Death of Olivier

     CLXIV

     When Roland saw the abhorred race,
     Than blackest ink more black in face,
     Who have nothing white but the teeth alone,
     “Now,” he said, “it is truly shown,
     That the hour of our death is close at hand. 
     Fight, my Franks, ’tis my last command.” 
     Said Olivier, “Shame is the laggard’s due.” 
     And at his word they engage anew.

     CLXV

     When the heathen saw that the Franks were few,
     Heart and strength from the sight they drew;
     They said, “The Emperor hath the worse.” 
     The Algalif sat on a sorrel horse;
     He pricked with spurs of the gold refined,
     Smote Olivier in the back behind. 
     On through his harness the lance he pressed,
     Till the steel came out at the baron’s breast. 
     “Thou hast it!” the Algalif, vaunting, cried,
     “Ye were sent by Karl in an evil tide. 
     Of his wrongs against us he shall not boast;
     In thee alone I avenge our host.”

     CLXVI

     Olivier felt the deadly wound,
     Yet he grasped Hauteclere, with its steel embrowned;
     He smote on the Algalif’s crest of gold,—­
     Gem and flowers to the earth were rolled;
     Clave his head to the teeth below,
     And struck him dead with the single blow. 
     “All evil, caitiff, thy soul pursue. 
     Full well our Emperor’s loss I knew;
     But for thee—­thou goest not hence to boast
     To wife or dame on thy natal coast,
     Of one denier from the Emperor won,
     Or of scathe to me or to others done.” 
     Then Roland’s aid he called upon.

     CLXVII

Olivier knoweth him hurt to death; The more to vengeance he hasteneth; Knightly as ever his arms he bore, Staves of lances and shields he shore; Sides and shoulders and hands and feet,—­ Whose eyes soever the sight would greet, How the Saracens all disfigured lie, Corpse upon corpse, each other by, Would think upon gallant deeds; nor yet Doth he the war-cry of Karl forget—­ “Montjoie!” he shouted, shrill and clear; Then called he Roland, his friend and peer, “Sir, my comrade, anear me ride; This day of dolor shall us divide.”

     CLXVIII

     Roland looked Olivier in the face,—­
     Ghastly paleness was there to trace;
     Forth from his wound did the bright blood flow,
     And rain in showers to the earth below. 
     “O God!” said Roland, “is this the end
     Of all thy prowess, my gentle friend? 
     Nor know I whither to bear me now: 
     On earth shall never be such as thou. 
     Ah, gentle France, thou art overthrown,
     Reft of thy bravest, despoiled and lone;
     The Emperor’s loss is full indeed!”
     At the word he fainted upon his steed.

     CLXIX