Malprime upon a steed of purest white Leads 'gainst the serried legions of the Franks His men. Abating not his mighty blows, Corse over corse he heaps. Cries Baligant In front: "Ye whom my kindness nurtured long, Barons of mine, see how my son seeks Carle And with so many knights he measured arms; A better vassal I shall never claim; Give him the succor of your trenchant spears." On rush the Pagans at these words, and deal Their mortal blows around. Rude is the fight! The battle marvelous and stern. None such Was ever seen before or since that hour. Aoi.
[CCXLVI.]
The hosts are numberless, the warriors fierce— The encount'ring legions fighting hand to hand Noblest exploits achieved. How many a lance Asunder broken; God! How many shields In pieces split, how many hauberks wrenched! Splinters of shivered armor you might see Strew all the field, and verdant tender grass Vermillioned o'er by streams of human gore! The Emir to his people calls anew: "Barons strike down these Christian people!"—Hard And long the fight embittered by revenge And rage. Ne'er seen before nor will be seen Again such combat.—To the death they fight. Aoi.
[CCXLVII.]
The Emir to his men:—"Strike, Pagans, ye For this alone have come. Dames sweet and fair Shall be your guerdon; honors, and domains I promise all."—The Saracens respond: "To serve you all we ought."—So hard they fight That in the hot affray they lose their spears: Anon a thousand flashing swords and more, Are drawn, a bloody slaughter to achieve. He who stood on that field, true battle saw. Aoi.
[CCXLVIII.]
The King exhorts his French: "Beloved Seigneurs And trusty Knights, ye many battles fought For me, won many a realm, defeated Kings! Full well I know, rich guerdons have ye earned; My wealth, lands, blood I owe you. Now to-day Your sons, your brothers and your kin avenge Who fell in Ronceval but yesternight! Well know ye mine the right, with them the wrong." The French reply:—"Yea, sire, you speak the truth." The twenty thousand knights who march with Carle Pledge with one soul their fealty. Dire distress, E'en death, shall cause not one of these to fail The Emperor; not on lances they rely, But with the sword in hand wage doughty strife. Wondrous the raging battle. Stern the fight. Aoi.
[CCXLIX.]
The brave Malprime has pressed his steed across The field, and carried death among the French. Duke Naimes glanced proudly toward him, and as knight In battle fearless met him in career; He strikes ... tears off his buckler's leathern top, The hauberk cuts in twain, drives through the heart The yellow pennon of the spear, and strikes Him dead mid seven hundred other knights. Aoi.