Chapter CXLVII

The Pagans, when they mark how few the French,
Are filled with pride and comfort, and they say
One to the other:--"Their King Carle is wrong!"--
Upon his sorrel steed sits Marganice;
Urging him hard with pricking spurs of gold,
Encounters Olivier--strikes him behind,
Drives his white hauberk-links into his heart,
And through in front came forth the pointed lance.
The Kalif cries:--"That blow struck home! Carlmagne,
For thy mishap, left you to guard the Pass!
That he has wronged us, little may he boast.
Your death alone for us a vengeance full!"
Aoi.