The sword-strokes, falling thick as hail,
Rang through the palace halls,
With sounding blows upon the mail
That shook the very walls.
At every clashing of their arms
A thousand sparks leapt out,
Like red-hot iron from the forge,
Beaten by armorer stout.
At last, through one unguarded joint,
The Breton’s sword made way
And pierced the giant’s heart. He fell,
And bled his life away.
Forthwith, when Morvan Lez-Breiz saw
His Moorish foe lie dead,
His foot he placed upon his breast,
And straight cut off his head.
He hung it by the grisly beard
His saddle-bow unto;
And, for its stains of Moorish blood,
His sword away he threw.