Stretching his hand, he took that olifant.
Through Rencesvals a little river ran;2225
He would go there, fetch water for Rollant.
Went step by step, to stumble soon began,
So feeble he is, no further fare he can,
For too much blood he’s lost, and no strength has;
Ere he has crossed an acre of the land,2230
His heart grows faint, he falls down forwards and
Death comes to him with very cruel pangs.
CLXVI
The count Rollanz wakes from his swoon once more,
Climbs to his feet; his pains are very sore;
Looks down the vale, looks to the hills above;2235
On the green grass, beyond his companions,
He sees him lie, that noble old baron;
’Tis the Archbishop, whom in His name wrought God;
There he proclaims his sins, and looks above;
Joins his two hands, to Heaven holds them forth,2240
And Paradise prays God to him to accord.
Dead is Turpin, the warrior of Charlon.
In battles great and very rare sermons
Against pagans ever a champion.
God grant him now His Benediction!
AOI.
CLXVII
The count Rollant sees the Archbishop lie dead,
Sees the bowels out of his body shed,
And sees the brains that surge from his forehead;
Between his two arm-pits, upon his breast,
Crossways he folds those hands so white and fair.2250
Then mourns aloud, as was the custom there:
“Thee, gentle sir, chevalier nobly bred,
To the Glorious Celestial I commend;
Ne’er shall man be, that will Him serve so well;
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