Climborin smote down Angelier of Gascony, but he did not live more than ten seconds to enjoy his conquest. Miton had seen the deed, lowered his lance, and pierced the Pagan’s throat.
“There, dog! you may go boast of your victory!” said he, as he rode off.
Oliver had rested but little all this while; he drove right and left at the ranks of the enemy, brandishing Hauteclaire, mowing the Saracens down like stubble.
His shield was of gold, charged with a red cross.
“That is a foul blazon,” said Valdabron, striking the shield with his lance.
“Nevertheless, you shall bow to it,” answered the brother of Aude, and with one back-stroke he beheaded the paynim.
The Duke Sanche was slain: it was Haucuidant who struck the fatal blow; by his hand, too, perished Gerin and Anseis, Beranger and Guy de St. Antoine. But Roland rode right at the Pagan, and with the hilt of Durandal crushed his face in, and flung him, an unrecognisable corpse under his horse’s hoofs.
“It is truly sad that we can only kill once a hound who has done so much mischief.”
Then the knight stood up in his stirrups, and gazed around him. Merciful heavens, what a sight! Out of the twenty thousand Franks who had come there, but sixty remained alive.
“By my hopes of Heaven!” said Roland, “I should die the happier if I could but bear Marsillus with me to the grave. But how can I find him amid such a mêlée?”