CXLIV.

When soldiers on the battle-field expect No quarter--desperate they fight; and thus The French, like lions, fiercely stand at bay. Like a true baron King Marsile rides forth Upon his steed Gaignon, and spurs him on Against Bevum, of Belne and Digun lord, His buckler cleaves, his hauberk with a blow Shatters, and lays him dead upon the field. Then fall beneath the Pagan King, Ivoire And Ivun; then Gerard de Roussillon.-- The Count Rollánd is nigh and cries aloud: "God give damnation unto thee who thus So foully slay'st my friends! But ere we part, Dearly shalt thou abye it, and to-day Shalt learn the name my good sword bears."--He strikes The King a true Knight's stroke, and his right hand Lops at the wrist; then Turfaleu the fair, Marsile's own son, beheads. The Pagans say: "Aid us, Mahum! Avenge us, Gods of ours, On Carle, who brought such villains to our land, As rather than depart will die."--And each To each cries: "Let us fly!"--Upon the word, A hundred thousand turn in sudden flight. Whoever calls them, ne'er will they return. Aoi.