CXLVII.

The Pagans, when they mark how few the French, Are filled with pride and comfort, and they say One to the other:--"Their King Carle is wrong!"-- Upon his sorrel steed sits Marganice; Urging him hard with pricking spurs of gold, Encounters Olivier--strikes him behind, Drives his white hauberk-links into his heart, And through in front came forth the pointed lance. The Kalif cries:--"That blow struck home! Carlmagne, For thy mishap, left you to guard the Pass! That he has wronged us, little may he boast. Your death alone for us a vengeance full!" Aoi.