"marvelous little companie" knew
that death that day would be his portion; but each was stanch and true,
and was resolved to sell his life "full hardily."

As the once haughty Roland gazed on his slaughtered men and on the
pitiful few who rallied around him in his last stand against the Moslem
power, his heart smote him grievously for the ruin he had wrought, and
he cried to his companion,--

"Would to God he had been with us--our emperor and friend! Speak,
Oliver, and lend thy counsel. How may we yet send tidings to Karl?" But
Oliver, in spite of his usual gentleness, was bitter against his
friend, and he said mockingly,--

"'Such deed were madness; lost in France would be thy glory!'"

But Roland's anguish and humility were great, and he insisted,--

"I will sound upon my horn that Karl may hear."

"Nay," cried Oliver. "Wouldst thou _call for aid_?"

The broken-hearted Roland protested, but Oliver continued bitterly,--

"See how our Franks lie slain of thy madness, nevermore to render
service to our emperor. Thou too shalt die, and forever shall France be
dishonored!"

Thus, in face of death, did these two quarrel--they who had been dearer
than all else to each other. The good archbishop heard their strife, and
rebuked them sadly, saying,--

"Sir Roland, and thou, Sir Oliver, I pray ye, in the name of God,
contend not. To wind the horn shall not avail to save us now. Yet were
it meet to sound it, too; for Karl will return to avenge our fall, and
bear our bodies back to gentle France to sleep in hallowed earth."

Then Roland sounded a mighty blast upon his horn,--so mighty that a
vein in his temple burst with the effort, and the bright blood flowed
from his lips. But the powerful strain, echoing and re-echoing along the
hollow pass of Roncesvalles, came faintly to the ear of Karl, and told
its tale of tragedy.

"It is Roland's horn," cried the white-haired emperor. "He had not blown
it save in dire distress." Then, though the traitor, Ganelon, did all in
his power to dissuade him, Charlemagne turned back along the mountain
path toward Spain.

And even in that hour, though weakened by loss of blood, and heart-sick
at the fate he had brought upon his comrades, Roland rushed to the fight
once more,--fleeter, fiercer, and more terrible.

"Oh, Oliver, brother," he cried in his anguish, "I die of shame and
grief if I escape unhurt!"

Deeper yet he pressed into the fight, and showered blows as only Roland
c