CCXXXVIII Both cavaliers to earth are gone, Both rise and leap on foot anon. Strong is Pinabel, swift and light; Each striketh other, unhorsed they fight; With golden-hilted swords, they deal Fiery strokes on the helms of steel. Trenchant and fierce is their every blow. The Franks look on in wondrous woe. "O God," saith Karl, "Thy judgment show." CCXXXIX "Yield thee, Thierry," said Pinabel. "In love and faith will I serve thee well, And all my wealth to thy feet will bring, Win Ganelon's pardon from the king." "Never," Thierry in scorn replied, "Shall thought so base in my bosom bide! God betwixt us this day decide." CCXL "Ah, Pinabel!" so Thierry spake, "Thou art a baron of stalwart make, Thy knighthood known to every peer,-- Come, let us cease this battle here. With Karl thy concord shall be won, But on Ganelon be justice done; Of him henceforth let speech be none." "No," said Pinabel; "God forefend! My kinsman I to the last defend; Nor will I blench for mortal face,-- Far better death than such disgrace." Began they with their glaves anew The gold-encrusted helms to hew; Towards heaven the fiery sparkles flew. They shall not be disjoined again, Nor end the strife till one be slain. CCXLI Pinabel, lord of Sorrence's keep, Smote Thierry's helm with stroke so deep The very fire that from it came Hath set the prairie round in flame; The edge of steel did his forehead trace Adown the middle of his face; His hauberk to the centre clave. God deigned Thierry from death to save. CCXLII When Thierry felt him wounded so, For his bright blood flowed on the grass below, He smote on Pinabel's helmet brown, Cut and clave to the nasal down; Dashed his brains from forth his head, And, with stroke of prowess, cast him dead. Thus, at a blow, was the battle won: "God," say the Franks, "hath this marvel done." CCXLIII When Thierry thus was conqueror, He came the Emperor Karl before. Full fifty barons were in his train, Duke Naimes, and Ogier the noble Dane, Geoffrey of Anjou and William of Blaye. Karl clasped him in his arms straightway With skin of sable he wiped his face; Then cast it from him, and, in its place, Bade him in fresh attire be drest. His armor gently the knights divest; On an Arab mule they make him ride: So returns he, in joy and pride. To the open plain of Aix they come, Where the kin of Ganelon wait their doom. CCXLIV