Charles, hearing how that holy Angel spake, Had fear of death no longer, nor dismay;Remembrance and a fresh vigour he's gained.
So the admiral he strikes with France's blade, His helmet breaks, whereon the jewels blaze, Slices his head, to scatter all his brains, And, down unto the white beard, all his face;So he falls dead, recovers not again.
"Monjoie," cries Charles, that all may know the tale.
Upon that word is come to him Duke Naimes, Holds Tencendur, bids mount that King so Great.
Pagans turn back, God wills not they remain.
And Franks have all their wish, be that what may.
