CXLVIII.

Olivier knows his death-wound. In his hand He grasps Halteclere's bright steel, and strikes a blow Well aimed upon the Kalif's pointed helm; He scatters golden flow'rs and gems in dust. His head the trenchant blade cleaves to the teeth, And dead the Kalif falls.--"Pagan accursed," He cries, "not here shalt thou say Carle lost aught; To wife nor lady shalt thou ever boast In thine own land, that thou hast reft from Carle One denier's worth, or me or others harmed!" And then he called Rollànd unto his aid. Aoi.