CXX.

The Archbishop Turpin rides across the fields; No shaven priest sang ever mass so well As he, and showed such prowess in his deeds. He to the Pagan:--"May God send all ills To thee, who slew the knight my heart bewails!" Turpin spurs hard his good steed 'gainst the wretch; One blow strikes down his strong Toledo shield: The miscreant dead upon the green sward falls. Aoi.