As vus Rollant sur sun cheval pasmet
 E Olivier ki est a mort nafrez! 
 Tant ad sainiet li oil li sunt trublet
 Ne luinz ne pres ne poet veeir si cler
 Que reconuisset nisun hume mortel. 
 Sun cumpaignun cum il l’ad encuntret
 Sil fiert amunt sur l’elme a or gemmet
 Tut li detrenchet d’ici que al nasel
 Mais en la teste ne l’ad mie adeset. 
 A icel colp l’ad Rollanz reguardet
 Si li demandet dulcement et suef
 “Sire cumpainz, faites le vus de gred? 
 Ja est co Rollanz ki tant vus soelt amer. 
 Par nule guise ne m’aviez desfiet,”
 Dist Oliviers:  “Or vus oi jo parler
 Io ne vus vei.  Veied vus damnedeus! 
 Ferut vus ai.  Kar le me pardunez!”
 Rollanz respunt:  “Jo n’ai nient de mel. 
 Jol vus parduins ici e devant deu.” 
 A icel mot l’uns al altre ad clinet. 
 Par tel amur as les vus desevrez!

There Roland sits unconscious on his horse,
 And Oliver who wounded is to death,
 So much has bled, his eyes grow dark to him,
 Nor far nor near can see so clear
 As to recognize any mortal man. 
 His friend, when he has encountered him,
 He strikes upon the helmet of gemmed gold, splits it from the crown to the nose-piece,
 But to the head he has not reached at all. 
 At this blow Roland looks at him,
 Asks him gently and softly: 
 “Sir Friend, do you it in earnest? 
 You know ’t is Roland who has so loved you. 
 In no way have you sent to me defiance.” 
 Says Oliver:  “Indeed I hear you speak,
 I do not see you.  May God see and save you! 
 Strike you I did.  I pray you pardon me.” 
 Roland replies:  “I have no harm at all. 
 I pardon you here and before God!”
 At this word, one to the other bends himself. 
 With such affection, there they separate.

No one should try to render this into English—­or, indeed, into modern French—­verse, but any one who will take the trouble to catch the metre and will remember that each verse in the “leash” ends in the same sound,—­aimer, parler, cler, mortel, damnede, mel, deu, suef, nasel,—­however the terminal syllables may be spelled, can follow the feeling of the poetry as well as though it were Greek hexameter.  He will feel the simple force of the words and action, as he feels Homer.  It is the grand style,—­the eleventh century:—­

Ferut vus ai!  Kar le me pardunez!

Not a syllable is lost, and always the strongest syllable is chosen. 
Even the sentiment is monosyllabic and curt:—­

Ja est co Rollanz ki tant vus soelt amer!

Taillefer had, in such a libretto, the means of producing dramatic effects that the French comedy or the grand opera never approached, and such as made Bayreuth seem thin and feeble.  Duke William’s barons must have clung to his voice and action as though they were in the very melee, striking at the helmets of gemmed gold.  They had all been there, and were to be there again.  As the climax approached,