Again King Carle recovers from his swoon....

Four of his Barons, with their hands support

His form. His downcast looks see stretched on earth

His nephew's corpse. Discolored was the brow,

Yet proud the look; the dimmed and sightless eyes

Turned up.... In faith and love King Carle laments.

"Sweet friend Rollánd, may God enshrine thy soul

Among the Glorified, amidst the flowers

Of Paradise! For thy mishap, Seigneur,

Camest thou to Spain.... No future day shall dawn

For me, on which I mourn thee not.... Now fall'n

My strength and power! Who now will e'er support

My royal fiefs? Thou wast for me 'neath Heav'n

The one true friend! though other kindred mine,

Was none so brave and wise."—He tore his hair

In handfuls from his brow. So great the grief

Of those one hundred thousand Franks, that none

There was, of all, who wept not bitter tears.

Aoi.