Behold Rollánd, there, fainting on his steed,

While Olivier stands wounded to the death.

So great the loss of blood, his troubled eyes

See naught afar or near, nor mortal man

Can recognize. Encount'ring there Rollánd,

Upon his golden-studded helm he struck

A dreadful blow, which to the nose-plate cleft,

And split the crest in twain, but left the head

Untouched. Rollánd at this, upon him looks,

And softly, sweetly asks:—"Sire compagnon!

Was that blow meant for me? I am Rollánd

By whom you are beloved so well; to me

Could you by any chance, defiance give?"

Said Olivier:—"I hear your speech, but see

You now no more. May God behold you, friend!

I struck the blow; beseech you, pardon me."

Rollánd responds:—"I am not wounded—here

And before God I pardon you." At this,

Each to the other bends in courtesy.

With such great tenderness and love they part.

Aoi.