The Melee, CXV–CXXV

There was a Saracen from Sarraguce Lord of one half the city—Climorin, Unlike a Baron; he received the faith Of Ganelon, and sealed the treacherous bond By pressing on his lip a kiss—Besides Unto him gave his sword and carbuncle. "I will," said he, "put your great France to shame And from the Emperor's head shake off the crown!" Mounted on Barbamouche that faster flies Than hawk or swallow on the wing, he spurs His courser hard, and dropping on its neck The rein, he strikes Engelier de Gascuigne; Hauberk nor shield is for him a defense: Deep in the core the Pagan thrusts his spear So mightily, its point comes out behind, And with the shaft o'erturns him on the field A corse;—he cries. "Fit for destruction these! Strike, Pagans, strike, and let us break their lines!" The French cry: "God! to lose so brave a Knight!".... Aoi.

The Count Rolland calls Olivier: "You know, Companion, sire, Engelier is no more.... No better Knight had we"—The Count replies: "God grant that I avenge him well!" He drives His golden spurs into his charger's flanks; And waving Halteclere's blood dripping blade, The Pagan he assails, and deals a blow.... O'erthrown is Climorin. The fiends of hell Bear off his soul. The Knight then slays the Duke Alphaien, beheads Escababi, Unhorses seven Arabs with such skill They rise no more to fight. Then said Rolland: "Wroth is my sire, and by my side achieves Renown! by such good blows Carl's love is gained. Strike, Chevaliers! strike on!"—he cries aloud. Aoi.

From otherwhere is Valdabrun who armed Marsile a Knight; lord of four hundred ships. There is no sailor but swears by his name; 'Twas he by treason took Jerusalem, Who there the shrine of Solomon profaned, And slew before the Fonts the Patriarch; 'Twas he, received Count Ganelon's vile oath And gave him with his sword a thousand marks; Faster than falcon in its flight his steed Named Graminond. He sharply spurs his flanks And rushes 'gainst the mighty Duke Sansun, Breaks down his shield—the hauberk rends, and thrusts Within his breast the pennon of the flag; The shaft o'erthrows him from the saddle, dead. "Strike Pagans! strike, for we shall conquer them!" The French say:—"God! what Baron true we lose!" Aoi.

When Count Rolland sees Sansun lifeless fall, You may well know what grief was his. He spurs His horse down on the Pagan. Durendal More worth than precious gold he lifts to strike With all his might; gold studded helm, head, trunk, Hauberk asunder cleaves; the blow, e'en through The gold boss'd saddle, strikes the courser's back, Killing both horse and man. Blame or approve Who may. The Pagans say:—"Hard is this blow!" Retorts Rolland:—"For yours no pity can I feel—With you the vaunting and the wrong!" Aoi.

An African fresh from the desert land Was there, Malquidant, son of king Malcud; His armor highly wrought in beaten gold Outshines all others in the sun's bright rays. Mounted upon his horse named Salt-Perdut, He aims a blow at Anseis' shield, and cuts The azure and vermillion all away. His hauberk rives asunder, side from side, And through his body pass both point and shaft. The Count is dead.—His last breath spent and flown. The French say:—"Baron, such great woe for you!" Aoi.

The Archbishop Turpin rides across the fields; No shaven priest sang ever mass so well As he, and showed such prowess in his deeds. He to the Pagan:—"May God send all ills To thee, who slew the knight my heart bewails!" Turpin spurs hard his good steed 'gainst the wretch; One blow strikes down his strong Toledo shield: The miscreant dead upon the green sward falls. Aoi.

Elsewhere stands Grandomie who is the son Of Capuel king of Cappadoce. He sits A steed named Marmorie, than flying bird More swift. Loosening the rein, and spurring deep, To smite Gerin with all his force he rides; Torn from the neck which bears it, shattered falls The purple shield, through the rent mail he drives The whole blue pennon in his breast. Gerin Drops lifeless by this blow, against a rock. The Pagan also slays Gerier, his friend, And Berengier, and Gui de Saint-Antoine; Assailing then the noble Duke Austoire Who holds Valence and fiefs along the Rosne, He strikes him dead. The Saracens extol Their triumph, but how many fall of ours! Aoi.

Hearing the Frenchmen's sobs, the Count Rolland Grasps in his hand his sword, all reeking blood. His mighty heart nigh breaking with his grief, Cries to the foe:—"May God all evils send On thee! him hast thou slain for whom thou shalt Most dearly pay!—" He spurs his flying steed.... Conquer who may—these two fight hand to hand. Aoi.

A wise and valiant knight was Grandonie, Virtuous and fearless vassal. 'Mid his way Encountering Count Rolland, though never seen Before, at once he knew 'twas he, as well By his proud mien and noble beauty, as By his fair countenance and lofty look. Awe-struck, despite himself, he vainly tries To fly, but rooted to the spot he stays. The Count Rolland smites him so skillfully, He splits in two the nazal, helm, nose, mouth, And teeth, the body and mailed-armor, then Hews through the golden selle, both silver-flaps; With a still deeper stroke the courser's back Is gashed. So both are slain past remedy. The men of Spain cry out all sorrowful; But say the French:—"Well our defender strikes." Aoi.

Marv'lous the battle, and the tumult fierce; The French of strength and fury full, raise high Their swords: backs, ribs and wrists are slashed; the flesh Cut through rent garments to the quick; along The verdant soil the red blood runs in streams. The Pagans cry:—"We cannot more endure! Great land, Mohammed curse thee!—More than all This people bold."—Not one who does not cry "Marsile! ride on, O King, thy aid we need!" Aoi.

A battle fierce and wonderful!—Hard strike The French with glittering lance, and there you might Have seen what miseries man can suffer: Mowed And heaped in bloody mounds, all gasping out Their lives, some on their backs, some on their teeth— The Saracens give way, willing or not; By the French lances forced, they fly the field. Aoi.