Page:The Song of Roland.djvu/69

 On his spear’s hilt he’s flung it dead in dust. Looks on the ground, sees glutton lying thus, And says to him, with reason proud enough: “From threatening, culvert, your mouth I’ve shut. Strike on, the Franks! Right well we’ll over come.” “Monjoie,” he shouts, ’twas the ensign of Carlun. AOI.

A king there was, his name was Corsablix, Barbarian, and of a strange country, He’s called aloud to the other Sarrazins: “Well may we join battle upon this field, For of the Franks but very few are here; And those are here, we should account them cheap, From Charles not one has any warranty. This is the day when they their death shall meet.” Has heard him well that Archbishop Turpin, No man he’d hate so much the sky beneath; Spurs of fine gold he pricks into his steed, To strike that king by virtue great goes he, The hauberk all unfastens, breaks the shield, Thrusts his great spear in through the carcass clean, Pins it so well he shakes it in its seat, Dead in the road he’s flung it from his spear. Looks on the ground, that glutton lying sees, Nor leaves him yet, they say, but rather speaks: “Culvert pagan, you lied now in your teeth, Charlès my lord our warrant is indeed; None of our Franks hath any mind to flee. Your companions all on this spot we’ll keep, I tell you news; death shall ye suffer here. Strike on, the Franks! Fail none of you at need! Ours the first blow, to God the glory be!” “Monjoie!” he cries, for all the camp to hear.