[CL.]
Rollánd looks Olivier full in the face; Pale, livid, colorless; pure crimson blood Drips from his body, and streams on the earth. "God!" cried Rollánd, "I know not what to do, Companion, friend, thy courage was betrayed To-day; nor will such courage e'er be seen In human heart. Sweet France, oh! how shalt thou, As widow, wail thy vassals true and brave, Humbled and wrecked! The great heart of King Carle Will break!" He spake and on his saddle swooned. Aoi.
[CLI.]
Behold Rollánd, there, fainting on his steed, While Olivier stands wounded to the death. So great the loss of blood, his troubled eyes See naught afar or near, nor mortal man Can recognize. Encount'ring there Rollánd, Upon his golden-studded helm he struck A dreadful blow, which to the nose-plate cleft, And split the crest in twain, but left the head Untouched. Rollánd at this, upon him looks, And softly, sweetly asks:—"Sire compagnon! Was that blow meant for me? I am Rollánd By whom you are beloved so well; to me Could you by any chance, defiance give?" Said Olivier:—"I hear your speech, but see You now no more. May God behold you, friend! I struck the blow; beseech you, pardon me." Rollánd responds:—"I am not wounded—here And before God I pardon you." At this, Each to the other bends in courtesy. With such great tenderness and love they part. Aoi.
[CLII.]
Olivier feels the agony of death; His vacant eyes roll wildly in his head, And all his hearing and his sight are lost. Dismounting, on the ground he lies, and smites His breast, aloud confessing all his sins; With joined hands tow'rd Heaven lifted up He prays to God to give him Paradise, To bless Carl'magne, sweet France, and far beyond All other men, Rollánd, his compagnon. His heart fails—forward droops his helmet—prone Upon the earth he lies—'tis over now.... The Count is dead. Rollánd, the Baron, mourns And weeps as never mortal mourned before. Aoi.
[CLIII.]
When sees the Count Rollánd the breath of life Gone from his friend, his body stretched on earth, His face low in the dust, his tears gush out With heavy sobs. Then tenderly he speaks: "Alas! for all thy valor, comrade dear! Year after year, day after day, a life Of love we led; ne'er didst thou wrong to me, Nor I to thee. If death takes thee away, My life is but a pain." While speaking thus, The Marchis faints on Veillantif, his steed. But still firm in his stirrups of pure gold: Where'er Rollánd may ride, he cannot fall. Aoi.
[CLIV.]
Scarce hath the Count recovered from his swoon, When all the great disaster meets his sight; The French lie on the field; all lost to him Save the Archbishop and Gualtier de l'Hum, Who had descended from the mountain height Where he the men of Spain all day withstood Till all his own fell 'neath the Pagan swords. Willed he or not, he fled into the vale, And now upon Rollánd he calls for aid; "Most gentle Count, most valiant, where art thou? Ne'er had I fear where'er thou wert!—'tis I, Gualtier, who conquered Maëlgut, who am Old gray-haired Droün's nephew; till this day My courage won thy love. So well I fought Against the Saracens, my spear was broke, My shield was pierced, my hauberk torn and wrung, And in my body eight steel darts I bear. Done are my days, but dear the last I sold!" The words of that brave knight Rollánd has heard, Spurs on his steed and gallops to his help. Aoi.