"Sweet friend Rollánd, brave Knight and beauteous youth,

When I return to Aix, in my Chapelle,

And men shall come to hear me speak of thee,

What strange and cruel news I then shall have

To greet them with! 'My nephew who for me

Such conquests made ... is dead.' And Saxons now

Will rise against my power, and Hungres, and Bugres

With other foes—the men of Rome, of Pouille,

And all those of Palerne; and those who hold

Affrike and Califerne. Day after day

My pain will grow—Who then shall lead my host

With such an arm of might, since he is dead,

Who was our chief and head so long. Alas!

Sweet France, bereft art thou! So great my grief

I would not live!"—he plucks out his white beard

And tears his hair with both hands from his head.

Swoon on the earth one hundred thousand Franks—

Aoi.