to the end;
     My lance is shivered, my shield is cleft,
     Of my broken mail are but fragments left. 
     I bear in my body eight thrusts of spear;
     I die, but I sold my life right dear.” 
     Count Roland heard as he spake the word,
     Pricked his steed, and anear him spurred.

     CLXXIII

     “Walter,” said Roland, “thou hadst affray
     With the Saracen foe on the heights to-day. 
     Thou wert wont a valorous knight to be: 
     A thousand horsemen gave I thee;
     Render them back, for my need is sore.” 
     “Alas, thou seest them never more! 
     Stretched they lie on the dolorous ground,
     Where myriad Saracen swarms we found,—­
     Armenians, Turks, and the giant brood
     Of Balisa, famous for hardihood,
     Bestriding their Arab coursers fleet,
     Such host in battle ’twas ours to meet;
     Nor vaunting thence shall the heathen go,—­
     Full sixty thousand on earth lie low. 
     With our brands of steel we avenged us well,
     But every Frank by the foeman fell. 
     My hauberk plates are riven wide,
     And I bear such wounds in flank and side,
     That from every part the bright blood flows,
     And feebler ever my body grows. 
     I am dying fast, I am well aware: 
     Thy liegeman I, and claim thy care. 
     If I fled perforce, thou wilt forgive,
     And yield me succor while thou dost live.” 
     Roland sweated with wrath and pain,
     Tore the skirts of his vest in twain,
     Bound Walter’s every bleeding vein.

     CLXXIV

     In Roland’s sorrow his wrath arose,
     Hotly he struck at the heathen foes,
     Nor left he one of a score alive;
     Walter slew six, the archbishop five. 
     The heathens cry, “What a felon three! 
     Look to it, lords, that they shall not flee. 
     Dastard is he who confronts them not;
     Craven, who lets them depart this spot.” 
     Their cries and shoutings begin once more,
     And from every side on the Franks they pour.

     CLXXV

     Count Roland in sooth is a noble peer;
     Count Walter, a valorous cavalier;
     The archbishop, in battle proved and tried,
     Each struck as if knight there were none beside. 
     From their steeds a thousand Saracens leap,
     Yet forty thousand their saddles keep;
     I trow they dare not approach them near,
     But they hurl against them lance and spear,
     Pike and javelin, shaft and dart. 
     Walter is slain as the missiles part;
     The archbishop’s shield in pieces shred,
     Riven his helm, and pierced his head;
     His corselet of steel they rent and tore,
     Wounded his body with lances four;
     His steed beneath him dropped withal: 
     What woe to see the archbishop fall!

     CLXXVI