Page:The Song of Roland.djvu/72

 Along his ribs the pagan’s spear doth glide; God’s his warrant, his body has respite, The shaft breaks off, Oliver stays upright; That other goes, naught stays him in his flight, His trumpet sounds, rallies his tribe to fight.

Common the fight is now and marvellous. The count Rollanz no way himself secures, Strikes with his spear, long as the shaft endures, By fifteen blows it is clean broken through; Then Durendal he bares, his sabre good Spurs on his horse, is gone to strike Chernuble, The helmet breaks, where bright carbuncles grew, Slices the cap and shears the locks in two, Slices also the eyes and the features, The hauberk white, whose mail was close of woof, Down to the groin cuts all his body through To the saddle; with beaten gold ’twas tooled. Upon the horse that sword a moment stood, Then sliced its spine, no join there any knew, Dead in the field among thick grass them threw. After he said: “Culvert, false step you moved, From Mahumet your help will not come soon. No victory for gluttons such as you.”

The count Rollanz, he canters through the field, Holds Durendal, he well can thrust and wield, Right great damage he’s done the Sarrazines You’d seen them, one on other, dead in heaps, Through all that place their blood was flowing clear! In blood his arms were and his hauberk steeped, And bloodied o’er, shoulders and neck, his steed. And Oliver goes on to strike with speed; No blame that way deserve the dozen peers, For all the Franks they strike and slay with heat,