CCXXX.

Throughout the camp the drums sonorous beat, With bellowing horns and blasts of trumpet clear. The Pagans arm themselves, and least of all The Emir would th' advance delay--He wears A hauberk saffron--'broidered round the sides, And clasps his helm with gold and gems inlaid. On his left side a sword whereto, in pride, He gave a name, as Carle had named his sword, And called the blade his Precieuse. This name Shall be the battle-cry his warriors shout---- Hangs from his neck a large and spreading shield Whose golden boss shines with a crystal ring; The strap of silk with rosy 'broidery; The lance he bears is named Mallet, the shaft Of which so huge, more than a beam it looks, And steel so strong, beneath its weight a mule Would groan. Upon his steed mounts Baligant; His stirrup held by Marcule d'Ultremer. Mighty the Emir's stride across the selle; Thin-loined, wide-flanked, deep-chested, all his form Well molded; broad his shoulders; clear his eye, His visage haughty, curls around his brow. White as a summer blossom he appears; His valor proved by many feats of war. God! what a Baron, had he Christian faith! He spurs his horse until the crimson blood Reddens its flanks, and lightly bounds across A mighty chasm full fifty feet in width. The Pagans cry:--"He can defend his marche. With him none 'mong the French can cross a lance; Will they or not, their lives are forfeit now. Yea Carle was mad who did not shun the field." Aoi.