And in face, bosom, and in thigh it seamed, Beneath his mail, the king of Sericane.
From whom his blood till how had never streamed Since he that armour wore; new rage and pain Thereat the warrior felt, and strange it seemed Sword cut so now, nor yet was Durindane.
Had Roland struck more home, or nearer been, From head to belly he had cleft him clean.
