Turpin of Reims hath felt himself undone, Since that four spears have through his body come; Nimble and bold upon his feet he jumps; Looks for Rollant, and then towards him runs, Saying this word: "I am not overcome. While life remains, no good vassal gives up." He's drawn Almace, whose steel was brown and rough, Through the great press a thousand blows he's struck: As Charles said, quarter he gave to none; He found him there, four hundred else among, Wounded the most, speared through the middle some, Also there were from whom the heads he'd cut: So tells the tale, he that was there says thus, The brave Saint Giles, whom God made marvellous, Who charters wrote for th' Minster at Loum; Nothing he's heard that does not know this much. CLVI The count Rollanz has nobly fought and well, But he is hot, and all his body sweats; Great pain he has, and trouble in his head, His temples burst when he the horn sounded; But he would know if Charles will come to them, Takes the olifant, and feebly sounds again. That Emperour stood still and listened then: "My lords," said he, "Right evilly we fare! This day Rollanz, my nephew shall be dead: I hear his horn, with scarcely any breath. Nimbly canter, whoever would be there! Your trumpets sound, as many as ye bear!" Sixty thousand so loud together blare, The mountains ring, the valleys answer them. The pagans hear, they think it not a jest; Says each to each: "Carlum doth us bestead." AOI. CLVII The pagans say: "That Emperour's at hand, We hear their sound, the trumpets of the Franks; If Charles come, great loss we then shall stand, And wars renewed, unless we slay Rollant; All Spain we'll lose, our own clear father-land." Four hundred men of them in helmets stand; The best of them that might be in their ranks Make on Rollanz a grim and fierce attack; Gainst these the count had well enough in hand. AOI. CLVIII The count Rollanz, when their approach he sees Is grown so bold and manifest and fierce So long as he's alive he will not yield. He sits his horse, which men call Veillantif, Pricking him well with golden spurs beneath, Through the great press he goes, their line to meet, And by his side is the Archbishop Turpin. "Now, friend, begone!" say pagans, each to each; "These Frankish men, their horns we plainly hear Charle is at hand, that King in Majesty." CLIX