Scarce hath the Count recovered from his swoon,

When all the great disaster meets his sight;

The French lie on the field; all lost to him

Save the Archbishop and Gualtier de l'Hum,

Who had descended from the mountain height

Where he the men of Spain all day withstood

Till all his own fell 'neath the Pagan swords.

Willed he or not, he fled into the vale,

And now upon Rollánd he calls for aid;

"Most gentle Count, most valiant, where art thou?

Ne'er had I fear where'er thou wert!—'tis I,

Gualtier, who conquered Maëlgut, who am

Old gray-haired Droün's nephew; till this day

My courage won thy love. So well I fought

Against the Saracens, my spear was broke,

My shield was pierced, my hauberk torn and wrung,

And in my body eight steel darts I bear.

Done are my days, but dear the last I sold!"

The words of that brave knight Rollánd has heard,

Spurs on his steed and gallops to his help.

Aoi.