The Song of Roland · Chapter 160CLXI
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Pagans are fled, enangered and enraged, Home into Spain with speed they make their way; The count Rollanz, he has not given chase, For Veillantif, his charger, they have slain; Will he or nill, on foot he must remain. To the Archbishop, Turpins, he goes with aid; I He's from his head the golden helm unlaced, Taken from him his white hauberk away, And cut the gown in strips, was round his waist; On his great wounds the pieces of it placed, Then to his heart has caught him and embraced; On the green grass he has him softly laid, Most sweetly then to him has Rollant prayed: "Ah! Gentle sir, give me your leave, I say; Our companions, whom we so dear appraised, Are now all dead; we cannot let them stay; I will go seek and bring them to this place, Arrange them here in ranks, before your face." Said the Archbishop: "Go, and return again. This field is yours and mine now; God be praised!"