Chapter CCVII

When sought the Emperor his nephew there,
Amid the field, and found so many plants
With blossoms crimsoned by our Barons' blood,
By pity moved he can not choose but weep.
Mounting the hill, beneath two trees, he knew
The blow upon the three rocks Rolland struck,
And saw his nephew lying on the sward,
A mangled corse--No wonder Carle is wroth;
Alights in haste and lifting in his arms
The Count, broken by grief upon him faints.
Aoi.