CCXL
Clear is the day, and the sun radiant;3345
The hosts are fair, the companies are grand.
The first columns are come now hand to hand.
The count Rabel and the count Guinemans
Let fall the reins on their swift horses’ backs,
Spurring in haste; then on rush all the Franks,3350
And go to strike, each with his trenchant lance.
CCXLI
That count Rabel, he was a hardy knight,
He pricked his horse with spurs of gold so fine,
The Persian king, Torleu, he went to strike.
Nor shield nor sark could such a blow abide;3355
The golden spear his carcass passed inside;
Flung down upon a little bush, he died.
Then say the Franks: “Lord God, be Thou our Guide!
Charlès we must not fail; his cause is right.”
CCXLII
And Guineman tilts with the king Leutice;3360
Has broken all the flowers on his shield,
Next of his sark he has undone the seam,
All his ensign thrust through the carcass clean,
So flings him dead, let any laugh or weep.
Upon that blow, the Franks cry out with heat:3365
“Strike on, baron, nor slacken in your speed!
Charle’s in the right against the pagan breed;
God sent us here his justice to complete.”
CCXLIII
Pure white the horse whereon Malprimès sate;
Guided his corse amid the press of Franks,3370
Hour in, hour out, great blows he struck them back,
And, ever, dead one upon others packed.
Before them all has cried out Baligant:
“Barons, long time I’ve fed you at my hand.
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