Page:The Song of Roland.djvu/79

 His horse he spurs, gallops with great effort, Wields Durendal, was worth fine gold and more, Goes as he may to strike that baron bold Above the helm, that was embossed with gold, Slices the head, the sark, and all the corse, The good saddle, that was embossed with gold, And cuts deep through the backbone of his horse; He’s slain them both, blame him for that or laud. The pagans say: “’Twas hard on us, that blow.” Answers Rollanz: “Nay, love you I can not, For on your side is arrogance and wrong.” AOI.

Out of Affrike an Affrican was come, ’Twas Malquiant, the son of king Malcud; With beaten gold was all his armour done, Fore all men’s else it shone beneath the sun. He sate his horse, which he called Salt-Perdut, Never so swift was any beast could run. And Anséis upon the shield he struck, The scarlat with the blue he sliced it up, Of his hauberk he’s torn the folds and cut, The steel and stock has through his body thrust. Dead is that count, he’s no more time to run. Then say the Franks: “Baron, an evil luck!”

Swift through the field Turpin the Archbishop passed; Such shaven-crown has never else sung Mass Who with his limbs such prowess might compass; To th’ pagan said: “God send thee all that’s bad! One thou hast slain for whom my heart is sad.” So his good horse forth at his bidding ran, He’s struck him then on his shield Toledan, Until he flings him dead on the green grass.