Where, in the centre, carbuncles shone:
Down through his coif and his fell of hair,
Betwixt his eyes came the falchion bare,
Down through his plated harness fine,
Down through the Saracen's chest and chine,
Down through the saddle with gold inlaid,
Till sank in the living horse the blade,
Severed the spine where no joint was found,
And horse and rider lay dead on ground.

In spite of Roland's doughty blows, his good sword suffers no harm,
nor does that of Oliver (Hauteclaire), with which he does such good
work that Roland assures him he will henceforth consider him a
brother. Although the French slay the pagans by thousands, so many of
their own warriors fall, that, by the time they have repulsed the
first Saracen division, only sixty of Roland's men remain alive.

All nature seems to feel the terrible battle raging in the valley of
Roncevaux, for a terrible storm breaks forth, in France, where,
hearing the roll of the thunder, seeing the flash of the lightning,
and feeling the earth shake beneath their feet, the French fear the
end of the world has come. These poor warriors are little aware that
all this commotion is due to "nature's grief for the death of Roland."

Now a wondrous storm o'er France hath passed,
With thunder-stroke and whirlwind's blast;
Rain unmeasured, and hail, there came,
Sharp and sudden the lightning's flame;
And an earthquake ran--the sooth I say,
From Besançon city to Wissant Bay;