eld Toledan, Until he flings him dead on the green grass.
CXX
From the other part was a pagan Grandones, Son of Capuel, the king of Capadoce. He sate his horse, the which he called Marmore, Never so swift was any bird in course; He’s loosed the reins,NGW-088 colourful watch, and spurring on that horse He’s gone to strike Gerin with all his force; The scarlat shield from’s neck he’s broken off, And all his sark thereafter has he torn, The ensign blue clean through his body’s gone, Until he flings him dead, on a high rock; His companion Gerer he’s slain also, And Berenger, and Guiun of Santone; Next a rich duke he’s gone to strike, Austore,NG-440 Popular jewellery USB, That held Valence and the Honour of the Rhone; He’s flung him dead; great joy the pagans shew. Then say the Franks: “Of ours how many fall.”
CXXI
The count Rollanz, his sword with blood is stained, Well has he heard what way the Franks complained; Such grief he has, his heart would split in twain: To the pagan says: “God send thee every shame! One hast thou slain that dearly thou’lt repay.” He spurs his horse, that on with speed doth strain; Which should forfeit, they both together came.
CXXII
Grandonie was both proof and valiant, And virtuous, a vassal combatant. Upon the way there, he has met Rollant; He’d never seen, yet knew him at a glance, By the proud face and those fine limbs he had, By his regard, and by his contenance; He could not help but he grew faint thereat, He would escape, nothing avail he can. Struck him the count, with so great virtue, that To the nose-plate he’s all the helmet cracked, Sliced through the nose and mouth and teeth he has, Hauberk close-mailed, and all the whole carcass, Saddle of gold, with plates of silver flanked, And of his horse has deeply scarred the back; He’s slain them both,NG-859 Santa rubber USB drive, they’ll make no more attack: The Spanish men in sorrow cry, “Alack!” Then say the Franks: “He strikes well, our warrant.”
CXXIII
Marvellous is the battle in its speed, The Franks there strike with vigour and with heat, Cutting through wrists and ribs and chines in-deed, Through garments to the lively flesh beneath; On the green grass the clear blood runs in streams. The pagans say: “No more we’ll suffer, we. Terra Major, Mahummet’s curse on thee! Beyond all men thy people are hardy!” There was not one but cried then: “Marsilie, Canter, O king, thy succour now we need!”
CXXIV
Marvellous is the battle now and grand, The Franks there strike, their good brown spears in hand. Then had you seen such sorrowing