CLXVII.

The Archbishop, when he saw Count Rollánd swoon, Felt keener grief than e'er he felt before; Stretched forth his hand, and took the olifant.-- Ronceval there is a running stream; Thence will he water bring to Count Rollánd. Staggering, with feeble steps, thither he goes, But loss of blood has made him all too weak: Ere he has gone an acre's length, his heart Fails, and he sinks in mortal agony. Aoi.