第17章

For we have lost our peers and all our lords.

Charles his great host once more upon us draws, Of Frankish men we plainly hear the horns, "Monjoie " they cry, and great is their uproar.

The count Rollant is of such pride and force He'll never yield to man of woman born;Let's aim at him, then leave him on the spot!"And aim they did: with arrows long and short, Lances and spears and feathered javelots;Count Rollant's shield they've broken through and bored, The woven mail have from his hauberk torn, But not himself, they've never touched his corse;Veillantif is in thirty places gored, Beneath the count he's fallen dead, that horse.

Pagans are fled, and leave him on the spot;The count Rollant stands on his feet once more.

AOI.

CLXI

Pagans are fled, enangered and enraged, Home into Spain with speed they make their way;The count Rollanz, he has not given chase, For Veillantif, his charger, they have slain;Will he or nill, on foot he must remain.

To the Archbishop, Turpins, he goes with aid;I He's from his head the golden helm unlaced, Taken from him his white hauberk away, And cut the gown in strips, was round his waist;On his great wounds the pieces of it placed, Then to his heart has caught him and embraced;On the green grass he has him softly laid, Most sweetly then to him has Rollant prayed:

"Ah! Gentle sir, give me your leave, I say;Our companions, whom we so dear appraised, Are now all dead; we cannot let them stay;I will go seek and bring them to this place, Arrange them here in ranks, before your face."Said the Archbishop: "Go, and return again.

This field is yours and mine now; God be praised!"CLXII

So Rollanz turns; through the field, all alone, Searching the vales and mountains, he is gone;He finds Gerin, Gerers his companion, Also he finds Berenger and Otton, There too he finds Anseis and Sanson, And finds Gerard the old, of Rossillon;By one and one he's taken those barons, To the Archbishop with each of them he comes, Before his knees arranges every one.

That Archbishop, he cannot help but sob, He lifts his hand, gives benediction;After he's said: "Unlucky, Lords, your lot!

But all your souls He'll lay, our Glorious God, In Paradise, His holy flowers upon!

For my own death such anguish now I've got;I shall not see him, our rich Emperor."

CLXIII

So Rollant turns, goes through the field in quest;His companion Olivier finds at length;

He has embraced him close against his breast, To the Archbishop returns as he can best;Upon a shield he's laid him, by the rest;And the Archbishop has them absolved and blest:

Whereon his grief and pity grow afresh.

Then says Rollanz: "Fair comrade Olivier, You were the son of the good count Reinier, Who held the march by th' Vale of Runier;To shatter spears, through buckled shields to bear, And from hauberks the mail to break and tear, Proof men to lead, and prudent counsel share, Gluttons in field to frighten and conquer, No land has known a better chevalier."CLXIV

The count Rollanz, when dead he saw his peers, And Oliver, he held so very dear, Grew tender, and began to shed a tear;Out of his face the colour disappeared;

No longer could he stand, for so much grief, Will he or nill, he swooned upon the field.

Said the Archbishop: "Unlucky lord, indeed!"CLXV

When the Archbishop beheld him swoon, Rollant, Never before such bitter grief he'd had;Stretching his hand, he took that olifant.

Through Rencesvals a little river ran;

He would go there, fetch water for Rollant.

Went step by step, to stumble soon began, So feeble he is, no further fare he can, For too much blood he's lost, and no strength has;Ere he has crossed an acre of the land, His heart grows faint, he falls down forwards and Death comes to him with very cruel pangs.

CLXVI

The count Rollanz wakes from his swoon once more, Climbs to his feet; his pains are very sore;Looks down the vale, looks to the hills above;On the green grass, beyond his companions, He sees him lie, that noble old baron;'Tis the Archbishop, whom in His name wrought God;There he proclaims his sins, and looks above;Joins his two hands, to Heaven holds them forth, And Paradise prays God to him to accord.

Dead is Turpin, the warrior of Charlon.

In battles great and very rare sermons Against pagans ever a champion.

God grant him now His Benediction!

AOI.

CLXVII

The count Rollant sees the Archbishop lie dead, Sees the bowels out of his body shed, And sees the brains that surge from his forehead;Between his two arm-pits, upon his breast, Crossways he folds those hands so white and fair.

Then mourns aloud, as was the custom there:

"Thee, gentle sir, chevalier nobly bred, To the Glorious Celestial I commend;Neer shall man be, that will Him serve so well;Since the Apostles was never such prophet, To hold the laws and draw the hearts of men.

Now may your soul no pain nor sorrow ken, Finding the gates of Paradise open!"CLXVIII

Then Rollanz feels that death to him draws near, For all his brain is issued from his ears;He prays to God that He will call the peers, Bids Gabriel, the angel, t' himself appear.

Takes the olifant, that no reproach shall hear, And Durendal in the other hand he wields;Further than might a cross-bow's arrow speed Goes towards Spain into a fallow-field;Climbs on a cliff; where, under two fair trees, Four terraces, of marble wrought, he sees.

There he falls down, and lies upon the green;He swoons again, for death is very near.

CLXIX

High are the peaks, the trees are very high.

Four terraces of polished marble shine;

On the green grass count Rollant swoons thereby.

A Sarrazin him all the time espies, Who feigning death among the others hides;Blood hath his face and all his body dyed;He gets afoot, running towards him hies;

Fair was he, strong and of a courage high;A mortal hate he's kindled in his pride.

He's seized Rollant, and the arms, were at his side, "Charles nephew," he's said, "here conquered lies.

To Araby I'll bear this sword as prize."

As he drew it, something the count descried.

CLXX