The battle is extraordinary and widespread. Count Roland does not tarry; he strikes with his spear as long as the shaft endures. But after fifteen blows he has broken it and cast it away. Then he draws Durendal, his good sword, and he spurs his horse and goes to strike Chernuble. He shatters his helmet with its shining gems; he cleaves right through his hair and his head; his sword cuts down between the eyes in his face, through his bright hauberk with its delicate chainwork, and through his body till where it divides. Then through the saddle of beaten gold until it has reached the horse’s body it has passed, and cloven its spine without seeking for the joint.