Rolland now feels his death is drawing nigh: From both his ears the brain is oozing fast. For all his peers he prays that God may call Their souls to Him; to the Angel Gabriel He recommends his spirit. In one hand He takes the olifant, that no reproach May rest upon him; in the other grasps Durendal, his good sword. Forward he goes, Far as an arblast sends a shaft, across A new-tilled ground and toward the land of Spain. Upon a hill, beneath two lofty trees, Four terraces of marble spread:--he falls Prone fainting on the green, for death draws near. Aoi. CLXXI. High are the mounts, and lofty are the trees. Four terraces are there, of marble bright: There Count Rolland lies senseless on the grass. Him at this moment spies a Saracen Who lies among the corpses, feigning death, His face and body all besmeared with blood. Sudden he rises to his feet, and bounds Upon the Baron.--Handsome, brave and strong He was, but from his pride sprang mortal rage. He seized the body of Rolland, and grasped His arms, exclaiming thus:--"Here vanquished Carle's Great nephew lies!"--"This sword to Araby I'll bear."--He drew it;--this aroused the Count. Aoi. CLXXII. Rolland perceived an alien hand would rob Him of his sword; his eyes he oped; one word He spoke:--"I trow, not one of us art thou!" Then with his olifant from which he parts Never, he smites the golden studded helm, Crushing the steel, the head, the bones; both eyes Are from their sockets beaten out--o'erthrown Dead at the Baron's feet he falls:--"O wretch," He cries, "how durst thou, or for good or ill, Lay hands upon Rolland? Who hears of this Will call thee fool. Mine olifant is cleft, Its gems and gold all scattered by the blow." Aoi. CLXXIII. Now feels Rolland that death is near at hand And struggles up with all his force; his face Grows livid;--[Durendal, his naked sword] He holds;--beside him rises a gray rock On which he strikes ten mighty blows through grief And rage--The steel but grinds; it breaks not, nor Is notched; then cries the Count:--"Saint Mary, help! O Durendal! Good sword! ill starred art thou! Though we two part, I care not less for thee. What victories together thou and I, Have gained, what kingdoms conquered, which now holds White-bearded Carle! No coward's hand shall grasp Thy hilt: a valiant knight has borne thee long, Such as none shall e'er bear in France the Free!" Aoi. CLXXIV.