CCXI.

"Sweet friend Rollánd, brave Knight and beauteous youth, When I return to Aix, in my Chapelle, And men shall come to hear me speak of thee, What strange and cruel news I then shall have To greet them with! 'My nephew who for me Such conquests made ... is dead.' And Saxons now Will rise against my power, and Hungres, and Bugres With other foes--the men of Rome, of Pouille, And all those of Palerne; and those who hold Affrike and Califerne. Day after day My pain will grow--Who then shall lead my host With such an arm of might, since he is dead, Who was our chief and head so long. Alas! Sweet France, bereft art thou! So great my grief I would not live!"--he plucks out his white beard And tears his hair with both hands from his head. Swoon on the earth one hundred thousand Franks-- Aoi.