CLXIII.

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.