When Carle the Emir sees, and with him borne The dragon-standard, all the land o'erswarmed By Arab warriors, save that space alone Held by his host, he cries with loudest voice: "Barons of France, in valor great, we know, Upon how many fields ye battled! See The Pagans! Traitors vile and cowards all; Yea, all their law I count no denier worth. What care ye, lords, how vast their numbers are? Let those who wish to combat follow me!" With pointed spurs he pricks his courser's flanks And Tecendur four times leaped in the air. Cry out the French:--"A valiant King is this! Ride forward, Sire, not one will fail you here." Aoi. CCXLII. Clear was the day and bright the sun. Both hosts Resplendent, their battalions numberless; The legions in the van already meet In fight. Both Counts Rabel and Guineman On their fleet coursers' necks have loosed the rein! Sharply they spur, and all the Franks dash on To deal with trenchant lance their valiant blows. Aoi. CCXLIII. A daring Knight is Count Rabel. With spurs Of purest gold he pricks his courser's flanks, Rushing to smite Torleu the Persian King. No shield, no hauberk can such blow withstand. The golden spear went through the Pagan's heart And mid the brambles of the road has struck Him dead. The French cry out: "Aid us, O God! With Carle the right; ne'er shall we fail our King!" Aoi. CCXLIV. Guineman 'gainst the King of Leutice tilts; The Pagan's shield with painted flowers bedecked Is shattered and his hauberk torn away. Through his heart's core the pennon of the Knight Is driven, bearing death,--or laugh or weep Who may. At such a blow the French exclaim: "Barons, strike ever! Strike and be not slack Against the Pagan hordes; to Carle belongs The right. With us the justice true of God!" Aoi. CCXLV. Malprime upon a steed of purest white Leads 'gainst the serried legions of the Franks His men. Abating not his mighty blows, Corse over corse he heaps. Cries Baligant In front: "Ye whom my kindness nurtured long, Barons of mine, see how my son seeks Carle And with so many knights he measured arms; A better vassal I shall never claim; Give him the succor of your trenchant spears." On rush the Pagans at these words, and deal Their mortal blows around. Rude is the fight! The battle marvelous and stern. None such Was ever seen before or since that hour. Aoi. CCXLVI.