Through the storm of battle rides Olivier, His weapon, the butt of his broken spear, Down upon Malseron's shield he beat, Where flowers and gold emblazoned meet, Dashing his eyes from forth his head: Low at his feet were the brains bespread, And the heathen lies with seven hundred dead! Estorgus and Turgin next he slew, Till the shaft he wielded in splinters flew. "Comrade!" said Roland, "what makest thou? Is it time to fight with a truncheon now? Steel and iron such strife may claim; Where is thy sword, Hauteclere by name, With its crystal pommel and golden guard?" "Of time to draw it I stood debarred, Such stress was on me of smiting hard." CX Then drew Sir Olivier forth his blade, As had his comrade Roland prayed. He proved it in knightly wise straightway, On the heathen Justin of Val Ferrée. At a stroke he severed his head in two, Cleft him body and harness through; Down through the gold-incrusted selle, To the horse's chine, the falchion fell: Dead on the sward lay man and steed. Said Roland, "My brother, henceforth, indeed! The Emperor loves us for such brave blows!" Around them the cry of "_Montjoie!_" arose. CXI Gerein his Sorel rides; Gerier Is mounted on his own Pass-deer: The reins they slacken, and prick full well Against the Saracen Timozel. One smites his cuirass, and one his shield, Break in his body the spears they wield; They cast him dead on the fallow mould. I know not, nor yet to mine ear was told. Which of the twain was more swift and bold. Then Espreveris, Borel's son, By Engelier unto death was done. Archbishop Turpin slew Siglorel, The wizard, who erst had been in hell, By Jupiter thither in magic led. "Well have we 'scaped," the archbishop said: "Crushed is the caitiff," Count Roland replies, "Olivier, brother, such strokes I prize!" CXII Furious waxeth the fight, and strange; Frank and heathen their blows exchange; While these defend, and those assail, And their lances broken and bloody fail. Ensign and pennon are rent and cleft, And the Franks of their fairest youth bereft, Who will look on mother or spouse no more, Or the host that waiteth the gorge before. Karl the Mighty may weep and wail; What skilleth sorrow, if succour fail? An evil service was Gan's that day, When to Saragossa he bent his way, His faith and kindred to betray. But a doom thereafter awaited him-- Amerced in Aix, of life and limb, With thirty of his kin beside, To whom was hope of grace denied. CXIII