CLXXII.

Rollánd perceived an alien hand would rob Him of his sword; his eyes he oped; one word He spoke:--"I trow, not one of us art thou!" Then with his olifant from which he parts Never, he smites the golden studded helm, Crushing the steel, the head, the bones; both eyes Are from their sockets beaten out--o'erthrown Dead at the Baron's feet he falls:--"O wretch," He cries, "how durst thou, or for good or ill, Lay hands upon Rollánd? Who hears of this Will call thee fool. Mine olifant is cleft, Its gems and gold all scattered by the blow." Aoi.