Then comes a Duke whose name is Falsarun; He is the brother of the King Marsile. The lands of Dathan and of Abirun He holds: no viler wretch lives under Heaven. Vast is his forehead, and the space between His deeply sunken eyes is half a foot. Seeing his nephew dead, in grief he bounds Forth from the serried ranks, and shouts aloud The Pagan war-cry, furious 'gainst the French. "To-day," he cries, "at last sweet France shall lose Her fame!"--When Olivier heard this, in wrath He pricks with golden spurs his charger's flanks, And, like true baron, lifts his arm to strike, Shivers the Pagan's shield, his hauberk tears Apart. The pennon's folds pass through his breast As with the shaft he hurls him from the selle, A mangled corpse;--here lies he on the ground. Unto the prostrate body Olivier Says proudly:--"Wretch, to me thy threats are vain! Strike boldly, Franks! The victory shall be ours! Montjoie!" he shouts, the battle-cry of Carle. Aoi. XCVI. A king, named Corsablis, from Barbarie, A distant land, is there.--The Pagan host He calls;--"The field is ours with ease: the French So few in numbers we may well disdain, Nor Carle shall rescue one; all perish here. To-day, they all are doomed to death!" Turpin The Archbishop heard him; lived no man on earth He hated more than Corsablis; he pricks His horse with both his spurs of purest gold, And 'gainst him rushes with tremendous force. The shield and hauberk split; and with a stroke Of the long lance into his body driven, Corsablis lifeless drops across the path; Him, though a corpse, Turpin addresses thus: "Thou, coward Pagan, thou hast lied! Great Carl My lord, was ever and will ever be Our help; and Frenchmen know not how to fly. As for thy fellows, we can keep them here; I tell you, each this day shall die.--Strike, Franks, Yourselves forget not. This first blow, thank God, Is ours! Montjoie!" cries he, to hold the field. Aoi. XCVII. Gerin attacks Malprimis de Brigal Whose good shield now was not a denier worth: The crystal boss all broken, and one half Fall'n on the ground. Down to the flesh Gerin His hauberk cleaves, and passes through his heart The brazen point of a stout lance. Then falls The Pagan chief and dies by that good blow; And Sathanas bears off the wretched soul. Aoi. XCVIII. Gerier, his comrade, strikes the Amurafle, Breaks his good shield, his hauberk white unmails, Plants in his heart a spear's steel point with such Good aim, one blow has pierced the body through; And his strong lance-thrust hurls him dead to earth.-- Said Olivier: "A noble combat ours!" Aoi. XCIX.