The keen Saracen blade sliced through the archbishop's shield down to his arm, but Turpin's aim was truer. Corsablis's turbaned head rolled in the dust as the prelate swung his mighty weapon. The Berber's steed raced on, bearing a headless rider who soon toppled from his mount. Turpin, galloping on to where the press was thickest, turned in his saddle and addressed the head where it lay: 'Scoundrel pagan, you've met your end! So be it always with the enemies of Christ!

Author: Mario Andrew Pei