CCIX.

Again King Carle recovers from his swoon.... Four of his Barons, with their hands support His form. His downcast looks see stretched on earth His nephew's corpse. Discolored was the brow, Yet proud the look; the dimmed and sightless eyes Turned up.... In faith and love King Carle laments. "Sweet friend Rollánd, may God enshrine thy soul Among the Glorified, amidst the flowers Of Paradise! For thy mishap, Seigneur, Camest thou to Spain.... No future day shall dawn For me, on which I mourn thee not.... Now fall'n My strength and power! Who now will e'er support My royal fiefs? Thou wast for me 'neath Heav'n The one true friend! though other kindred mine, Was none so brave and wise."--He tore his hair In handfuls from his brow. So great the grief Of those one hundred thousand Franks, that none There was, of all, who wept not bitter tears. Aoi.