CLXII.

The Pagans say: "For such ill were we born! What fatal morn this day for us has ris'n! Dead lie our lords and Peers! With his great host King Carle returns, the mighty Baron--Hark! His clarions sound, and loud the cry 'Montjoie;' Rollánd has so great pride, no man of flesh Can make him yield, or vanquished fall. 'Twere best We pierced him from afar, and left him lying Upon the field!"----'Twas done: darts, lances, spears, Javelins, winged arrows flew so thick, That his good shield was pierced, his hauberk rent And torn apart--his body yet unharmed. Veillantif, pierced with thirty wounds, falls dead Beneath the Count.--The affrighted Pagans fly. The Count Rollánd stands on the field, alone. Aoi.

THE LAST BENEDICTION OF THE ARCHBISHOP.