Marsile's nephew, his name is Aelroth, First of them all canters before the host, Says of our Franks these ill words as he goes:
"Felons of France, so here on us you close!
Betrayed you has he that to guard you ought;Mad is the King who left you in this post.
So shall the fame of France the Douce be lost, And the right arm from Charles body torn."When Rollant hears, what rage he has, by God!
His steed he spurs, gallops with great effort;He goes, that count, to strike with all his force, The shield he breaks, the hauberk's seam unsews, Slices the heart, and shatters up the bones, All of the spine he severs with that blow, And with his spear the soul from body throws So well he's pinned, he shakes in the air that corse, On his spear's hilt he's flung it from the horse:
So in two halves Aeroth's neck he broke, Nor left him yet, they say, but rather spoke:
"Avaunt, culvert! A madman Charles is not, No treachery was ever in his thought.
Proudly he did, who left us in this post;The fame of France the Douce shall not be lost.
Strike on, the Franks! Ours are the foremost blows.
For we are right, but these gluttons are wrong."AOI.
