dastardy.”

     CXLI

     The archbishop began the fight once more;
     He rode the steed he had won of yore,
     When in Denmark Grossaille the king he slew. 
     Fleet the charger, and fair to view: 
     His feet were small and fashioned fine,
     Long the flank, and high the chine,
     Chest and croup full amply spread,
     With taper ear and tawny head,
     And snow-white tail and yellow mane: 
     To seek his peer on earth were vain. 
     The archbishop spurred him in fiery haste,
     And, on the moment Abime he faced,
     Came down on the wondrous shield the blow,
     The shield with amethysts all aglow,
     Carbuncle and topaz, each priceless stone;
     ’Twas once the Emir Galafir’s own;
     A demon gave it in Metas vale;
     But when Turpin smote it might nought avail—­
     From side to side did his weapon trace,
     And he flung him dead in an open space. 
     Say the Franks, “Such deeds beseem the brave. 
     Well the archbishop his cross can save.”

     CXLII

     Count Roland Olivier bespake: 
     “Sir comrade, dost thou my thought partake? 
     A braver breathes not this day on earth
     Than our archbishop in knightly worth. 
     How nobly smites he with lance and blade!”
     Saith Olivier, “Yea, let us yield him aid;”
     And the Franks once more the fight essayed. 
     Stern and deadly resound the blows. 
     For the Christians, alas, ’tis a tale of woes!

     CXLIII

     The Franks of France of their arms are reft,
     Three hundred blades alone are left. 
     The glittering helms they smite and shred,
     And cleave asunder full many a head;
     Through riven helm and hauberk rent,
     Maim head and foot and lineament. 
     “Disfigured are we,” the heathens cry. 
     “Who guards him not hath but choice to die.” 
     Right unto Marsil their way they take.