The Melee, XCIV–CV

The nephew of Marsile—his name Aelroth, Forward the first of all spurs on his horse Against our French, hurling forth insulting words: "To-day, French villains, ye will joust with us; Who was to guard you, has betrayed you; mad Must be the King who left you in the pass. So now the honor of sweet France is lost, And Carle the great shall lose his right arm here." Rolland heard.—God! what pain to him! He drives His golden spurs into his courser's flanks, And rushes at full speed against Aelroth; His shield he breaks, dismails the hauberk linked; Cleaving his breast, he severs all the bones, And from the spine the ribs disjoint. The lance Forth from his body thrusts the Pagan's soul; The Heathen's corse reels from his horse, falls down Upon the earth, the neck cloven in two halves. Rolland still taunts him:—"Go thou, wretch, and know Carle was not mad. Ne'er did he treason love, And he did well to leave us in the pass. To-day sweet France will not her honor lose! Strike, Frenchmen, strike; the first sword-stroke is ours; We have the right, these gluttons have the wrong!" Aoi.

Then comes a Duke whose name is Falsarun; He is the brother of the King Marsile. The lands of Dathan and of Abirun He holds: no viler wretch lives under Heaven. Vast is his forehead, and the space between His deeply sunken eyes is half a foot. Seeing his nephew dead, in grief he bounds Forth from the serried ranks, and shouts aloud The Pagan war-cry, furious 'gainst the French. "To-day," he cries, "at last sweet France shall lose Her fame!"—When Olivier heard this, in wrath He pricks with golden spurs his charger's flanks, And, like true baron, lifts his arm to strike, Shivers the Pagan's shield, his hauberk tears Apart. The pennon's folds pass through his breast As with the shaft he hurls him from the selle, A mangled corpse;—here lies he on the ground. Unto the prostrate body Olivier Says proudly:—"Wretch, to me thy threats are vain! Strike boldly, Franks! The victory shall be ours! Montjoie!" he shouts, the battle-cry of Carle. Aoi.

A king, named Corsablis, from Barbarie, A distant land, is there.—The Pagan host He calls;—"The field is ours with ease: the French So few in numbers we may well disdain, Nor Carle shall rescue one; all perish here. To-day, they all are doomed to death!" Turpin The Archbishop heard him; lived no man on earth He hated more than Corsablis; he pricks His horse with both his spurs of purest gold, And 'gainst him rushes with tremendous force. The shield and hauberk split; and with a stroke Of the long lance into his body driven, Corsablis lifeless drops across the path; Him, though a corpse, Turpin addresses thus: "Thou, coward Pagan, thou hast lied! Great Carl My lord, was ever and will ever be Our help; and Frenchmen know not how to fly. As for thy fellows, we can keep them here; I tell you, each this day shall die.—Strike, Franks, Yourselves forget not. This first blow, thank God, Is ours! Montjoie!" cries he, to hold the field. Aoi.

Gerin attacks Malprimis de Brigal Whose good shield now was not a denier worth: The crystal boss all broken, and one half Fall'n on the ground. Down to the flesh Gerin His hauberk cleaves, and passes through his heart The brazen point of a stout lance. Then falls The Pagan chief and dies by that good blow; And Sathanas bears off the wretched soul. Aoi.

Gerier, his comrade, strikes the Amurafle, Breaks his good shield, his hauberk white unmails, Plants in his heart a spear's steel point with such Good aim, one blow has pierced the body through; And his strong lance-thrust hurls him dead to earth.— Said Olivier: "A noble combat ours!" Aoi.

Duke Sansun rushes on the Almazour; He splits the shield with painted flowers and gold Embossed. The strong-mailed hauberk shelters not, As he is pierced through liver, heart and lungs. For him may mourn who will—death-struck he falls: "That is a Baron's stroke!" the Archbishop cries. Aoi.

Anseis gives his steed the rein, and charges Fierce on Turgis de Turteluse; beneath The golden boss asunder breaks the shield, Rips up the hauberk double-linked; so true The thrust, that all the steel passed through his breast. With this one blow the shaft has struck him dead. Rolland exclaimed: "The stroke is of a Knight!" Aoi.

Then Engelier, the Gascuin of Burdele, Spurs deep his horse, and casting loose the rein, Rushes upon Escremiz de Valterne; Breaks down the buckler fastened to his throat And rends his gorget-mail; full in the breast The lance strikes deep and passes in between The collar bones; dead from the saddle struck He falls.—And Turpin says: "Ye all are lost!" Aoi.

Othon assails a Pagan, Estorgant, His thrust hits hard the leather of the shield, Effacing its bright colors red and white, Breaks in his hauberk's sides, and plunges deep Within his heart a strong and trenchant spear, From off the flying steed striking him dead. This done, he says:—"No hope for you remains!" Aoi.

And Berengier smites now Estramaris, Splits down his shield, shivers his coat of mail In shreds and through his bosom drives a lance. Dead 'midst one thousand Saracens he drops. Of their twelve Peers now ten have breathed their last: Chernuble—Margariz, the Count, survive. Aoi.

Most valiant Knight is Margariz. 'Mid all Beauteous, strong, slender, quick of hand. He spurs His horse and charges Olivier; beneath The boss of purest gold his shield breaks down, Then at his side a pointed lance he aims; But God protects him, for the blow ne'er reached The flesh. The point grazed only, wounding not. Then Margariz unhindered rides away And sounds his horn to rally his own men. Aoi.

The battle rages fierce. All men engage. Rolland, the dauntless, combats with his lance As long as holds the shaft. Fifteen good blows It dealt, then broke and fell; now his good sword, Loved Durendal, he draws, spurs on his steed 'Gainst Chernubles, splits his bright helm adorned With gems; one blow cleaves through mail-cap and skull, Cutting both eyes and visage in two parts, And the white hauberk with its close-linked mail; Down to the body's fork, the saddle all Of beaten gold, still deeper goes the sword, Cuts through the courser's chine, nor seeks the joint. Upon the verdant grass fall dead both knight And steed. And then he cries: "Wretch! ill inspired To venture here! Mohammed helped thee not.... Wretches like you this battle shall not win." Aoi.