The Count Gerin sits on his horse, Sorel, And his companion Gerier, on Passe-Cerf, They loose the reins, and both spur on against A Pagan, Timozel. One strikes the shield, The other strikes the hauberk;--in his heart The two spears meet and hurl him lifeless down. I never heard it said nor can I know By which of them the swifter blow was struck.-- Esperveris, son to Borel, was next By Engelier de Burdele slain. Turpin With his own hand gave death to Siglorel Th' Enchanter who once entered hell, led there By Jupiter's craft. Turpin said:--"Forfeit paid For crime!"--"The wretch is vanquished," cried Rolland, "My brother Olivier, such blows I love!" Aoi. CX. The combat paused not. Franks and Pagans vie In dealing blows; attacking now, and now Defending. Splintered spears, dripping with blood So many; o'er the field such numbers strewn: Of banners torn and shattered gonfalons! So many valiant French mowed in their prime, Whom mothers and sweet wives will never see Again, nor those of France who in the Pass Await them! Carle for these shall weep and mourn. But what avails? Naught can he help them now. Ill service rendered Ganelon to them The day when he to Sarraguce repaired To sell his kin. Ere long for this he lost Both limb and life, judged and condemned at Aix, There to be hanged with thirty of his race Who were not spared the punishment of death. Aoi. CXI. The battle rages. Wonders all perform; Rolland and Olivier strike hard; Turpin Th' Archbishop, deals more than a thousand blows; The twelve Peers dally not upon the field, While all the French together fight as if One man. By hundreds and by thousands fall The Pagans: none scapes death, save those who fly Whether they will or no, all lose their lives. And yet the French have lost their strongest arms, Their fathers and their kin they will ne'er see Again, nor Carle who waits them in the Pass. * * * * * Meantime in France an awful scourge prevails: Wind, storm, rain, hail and flashing lightning bolts Conflict confusedly, and naught more true, The earth shook from Saint Michiel-del-Peril As far as to the Saints, from Besancon Unto the [sea-port] of Guitzand; no house Whose walls unshaken stood; darkness at noon Shrouded the sky. No beam of light above Save when a flash rips up the clouds. Dismayed Beholders cry:--"The world's last day has come, The destined end of all things is at hand!" Unwitting of the truth, their speech is vain.... 'Tis dolour for the death of Count Rolland! Aoi. CXII.