And he stands pawing at the gate—caparisoned once more.
Guarinos whispered in the old horse’s ear, and it recalled the voice of its master.
Oh! lightly did Guarinos vault into the saddle-tree,
And slowly riding down made halt before Marlotes’ knee;
Again the heathen laughed aloud—“All hail, sir knight,” quoth he,
“Now do thy best, thou champion proud. Thy blood I look to see.”
With that Guarinos, lance in rest, against the scoffer rode,
Pierced at one thrust his envious breast, and down his turban trode.
Now ride, now ride, Guarinos—nor lance nor rowel spare—
Slay, slay, and gallop for thy life—the land of France lies there!