The Harvard Classics-Epic and Saga Part 9

XCVII

A duke was there, named Falsaron, Of the land of Dathan and Abiron; Brother to Marsil, the king, was he; More miscreant felon ye might not see.

Huge of forehead, his eyes between, A span of a full half-foot, I ween.

Bitter sorrow was his, to mark His nephew before him lie slain and stark.

Hastily came he from forth the press, Raising the war-cry of heathenesse.

Braggart words from his lips were tost: "This day the honour of France is lost."

Hotly Sir Olivier's anger stirs; He p.r.i.c.ked his steed with golden spurs, Fairly dealt him a baron's blow, And hurled him dead from the saddle-bow.

Buckler and mail were reft and rent, And the pennon's flaps to his heart's blood went.

He saw the miscreant stretched on earth: "Caitiff, thy threats are of little worth.

On, Franks! the felons before us fall; _Montjoie!_" 'Tis the Emperor's battle-call.

XCVIII

A king was there of a strange countrie, King Corsablis of Barbary; Before the Saracen van he cried, "Right well may we in this battle bide; Puny the host of the Franks I deem, And those that front us, of vile esteem.

Not one by succor of Karl shall fly; The day hath dawned that shall see them die."

Archbishop Turpin hath heard him well; No mortal hates he with hate so fell: He p.r.i.c.ked with spurs of the fine gold wrought, And in deadly pa.s.sage the heathen sought; s.h.i.+eld and corselet were pierced and riven, And the lance's point through his body driven; To and fro, at the mighty thrust, He reeled, and then fell stark in dust.

Turpin looked on him, stretched on ground.

"Loud thou liest, thou heathen hound!

King Karl is ever our pride and stay; Nor one of the Franks shall blench this day, But your comrades here on the field shall lie; I bring you tidings: ye all shall die.

Strike, Franks! remember your chivalry; First blows are ours, high G.o.d be praised!"

Once more the cry, "_Montjoie!_" he raised.

XCIX

Gerein to Malprimis of Brigal sped, Whose good s.h.i.+eld stood him no whit in stead; Its k.n.o.b of crystal was cleft in twain, And one half fell on the battle plain.

Right through the hauberk, and through the skin, He drave the lance to the flesh within; p.r.o.ne and sudden the heathen fell, And Satan carried his soul to h.e.l.l.

C

Anon, his comrade in arms, Gerier, Spurred at the Emir with levelled spear; Severed his s.h.i.+eld and his mail apart,-- The lance went through them, to pierce his heart.

Dead on the field at the blow he lay.

Olivier said, "'Tis a stirring fray."

CI

At the Almasour's s.h.i.+eld Duke Samson rode-- With blazon of flowers and gold it glowed; But nor s.h.i.+eld nor cuira.s.s availed to save, When through heart and lungs the lance he drave.

Dead lies he, weep him who list or no.

The Archbishop said, "'Tis a baron's blow."

CII

Anseis cast his bridle free; At Turgis, Tortosa's lord, rode he: Above the centre his s.h.i.+eld he smote, Brake his mail with its double coat, Speeding the lance with a stroke so true, That the iron traversed his body through.

So lay he lifeless, at point of spear.

Said Roland, "Struck like a cavalier."

CIII

Engelier, Gascon of Bordeaux, On his courser's mane let the bridle flow; Smote Escremis, from Valtierra sprung, Shattered the s.h.i.+eld from his neck that swung; On through his hauberk's vental pressed, And betwixt his shoulders pierced his breast.

Forth from the saddle he cast him dead.

"So shall ye perish all," he said.

CIV

The heathen Estorgan was Otho's aim: Right in front of his s.h.i.+eld he came; Rent its colors of red and white, Pierced the joints of his harness bright, Flung him dead from his bridle rein.

Said Otho, "Thus shall ye all be slain."

CV

Berengier smote Estramarin, Planting his lance his heart within, Through s.h.i.+vered s.h.i.+eld and hauberk torn.

The Saracen to earth was borne Amid a thousand of his train.

Thus ten of the heathen twelve are slain; But two are left alive I wis-- Chernubles and Count Margaris.

CVI

Count Margaris was a valiant knight, Stalwart of body, and lithe and light: He spurred his steed unto Olivier, Brake his s.h.i.+eld at the golden sphere, Pushed the lance till it touched his side; G.o.d of his grace made it harmless glide.

Margaris rideth unhurt withal, Sounding his trumpet, his men to call.

CVII

Mingled and marvellous grows the fray, And in Roland's heart is no dismay.

He fought with lance while his good lance stood; Fifteen encounters have strained its wood.

At the last it brake; then he grasped in hand His Durindana, his naked brand.

He smote Chernubles' helm upon, Where, in the centre, carbuncles shone: Down through his coif and his fell of hair, Betwixt his eyes came the falchion bare, Down through his plated harness fine, Down through the Saracen's chest and chine, Down through the saddle with gold inlaid, Till sank in the living horse the blade, Severed the spine where no joint was found, And horse and rider lay dead on ground.

"Caitiff, thou earnest in evil hour; To save thee pa.s.seth Mohammed's power.

Never to miscreants like to thee Shall come the guerdon of victory."

CVIII

Count Roland rideth the battle through, With Durindana, to cleave and hew; Havoc fell of the foe he made, Saracen corse upon corse was laid, The field all flowed with the bright blood shed; Roland, to corselet and arm, was red-- Red his steed to the neck and flank.

Nor is Olivier n.i.g.g.ard of blows as frank; Nor to one of the peers be blame this day, For the Franks are fiery to smite and slay.

"Well fought," said Turpin, "our barons true!"

And he raised the war-cry, "_Montjoie!_" anew.

CIX