Said Olivier, "Idle is speech, I trow; Thou didst disdain on thy horn to blow. Succor of Karl is far apart; Our strait he knows not, the noble heart: Not to him nor his host be blame; Therefore, barons, in God's good name, Press ye onward, and strike your best, Make your stand on this field to rest; Think but of blows, both to give and take, Never the watchword of Karl forsake." Then from the Franks resounded high-- "_Montjoie!_" Whoever had heard that cry Would hold remembrance of chivalry. Then ride they--how proudly, O God, they ride!-- With rowels dashed in their coursers' side. Fearless, too, are their paynim foes. Frank and Saracen, thus they close. THE MELLAY XCVI King Marsil's nephew, Aelroth his name, Vaunting in front of the battle came, Words of scorn on our Franks he cast: "Felon Franks, ye are met at last, By your chosen guardian betrayed and sold, By your king left madly the pass to hold. This day shall France of her fame be shorn, And from Karl the mighty his right arm torn." Roland heard him in wrath and pain!-- He spurred his steed, he slacked the rein, Drave at the heathen with might and main, Shattered his shield and his hauberk broke, Right to the breast-bone went the stroke; Pierced him, spine and marrow through, And the felon's soul from his body flew. A moment reeled he upon his horse, Then all heavily dropped the corse; Wrenched was his neck as on earth he fell, Yet would Roland scorn with scorn repel. "Thou dastard! never hath Karl been mad, Nor love for treason or traitors had. To guard the passes he left us here, Like a noble king and chevalier. Nor shall France this day her fame forego. Strike in, my barons; the foremost blow Dealt in the fight doth to us belong: We have the right and these dogs the wrong." XCVII A duke was there, named Falsaron, Of the land of Dathan and Abiron; Brother to Marsil, the king, was he; More miscreant felon ye might not see. Huge of forehead, his eyes between, A span of a full half-foot, I ween. Bitter sorrow was his, to mark His nephew before him lie slain and stark. Hastily came he from forth the press, Raising the war-cry of heathenesse. Braggart words from his lips were tost: "This day the honour of France is lost." Hotly Sir Olivier's anger stirs; He pricked his steed with golden spurs, Fairly dealt him a baron's blow, And hurled him dead from the saddle-bow. Buckler and mail were reft and rent, And the pennon's flaps to his heart's blood went. He saw the miscreant stretched on earth: "Caitiff, thy threats are of little worth. On, Franks! the felons before us fall; _Montjoie!_" 'Tis the Emperor's battle-call. XCVIII