His right-hand glove, to God he offers it
Saint Gabriel from ’s hand hath taken it.2390
Over his arm his head bows down and slips,
He joins his hands: and so is life finish’d.
God sent him down His angel cherubin,
And Saint Michael, we worship in peril;
And by their side Saint Gabriel alit;2395
So the count’s soul they bare to Paradis.
CLXXVII
Rollant is dead; his soul to heav’n God bare.
That Emperour to Rencesvals doth fare.
There was no path nor passage anywhere
Nor of waste ground no ell nor foot to spare2400
Without a Frank or pagan lying there.
Charles cries aloud: “Where are you, nephew fair?
Where’s the Archbishop and that count Oliviers?
Where is Gerins and his comrade Gerers?
Otès the Duke, and the count Berengiers2405
And Ivorie, and Ive, so dear they were?
What is become of Gascon Engelier,
Sansun the Duke and Anséis the fierce?
Where’s old Gerard of Russillun; oh, where
The dozen peers I left behind me here?”2410
But what avail, since none can answer bear?
“God!” says the King, “Now well may I despair,
I was not here the first assault to share!”
Seeming enraged, his beard the King doth tear.
Weep from their eyes barons and chevaliers,2415
A thousand score, they swoon upon the earth;
Duke Neimes for them was moved with pity rare.
CLXXVIII
No chevalier nor baron is there, who
Pitifully weeps not for grief and dule;
They mourn their sons, their brothers, their nephews,2420
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