CXXVI.
The crowd, by Rodomont of Sarza led[22],
The ladders lift, and many places scale.
Here the Parisians make no further head,
Who find their first defence of small avail.
Full well they know that danger more to dread
Within awaits the foemen who assail;
Because between the wall and second mound
A fosse descends, wide, horrid, and profound.
CXXVII.
Besides, that ours, with those upon the height,
War from below, like valiant men and stout,
New files succeed to those who fall in fight,
Where, on the interior summit, stand the rout,
Who gall with lances, and a whistling flight
Of darts, the mighty multitude without;
Many of whom, I ween, that post would shun,
If it were not for royal Ulien’s son[1].
CXXVIII.
But he still heartened some, and chid the rest,
And forced them forward to their sore alarm.
One paynim’s head he cleft, and other’s breast,
Who turned about to fly; and of the swarm
Some shoved and pushed and to the encounter prest,
Close-grappled by the collar, hair, or arm:
And downwards from the wall such numbers threw,
The ditch was all too narrow for the crew.
- ↑ Rodomont.
