The Pagans say: "For such ill were we born!

What fatal morn this day for us has ris'n!

Dead lie our lords and Peers! With his great host

King Carle returns, the mighty Baron—Hark!

His clarions sound, and loud the cry 'Montjoie;'

Rollánd has so great pride, no man of flesh

Can make him yield, or vanquished fall. 'Twere best

We pierced him from afar, and left him lying

Upon the field!"——'Twas done: darts, lances, spears,

Javelins, winged arrows flew so thick,

That his good shield was pierced, his hauberk rent

And torn apart—his body yet unharmed.

Veillantif, pierced with thirty wounds, falls dead

Beneath the Count.—The affrighted Pagans fly.

The Count Rollánd stands on the field, alone.

Aoi.