When Count Rollánd 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 Rollánd:—"For yours no pity can I feel—With you the vaunting and the wrong!" Aoi.
[CXIX.]
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 Anseïs' 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.
[CXX.]
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.
[CXXI.]
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.
[CXXII.]
Hearing the Frenchmen's sobs, the Count Rollánd 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.