“Count Roland smites upon the marble stone;
I cannot tell you how he hewed it and smote;
Yet the blade breaks not nor splinters, though it groans;
Upward to heaven it rebounds from the blow.
When the count sees it never will be broke,
Then to himself right softly he makes moan;
‘Ah, Durendal, fair, hallowed, and devote,
What store of relics lies in thy hilt of gold!’”

-From The Song of Roland
(Translated by Dorothy Sayers, Viking Penguin, NY, NY, 1957)