[CLXIII.]
Raging in wrath the Pagans fly, and toward The land of Spain they haste. The Count Rollánd Pursues them not, for Veillantif lies dead. On foot he stands whether he will or not. To help Turpin, the Archbishop, fast he ran, His helm unclasped, removed the hauberk white And light, then ripped the sides of his blialt To find his gaping wounds; then tenderly Pressing him in his arms, on the green sward He laid him gently down, and fondly prayed: "O noble man, grant me your leave in this; Our brave compeers, so dear to us, have breathed Their last—we should not leave them on the field; I will their bodies seek and gather here, To lay them out before you."—"Go, and soon Return," the Archbishop said; "the field is yours And also mine, thanks to Almighty God!" Aoi.
[CLXIV.]
Alone the Count Rollánd retraced his steps Throughout the field. Vales, mounts, he searched, and found Gerin and his companion Gerier, then Berengier and Otun; here Anseïs, There Sansun, then beyond, Gerard the old De Roussillon he found—one after one He bore each knight within his arms, and placed Them gently, side by side, before the knees Of Turpin who cannot restrain his tears; With lifted hands he blesses them and says: "Most hapless Knights!—May God the Glorious Receive your souls, and in his Paradise 'Mid holy flowers place them!—In this hour Of death, my deepest grief is that no more The mighty Emperor I shall behold!" Aoi.
[CLXV.]
Rollánd turns back, and searching through the field, Has found, alas! his comrade Olivier.... He pressed him 'gainst his bosom tenderly, And, as he could, returning to Turpin, Stretched on a shield he lays him down among The other knights. The Archbishop then assoils And signs him with the holy cross. The grief And pity were more sore than heart can bear.... Then said Rollánd:—"Fair comrade Olivier, Son of the good Count Renier, he who held The marches to the distant shores of Gennes; To break a lance, to pierce a shield, the brave To counsel, traitors to dismay and foil, No land e'er saw a better chevalier." Aoi.
[CLXVI.]
When Count Rollánd beheld his Peers lie dead, And Olivier, that friend so tenderly Beloved, his soul by pity was o'erflowed; Tears from his eyes gush out, his countenance Turns pale; distressed, he can no longer stand. Would he or not, he swooned and fell to earth. The Archbishop said: "Baron, what woe is yours!" Aoi.
[CLXVII.]
The Archbishop, when he saw Count Rollánd swoon, Felt keener grief than e'er he felt before; Stretched forth his hand, and took the olifant.— Ronceval there is a running stream; Thence will he water bring to Count Rollánd. Staggering, with feeble steps, thither he goes, But loss of blood has made him all too weak: Ere he has gone an acre's length, his heart Fails, and he sinks in mortal agony. Aoi.