When the Emperour went seeking his nephew, He found the grass, and every flower that bloomed, Turned scarlat, with our barons' blood imbrued;Pity he felt, he could but weep for rue.
Beneath two trees he climbed the hill and looked, And Rollant's strokes on three terraces knew, On the green grass saw lying his nephew;`Tis nothing strange that Charles anger grew.
Dismounted then, and went -- his heart was full, In his two hands the count's body he took;With anguish keen he fell on him and swooned.
