Soon to the field returns the Count Rolland With Durendal in hand; as a true knight He fights. Faldrun del Pin he cleaves in half With twenty-four among the bravest foes. Never was man so bent upon revenge. As run wild deer before the chasing hounds, Before Rolland the Pagans flee.--"Well done!" The Archbishop cries, "Such valor a true Knight Should have, when mounted, armed, on his good steed! Else, not four deniers is he worth: a monk In cloister should he be, and spend his life In praying for our sins!...." "Strike," said Rolland, "No quarter!"--At the word the French renew The combat ... yet the Christian loss was great. Aoi. CXLIV. When soldiers on the battle-field expect No quarter--desperate they fight; and thus The French, like lions, fiercely stand at bay. Like a true baron King Marsile rides forth Upon his steed Gaignon, and spurs him on Against Bevum, of Belne and Digun lord, His buckler cleaves, his hauberk with a blow Shatters, and lays him dead upon the field. Then fall beneath the Pagan King, Ivoire And Ivun; then Gerard de Roussillon.-- The Count Rolland is nigh and cries aloud: "God give damnation unto thee who thus So foully slay'st my friends! But ere we part, Dearly shalt thou abye it, and to-day Shalt learn the name my good sword bears."--He strikes The King a true Knight's stroke, and his right hand Lops at the wrist; then Turfaleu the fair, Marsile's own son, beheads. The Pagans say: "Aid us, Mahum! Avenge us, Gods of ours, On Carle, who brought such villains to our land, As rather than depart will die."--And each To each cries: "Let us fly!"--Upon the word, A hundred thousand turn in sudden flight. Whoever calls them, ne'er will they return. Aoi. CXLV. Alas, it not avails! If Marsile flies, His uncle Marganice unhurt remained. 'Tis he who held Carthage, Alferne, Garnaille, And Ethiopia, a land accursed; Chief of the Blacks, a thick-nosed, large-eared race. Of these he more than fifty thousand leads, Who ride on proudly, full of wrath, and shout The Pagan war-cry.--"Here," said Count Rolland, "Here shall we fall as martyrs. Well I know Our end is nigh; but dastard I count him Who sells not dear his life. Barons, strike well, Strike with your burnished swords, and set such price On death and life, that naught of shame shall fall On our sweet France. When Carle, my lord, shall come Upon this field, and see such slaughter here Of Saracens, fifteen to one of ours, Then will he breathe a blessing on his Knights." Aoi. OLIVIER'S DEATH. CXLVI.