Behold Rolland, 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 Rolland, 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. Rolland at this, upon him looks, And softly, sweetly asks:--"Sire _compagnon_! Was that blow meant for me? I am Rolland 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." Rolland 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, Rolland, his _compagnon_. His heart fails--forward droops his helmet--prone Upon the earth he lies--'tis over now.... The Count is dead. Rolland, the Baron, mourns And weeps as never mortal mourned before. Aoi. CLIII. When sees the Count Rolland 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 Rolland may ride, he cannot fall. Aoi. CLIV.