The mighty Emir with a giant's strength Smites Carle upon the helm of burnished steel, Which splits in twain beneath the ponderous blow, Cuts through the silky hair, shears from the scalp Fully the breadth of a man's palm and more, Baring the skull. Carle staggers, nearly falls, But God willed not that he should die or yield. Saint Gabriel, with eager flight once more Descends, demanding:--"What ails thee, great King?" Aoi. CCLXIV. When Carle the Angel's heavenly accent hears, All thought or dread of death forsakes his soul, And in him springs again his former strength. The Emir by the royal sword of France Is struck, his helm all bright with gems is rent, His cloven skull pours out the brain, his face Is cleft to the very roots of his white beard: Dead falls the Pagan past recovery. Then shouts the King his rallying cry, "Montjoie!" Hearing his shout, Duke Naimes hastes up, and brings The charger Tecendur for Carle the great To mount. The Pagans turn their backs--God wills They should not stay. The Franks have their desires. Aoi. CCLXV. The Pagans fly--such is the will of God; Carle leads the French in the pursuit. Thus spake The King:--"Seigneurs, the time is come to give Vent to just hatred, and your anguished hearts Assuage. This very morn I saw your eyes Streaming with tears." They cry:--"Our vengeance now!" And vying with each other in exploits, They deal their mighty blows. But few escape. Aoi. CCLXVI. Amidst the sultry heat and clouds of dust The Pagans roused, by their foes harassed, Flee far for Sarraguce. To her high tower Ascends Queen Bramimunde, where, seeing thus The routed Arabs fly, she calls her priests And canons, subjects to false law, by God Ne'er loved: their crowns no holy tonsure wear. She cries aloud:--"Aid us, Mahum! Oh aid! O gentle King! Already vanquished are Our men, the Emir slain in shameful death!" On hearing this, Marsile turned to the wall His covered face, and amid bitter tears His life departed. Soon the eager fiends Bore off to judgment his sin-burthened soul. Aoi. CCLXVII. The Pagans all are slain [or put to flight]; Carle wins the day. The gates of Sarraguce Are stormed, and well he knows, defense is vain. He takes the city. All the Christian host Pour in, and there repose their limbs this night. The King with snow-white beard is filled with pride: Queen Bramimunde gives up the citadels; Ten of these forts are large, and fifty small. Well helped are they whom God Almighty aids. Aoi. CCLXVIII.