When sought the Emperor his nephew there,

Amid the field, and found so many plants

With blossoms crimsoned by our Barons' blood,

By pity moved he can not choose but weep.

Mounting the hill, beneath two trees, he knew

The blow upon the three rocks Rollánd struck,

And saw his nephew lying on the sward,

A mangled corse—No wonder Carle is wroth;

Alights in haste and lifting in his arms

The Count, broken by grief upon him faints.

Aoi.