CLXXIII.

Now feels Rollánd that death is near at hand And struggles up with all his force; his face Grows livid;--[Durendal, his naked sword] He holds;--beside him rises a gray rock On which he strikes ten mighty blows through grief And rage--The steel but grinds; it breaks not, nor Is notched; then cries the Count:--"Saint Mary, help! O Durendal! Good sword! ill starred art thou! Though we two part, I care not less for thee. What victories together thou and I, Have gained, what kingdoms conquered, which now holds White-bearded Carle! No coward's hand shall grasp Thy hilt: a valiant knight has borne thee long, Such as none shall e'er bear in France the Free!" Aoi.