The count Rollanz, when Sansun dead he saw, You may believe, great grief he had therefor. His horse he spurs, gallops with great effort, Wields Durendal, was worth fine gold and more, Goes as he may to strike that baron bold Above the helm, that was embossed with gold, Slices the head, the sark, and all the corse, The good saddle, that was embossed with gold, And cuts deep through the backbone of his horse; He's slain them both, blame him for that or laud. The pagans say: "'Twas hard on us, that blow." Answers Rollanz: "Nay, love you I can not, For on your side is arrogance and wrong." AOI. CXVIII Out of Affrike an Affrican was come, 'Twas Malquiant, the son of king Malcud; With beaten gold was all his armour done, Fore all men's else it shone beneath the sun. He sate his horse, which he called Salt-Perdut, Never so swift was any beast could run. And Anseis upon the shield he struck, The scarlat with the blue he sliced it up, Of his hauberk he's torn the folds and cut, The steel and stock has through his body thrust. Dead is that count, he's no more time to run. Then say the Franks: "Baron, an evil luck!" CXIX Swift through the field Turpin the Archbishop passed; Such shaven-crown has never else sung Mass Who with his limbs such prowess might compass; To th'pagan said "God send thee all that's bad! One thou hast slain for whom my heart is sad." So his good horse forth at his bidding ran, He's struck him then on his shield Toledan, Until he flings him dead on the green grass. CXX From the other part was a pagan Grandones, Son of Capuel, the king of Capadoce. He sate his horse, the which he called Marmore, Never so swift was any bird in course; He's loosed the reins, and spurring on that horse He's gone to strike Gerin with all his force; The scarlat shield from's neck he's broken off, And all his sark thereafter has he torn, The ensign blue clean through his body's gone, Until he flings him dead, on a high rock; His companion Gerer he's slain also, And Berenger, and Guiun of Santone; Next a rich duke he's gone to strike, Austore, That held Valence and the Honour of the Rhone; He's flung him dead; great joy the pagans shew. Then say the Franks: "Of ours how many fall." CXXI The count Rollanz, his sword with blood is stained, Well has he heard what way the Franks complained; Such grief he has, his heart would split in twain: To the pagan says: "God send thee every shame! One hast thou slain that dearly thou'lt repay." He spurs his horse, that on with speed doth strain; Which should forfeit, they both together came. CXXII