Grandonie was both proof and valiant, And virtuous, a vassal combatant. Upon the way there, he has met Rollant; He'd never seen, yet knew him at a glance, By the proud face and those fine limbs he had, By his regard, and by his contenance; He could not help but he grew faint thereat, He would escape, nothing avail he can. Struck him the count, with so great virtue, that To the nose-plate he's all the helmet cracked, Sliced through the nose and mouth and teeth he has, Hauberk close-mailed, and all the whole carcass, Saddle of gold, with plates of silver flanked, And of his horse has deeply scarred the back; He's slain them both, they'll make no more attack: The Spanish men in sorrow cry, "Alack!" Then say the Franks: "He strikes well, our warrant." CXXIII Marvellous is the battle in its speed, The Franks there strike with vigour and with heat, Cutting through wrists and ribs and chines in-deed, Through garments to the lively flesh beneath; On the green grass the clear blood runs in streams. The pagans say: "No more we'll suffer, we. Terra Major, Mahummet's curse on thee! Beyond all men thy people are hardy!" There was not one but cried then: "Marsilie, Canter, O king, thy succour now we need!" CXXIV Marvellous is the battle now and grand, The Franks there strike, their good brown spears in hand. Then had you seen such sorrowing of clans, So many a slain, shattered and bleeding man! Biting the earth, or piled there on their backs! The Sarrazins cannot such loss withstand. Will they or nill, from off the field draw back; By lively force chase them away the Franks. AOI. CXXV Their martyrdom, his men's, Marsile has seen, So he bids sound his horns and his buccines; Then canters forth with all his great army. Canters before a Sarrazin, Abisme, More felon none was in that company; Cankered with guile and every felony, He fears not God, the Son of Saint Mary; Black is that man as molten pitch that seethes; Better he loves murder and treachery Than to have all the gold of Galicie; Never has man beheld him sport for glee; Yet vassalage he's shown, and great folly, So is he dear to th' felon king Marsile; Dragon he bears, to which his tribe rally. That Archbishop could never love him, he; Seeing him there, to strike he's very keen, Within himself he says all quietly: "This Sarrazin great heretick meseems, Rather I'ld die, than not slay him clean, Neer did I love coward nor cowardice." AOI. CXXVI