Their feet, their fists, their shoulders and their sides,
Dismembers them: whoso had seen that sigh,1970
Dead in the field one on another piled,
Remember well a vassal brave he might.
Charlè’s ensign he’ll not forget it quite;
Aloud and clear “Monjoie” again he cries.
To call Rollanz, his friend and peer, he tries:1975
“My companion, come hither to my side.
With bitter grief we must us now divide.”
CXLVIII
Then Rollant looked upon Olivier’s face;
Which was all wan and colourless and pale,
While the clear blood, out of his body sprayed,1980
Upon the ground gushed forth and ran away.
“God!” said that count, “What shall I do or say?
My companion, gallant for such ill fate!
Ne’er shall man be, against thee could prevail.
Ah! France the Douce, henceforth art thou made waste1985
Of vassals brave, confounded and disgraced!
Our Emperour shall suffer damage great.”
And with these words upon his horse he faints.
CXLIX
You’d seen Rollant aswoon there in his seat,
And Oliver, who unto death doth bleed,1990
So much he’s bled, his eyes are dim and weak;
Nor clear enough his vision, far or near,
To recognise whatever man he sees;
His companion, when each the other meets,
Above the helm jewelled with gold he beats,1995
Slicing it down from there to the nose-piece,
But not his head; he’s touched not brow nor cheek.
At such a blow Rollant regards him keen,
And asks of him, in gentle tones and sweet:
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