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 So Rollant felt his sword was taken forth, Opened his eyes, and this word to him spoke "Thou'rt never one of ours, full well I know." Took the olifant, that he would not let go, Struck him on th' helm, that jewelled was with gold, And broke its steel, his skull and all his bones, Out of his head both the two eyes he drove; Dead at his feet he has the pagan thrown: After he's said: "Culvert, thou wert too bold, Or right or wrong, of my sword seizing hold! They'll dub thee fool, to whom the tale is told. But my great one, my olifant I broke; Fallen from it the crystal and the gold." CLXXI