The Count Rollánd feels through his limbs the grasp

Of death, and from his head ev'n to his heart

A mortal chill descends. Unto a pine

He hastens, and falls stretched upon the grass.

Beneath him lie his sword and olifant,

And toward the Heathen land he turns his head,

That Carle and all his knightly host may say:

"The gentle Count a conqueror has died...."

Then asking pardon for his sins, or great

Or small, he offers up his glove to God.

Aoi.