The Melee, CXXVI–CXXIX

Marsile his warriors massacred beholds, And, bidding all his horns and trumpets blow, Rides forward, and his whole van rides with him. In the van rode a Saracen, Abisme, The vilest wretch among his men, sunk deep In crimes and shame, who has no faith in God, Sainte Marie's son; as black as melted pitch His face; more fond of blood and treason foul Than of the gold of all Galice. None saw Him laugh or play; for courage and rash deeds He pleased the vile Marsile whose dragon flag He bears. No pity can the Archbishop feel For him, and at his sight he craves to try His arm, all softly saying to himself: "This Saracen is but a heretic; Far better die than not to give him death. Ne'er cowardice nor coward I endured!" Aoi.

The Archbishop gives the signal for the fight; He rides the horse he captured from Grossaille, A King he slew among the Danes: a horse Of wondrous fleetness, light-hoofed, slender-limbed; Thigh short; with broad and mighty haunch; the flanks Are long, and very high his spine; pure white His tail, and yellow is his mane—his ears Are small—light brown his head. This paragon Of all the beasts of earth has not his peer. The Archbishop, baron-like, spurs on the horse, Full bent upon the encounter with Abisme; He gains his side and hard he strikes his shield Glittering with gems, topaz and amethyst, Crystals and carbuncles, which to him gave The Emir Galafes—a demon's gift To this in Val-Metas. Him Turpin smites Nor mercy shows; 'gainst such a blow avails The shield but little; sheer from side to side Passes the blade ... dead on the place he falls. At such exploit amazed, the French exclaim: "The archbishop's crosier in his hand is safe!" Aoi.

The Count Rolland calls Olivier: "With me, Companion, sire, confess that 'mong brave knights The archbishop upon earth or under Heav'n Has not his peer in casting spear or lance." Olivier answers:—"To his rescue on!" At this the French once more resume the fight. Hard are the blows, rough is the strife—Meantime The Christian host in greatest sorrow mourn. Aoi.

Whoever could this fight describe? Rolland And Olivier vie with Turpin in skill And glorious deeds—The slain can counted be; In charts and briefs their numbers are enrolled: More than four thousand fell, so says the Geste. Four times the French arms were victorious, But on the fifth, a cruel fate they met; The knights of France found there a grave, except Three more whose lives God saved; yet those brave knights, Ere falling, their last breath will dearly sell. Aoi.