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