CCLVII.

The Emir spreads out to the breeze his beard As hawthorn blossom white; betide what may, Escape he will not seek, puts to his lips A trumpet clear, whose blast the Pagans hark, And fast their cohorts rally on the field. They bray and neigh, the men of Occiant, While those of Arguile yelp as curs, and charge The Franks so rashly, they mow down and break Their thickest ranks, and by this blow Throw seven thousand dead upon the field. Aoi.