Xcvii
A duke was there, named
Falsaron,
Of the land of Dathan
and Abiron;
Brother to Marsil, the
king, was he;
More miscreant felon
ye might not see.
Huge of forehead, his
eyes between,
A span of a full half-foot,
I ween.
Bitter sorrow was his,
to mark
His nephew before him
lie slain and stark.
Hastily came he from
forth the press,
Raising the war-cry
of heathenesse.
Braggart words from
his lips were tost:
“This day the
honour of France is lost.”
Hotly Sir Olivier’s
anger stirs;
He pricked his steed
with golden spurs,
Fairly dealt him a baron’s
blow,
And hurled him dead
from the saddle-bow.
Buckler and mail were
reft and rent,
And the pennon’s
flaps to his heart’s blood went.
He saw the miscreant
stretched on earth:
“Caitiff, thy
threats are of little worth.
On, Franks! the felons
before us fall;
Montjoie!”
’Tis the Emperor’s battle-call.
XCVIII
A king was there of
a strange countrie,
King Corsablis of Barbary;
Before the Saracen van
he cried,
“Right well may
we in this battle bide;
Puny the host of the
Franks I deem,
And those that front
us, of vile esteem.
Not one by succor of
Karl shall fly;
The day hath dawned
that shall see them die.”
Archbishop Turpin hath
heard him well;
No mortal hates he with
hate so fell:
He pricked with spurs
of the fine gold wrought,
And in deadly passage
the heathen sought;
Shield and corselet
were pierced and riven,
And the lance’s
point through his body driven;
To and fro, at the mighty
thrust,
He reeled, and then
fell stark in dust.
Turpin looked on him,
stretched on ground.
“Loud thou liest,
thou heathen hound!
King Karl is ever our
pride and stay;
Nor one of the Franks
shall blench this day,
But your comrades here
on the field shall lie;
I bring you tidings:
ye all shall die.
Strike, Franks! remember
your chivalry;
First blows are ours,
high God be praised!”
Once more the cry, “Montjoie!”
he raised.
Xcix
Gerein to Malprimis
of Brigal sped,
Whose good shield stood
him no whit in stead;
Its knob of crystal
was cleft in twain,
And one half fell on
the battle plain.
Right through the hauberk,
and through the skin,
He drave the lance to
the flesh within;
Prone and sudden the
heathen fell,
And Satan carried his
soul to hell.
C
Anon, his comrade in
arms, Gerier,
Spurred at the Emir
with levelled spear;
Severed his shield and
his mail apart,—
The lance went through
them, to pierce his heart.
Dead on the field at
the blow he lay.
Olivier said, “’Tis
a stirring fray.”