Chapter CCXXXIX

Both armies are immense; their squadrons bright.
Between the combatants nor height, nor hill,
Nor vale, nor wood that shelter could afford;
Foe looks on foe across the open field.--
Said Baligant: "My Saracens, to horse!
Ride forward to the fight!" The battle flag
Is borne on high by Amboire d'Oliferne,
And all shout "Precieuse!" The French exclaim:
"May ye confounded be this day!" Aloud
Rises their cry "Montjoie!" The Emperor Carle
His trumpets bid resound, and the olifant
Whose blast 'whelms all. The Pagans say: "Carle's host
Is fair! Fierce battle shall we have and dire."
Aoi.