When sees the Count Rollánd the breath of life

Gone from his friend, his body stretched on earth,

His face low in the dust, his tears gush out

With heavy sobs. Then tenderly he speaks:

"Alas! for all thy valor, comrade dear!

Year after year, day after day, a life

Of love we led; ne'er didst thou wrong to me,

Nor I to thee. If death takes thee away,

My life is but a pain." While speaking thus,

The Marchis faints on Veillantif, his steed.

But still firm in his stirrups of pure gold:

Where'er Rollánd may ride, he cannot fall.

Aoi.