CCXXXVI

     But yet, ere lay they lance in rest,
     They make their shrift, are sained and blessed;
     They hear the Mass, the Host receive,
     Great gifts to church and cloister leave. 
     They stand before the Emperor’s face;
     The spurs upon their feet they lace;
     Gird on their corselets, strong and light;
     Close on their heads the helmets bright. 
     The golden hilts at belt are hung;
     Their quartered shields from shoulder swung. 
     In hand the mighty spears they lift,
     Then spring they on their chargers swift. 
     A hundred thousand cavaliers
     The while for Thierry drop their tears;
     They pity him for Roland’s sake. 
     God knows what end the strife will take.

     CCXXXVII

     At Aix is a wide and grassy plain,
     Where met in battle the barons twain. 
     Both of valorous knighthood are,
     Their chargers swift and apt for war. 
     They prick them hard with slackened rein;
     Drive each at other with might and main. 
     Their bucklers are in fragments flung,
     Their hauberks rent, their girths unstrung;
     With saddles turned, they earthward rolled. 
     A hundred thousand in tears behold.

     CCXXXVIII

     Both cavaliers to earth are gone,
     Both rise and leap on foot anon. 
     Strong is Pinabel, swift and light;
     Each striketh other, unhorsed they fight;
     With golden-hilted swords, they deal
     Fiery strokes on the helms of steel. 
     Trenchant and fierce is their every blow. 
     The Franks look on in wondrous woe. 
     “O God,” saith Karl, “Thy judgment show.”

     CCXXXIX

     “Yield thee, Thierry,” said Pinabel. 
     “In love and faith will I serve thee well,
     And all my wealth to thy feet will bring,
     Win Ganelon’s pardon from the king.” 
     “Never,” Thierry in scorn replied,
     “Shall thought so base in my bosom bide! 
     God betwixt us this day decide.”

     CCXL

     “Ah, Pinabel!” so Thierry spake,
     “Thou art a baron of stalwart make,
     Thy knighthood known to every peer,—­
     Come, let us cease this battle here. 
     With Karl thy concord shall be won,
     But on Ganelon be justice done;
     Of him henceforth let speech be none.” 
     “No,” said Pinabel; “God forefend! 
     My kinsman I to the last defend;
     Nor will I blench for mortal face,—­
     Far better death than such disgrace.” 
     Began they with their glaves anew
     The gold-encrusted helms to hew;
     Towards heaven the fiery sparkles flew. 
     They shall not be disjoined again,
     Nor end the strife till one be slain.

     CCXLI