CLXI

     Once more pressed Roland within the fight,
     His Durindana he grasped with might;
     Faldron of Pui did he cleave in two,
     And twenty-four of their bravest slew. 
     Never was man on such vengeance bound;
     And, as flee the roe-deer before the hound,
     So in face of Roland the heathen flee. 
     Saith Turpin, “Right well this liketh me. 
     Such prowess a cavalier befits,
     Who harness wears, and on charger sits;
     In battle shall he be strong and great,
     Or I prize him not at four deniers’ rate;
     Let him else be monk in a cloister cell,
     His daily prayers for our souls to tell.” 
     Cries Roland, “Smite them, and do not spare.” 
     Down once more on the foe they bear,
     But the Christian ranks grow thinned and rare.

     CLXII

     Who knoweth ransom is none for him,
     Maketh in battle resistance grim;
     The Franks like wrathful lions strike,
     But King Marsil beareth him baron-like;
     He bestrideth his charger, Gaignon hight,
     And he pricketh him hard, Sir Beuve to smite,
     The Lord of Beaune and of Dijon town,
     Through shield and cuirass, he struck him down: 
     Dead past succor of man he lay. 
     Ivon and Ivor did Marsil slay;
     Gerard of Roussillon beside. 
     Not far was Roland, and loud he cried,
     “Be thou forever in God’s disgrace,
     Who hast slain my fellows before my face,
     Before we part thou shalt blows essay,
     And learn the name of my sword to-day.” 
     Down, at the word, came the trenchant brand,
     And from Marsil severed his good right hand: 
     With another stroke, the head he won
     Of the fair-haired Jurfalez, Marsil’s son. 
     “Help us, Mahound!” say the heathen train,
     “May our gods avenge us on Carlemaine! 
     Such daring felons he hither sent,
     Who will hold the field till their lives be spent.” 
     “Let us flee and save us,” cry one and all,
     Unto flight a hundred thousand fall,
     Nor can aught the fugitives recall.

     CLXIII

     But what availeth? though Marsil fly,
     His uncle, the Algalif, still is nigh;
     Lord of Carthagena is he,
     Of Alferna’s shore and Garmalie,
     And of Ethiopia, accursed land: 
     The black battalions at his command,
     With nostrils huge and flattened ears,
     Outnumber fifty thousand spears;
     And on they ride in haste and ire,
     Shouting their heathen war-cry dire. 
     “At last,” said Roland, “the hour is come,
     Here receive we our martyrdom;
     Yet strike with your burnished brands—­accursed
     Who sells not his life right dearly first;
     In life or death be your thought the same,
     That gentle France be not brought to shame. 
     When the Emperor hither his steps hath bent,
     And he sees the Saracens’ chastisement,
     Fifteen of their dead against our one,
     He will breathe on our souls his benison.”