Chapter CLXXIII

Now feels Rolland that death is near at hand
And struggles up with all his force; his face
Grows livid;--[Durendal, his naked sword]
He holds;--beside him rises a gray rock
On which he strikes ten mighty blows through grief
And rage--The steel but grinds; it breaks not, nor
Is notched; then cries the Count:--"Saint Mary, help!
O Durendal! Good sword! ill starred art thou!
Though we two part, I care not less for thee.
What victories together thou and I,
Have gained, what kingdoms conquered, which now holds
White-bearded Carle! No coward's hand shall grasp
Thy hilt: a valiant knight has borne thee long,
Such as none shall e'er bear in France the Free!"
Aoi.