Raging in wrath the Pagans fly, and toward

The land of Spain they haste. The Count Rollánd

Pursues them not, for Veillantif lies dead.

On foot he stands whether he will or not.

To help Turpin, the Archbishop, fast he ran,

His helm unclasped, removed the hauberk white

And light, then ripped the sides of his blialt

To find his gaping wounds; then tenderly

Pressing him in his arms, on the green sward

He laid him gently down, and fondly prayed:

"O noble man, grant me your leave in this;

Our brave compeers, so dear to us, have breathed

Their last—we should not leave them on the field;

I will their bodies seek and gather here,

To lay them out before you."—"Go, and soon

Return," the Archbishop said; "the field is yours

And also mine, thanks to Almighty God!"

Aoi.