CLVI

The count Rollant has nobly fought and well,

But he is hot, and all his body sweats;

Great pain he has, and trouble in his head,

His temples burst when he the horn sounded;

But he would know if Charles will come to them,

Takes the olifant, and feebly sounds again.

That Emperour stood still and listened then:

"My lords," said he, "Right evilly we fare!

This day Rollant, my nephew shall be dead:

I hear his horn, with scarcely any breath.

Nimbly canter, whoever would be there!

Your trumpets sound, as many as ye bear!"

Sixty thousand so loud together blare,

The mountains ring, the valleys answer them.

The pagans hear, they think it not a jest;

Says each to each: "Carlum doth us bestead."