CXVIII.

When Count Rollánd sees Sansun lifeless fall, You may well know what grief was his. He spurs His horse down on the Pagan. Durendal More worth than precious gold he lifts to strike With all his might; gold studded helm, head, trunk, Hauberk asunder cleaves; the blow, e'en through The gold boss'd saddle, strikes the courser's back, Killing both horse and man. Blame or approve Who may. The Pagans say:--"Hard is this blow!" Retorts Rollánd:--"For yours no pity can I feel--With you the vaunting and the wrong!" Aoi.