But not himself, they’ve never touched his corse;
Veillantif is in thirty places gored,2160
Beneath the count he’s fallen dead, that horse.
Pagans are fled, and leave him on the spot;
The count Rollant stands on his feet once more.
AOI.
CLXI
Pagans are fled, enangered and enraged,
Home into Spain with speed they make their way;2165
The count Rollanz, he has not given chase,
For Veillantif, his charger, they have slain;
Will he or nill, on foot he must remain.
To the Archbishop, Turpins, he goes with aid;
He’s from his head the golden helm unlaced,2170
Taken from him his white hauberk away,
And cut the gown in strips, was round his waist;
On his great wounds the pieces of it placed,
Then to his heart has caught him and embraced;
On the green grass he has him softly laid,2175
Most sweetly then to him has Rollant prayed:
“Ah! Gentle sir, give me your leave, I say;
Our companions, whom we so dear appraised,
Are now all dead; we cannot let them stay;
I will go seek and bring them to this place,2180
Arrange them here in ranks, before your face.”
Said the Archbishop: “Go, and return again.
This field is yours and mine now; God be praised!”
CLXII
So Rollanz turns; through the field, all alone,
Searching the vales and mountains, he is gone;2185
He finds Gerin, Gerers his companion,
Also he finds Berenger and Otton,
There too he finds Anséis and Sanson,
And finds Gerard the old, of Rossillon;
By one and one he’s taken those barons,2190
To the Archbishop with each of them he comes,
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