第117章 CCXXVIII

Through all the host they have their drums sounded, And their bugles, and, very clear trumpets.

Pagans dismount, that they may arm themselves.

Their admiral will stay no longer then;

Puts on a sark, embroidered in the hems, Laces his helm, that is with gold begemmed;After, his sword on his left side he's set, Out of his pride a name for it he's spelt Like to Carlun's, as he has heard it said, So Preciuse he bad his own be clept;Twas their ensign when they to battle went, His chevaliers'; he gave that cry to them.

His own broad shield he hangs upon his neck, (Round its gold boss a band of crystal went, The strap of it was a good silken web;)He grasps his spear, the which he calls Maltet; --So great its shaft as is a stout cudgel, Beneath its steel alone, a mule had bent;On his charger is Baligant mounted, Marcules, from over seas, his stirrup held.

That warrior, with a great stride he stepped, Small were his thighs, his ribs of wide extent, Great was his breast, and finely fashioned, With shoulders broad and very clear aspect;Proud was his face, his hair was ringleted, White as a flow'r in summer was his head.

His vassalage had often been proved.

God! what a knight, were he a Christian yet!

His horse he's spurred, the clear blood issued;He's gallopped on, over a ditch he's leapt, Full fifty feet a man might mark its breadth.

Pagans cry out: "Our Marches shall be held;There is no Frank, may once with him contest, Will he or nill, his life he'll soon have spent.

Charles is mad, that he departs not hence."AOI.