There was a Saracen from Sarraguce Lord of one half the city--Climorin, Unlike a Baron; he received the faith Of Ganelon, and sealed the treacherous bond By pressing on his lip a kiss--Besides Unto him gave his sword and carbuncle. "I will," said he, "put your great France to shame And from the Emperor's head shake off the crown!" Mounted on Barbamouche that faster flies Than hawk or swallow on the wing, he spurs His courser hard, and dropping on its neck The rein, he strikes Engelier de Gascuigne; Hauberk nor shield is for him a defense: Deep in the core the Pagan thrusts his spear So mightily, its point comes out behind, And with the shaft o'erturns him on the field A corse;--he cries. "Fit for destruction these! Strike, Pagans, strike, and let us break their lines!" The French cry: "God! to lose so brave a Knight!".... Aoi. CXVI. The Count Rolland calls Olivier: "You know, Companion, sire, Engelier is no more.... No better Knight had we"--The Count replies: "God grant that I avenge him well!" He drives His golden spurs into his charger's flanks; And waving Halteclere's blood dripping blade, The Pagan he assails, and deals a blow.... O'erthrown is Climorin. The fiends of hell Bear off his soul. The Knight then slays the Duke Alphaien, beheads Escababi, Unhorses seven Arabs with such skill They rise no more to fight. Then said Rolland: "Wroth is my sire, and by my side achieves Renown! by such good blows Carl's love is gained. Strike, Chevaliers! strike on!"--he cries aloud. Aoi. CXVII. From otherwhere is Valdabrun who armed Marsile a Knight; lord of four hundred ships. There is no sailor but swears by his name; 'Twas he by treason took Jerusalem, Who there the shrine of Solomon profaned, And slew before the Fonts the Patriarch; 'Twas he, received Count Ganelon's vile oath And gave him with his sword a thousand marks; Faster than falcon in its flight his steed Named Graminond. He sharply spurs his flanks And rushes 'gainst the mighty Duke Sansun, Breaks down his shield--the hauberk rends, and thrusts Within his breast the pennon of the flag; The shaft o'erthrows him from the saddle, dead. "Strike Pagans! strike, for we shall conquer them!" The French say:--"God! what Baron true we lose!" Aoi. CXVIII.