CXLV
Franks are but few; which, when the pagans know,1940
Among themselves comfort and pride they shew;
Says each to each: “Wrong was that Emperor.”
Their alcaliph upon a sorrel rode,
And pricked it well with both his spurs of gold;
Struck Oliver, behind, on the back-bone,1945
His hauberk white into his body broke,
Clean through his breast the thrusting spear he drove;
After he said: “You’ve borne a mighty blow.
Charlès the great should not have left you so;
He’s done us wrong, small thanks to him we owe;1950
I’ve well avenged all ours on you alone.”
CXLVI
Oliver feels that he to die is bound,
Holds Halteclere, whose steel is rough and brown,
Strikes the alcaliph on his helm’s golden mount;
Flowers and stones fall clattering to the ground,1955
Slices his head, to th’ small teeth in his mouth;
So brandishes his blade and flings him down;
After he says: “Pagan, accurst be thou!
Thou’lt never say that Charles forsakes me now;
Nor to thy wife, nor any dame thou’st found,1960
Thou’lt never boast, in lands where thou wast crowned,
One pennyworth from me thou’st taken out,
Nor damage wrought on me nor any around.”
After, for aid, “Rollant!” he cries aloud.
CXLVII
Oliver feels that death is drawing nigh;1965
To avenge himself he hath no longer time;
Through the great press most gallantly he strikes,
He breaks their spears, their buckled shields doth slice,
64
