Chapter CLXXII

Rolland perceived an alien hand would rob
Him of his sword; his eyes he oped; one word
He spoke:--"I trow, not one of us art thou!"
Then with his olifant from which he parts
Never, he smites the golden studded helm,
Crushing the steel, the head, the bones; both eyes
Are from their sockets beaten out--o'erthrown
Dead at the Baron's feet he falls:--"O wretch,"
He cries, "how durst thou, or for good or ill,
Lay hands upon Rolland? Who hears of this
Will call thee fool. Mine olifant is cleft,
Its gems and gold all scattered by the blow."
Aoi.