Pure white the horse whereon Malprimes sate;Guided his corse amid the press of Franks, Hour in, hour out, great blows he struck them back, And, ever, dead one upon others packed.
Before them all has cried out Baligant:
"Barons, long time I've fed you at my hand.
Ye see my son, who goes on Carlun's track, And with his arms so many lords attacks;Better vassal than him I'll not demand.
Go, succour him, each with his trenchant lance!"Upon that word the pagans all advance;
Grim blows they strike, the slaughter's very grand.
And marvellous and weighty the combat:
Before nor since was never such attack.
AOI.
