ould, driving the foe before him. But, alas! the heathen hosts were
thick as the sands of their native deserts, and thousands upon thousands
came to reinforce their wavering ranks. Then Roland cried,--

"Our hour of fate is come!" and even as he spoke, a villainous heathen
bore down upon Sir Oliver and thrust him through with his lance.

"Sir Roland, Sir Comrade," the dying Oliver cried--for his anger against
his friend had burned out--"ride near me still; our parting is at hand."

"O God, my gentle Oliver!" cried the anguished Roland, "is this the end
of all thy valor? Ah, hapless France, bereft of thy bravest! Who shall
measure thy loss!" His grief was greater than he could bear, and he
swooned upon his charger's neck.

Now Sir Oliver's eyes were dimmed with bleeding, so that he knew not
friend from foe; and soon, in the surge of battle, he mistook his
swooning comrade for a Moslem, and dealt a fierce blow on Roland's
golden crest. The stroke did naught but rouse his unconscious friend,
for the arm of the dying Oliver had lost its wonted power.

"My comrade," said Roland, softly, "didst thou strike me knowingly? I am
Roland, who loves thee so dearly."

And Oliver answered,--

"Have I struck thee, brother? Forgive it me. I hear thee, but I see thee
not." Then Roland pressed closer to him, saying,--

"I am not hurt, my Oliver."

Then Oliver alighted from his horse, and couching upon the red earth,
cried aloud his _Mea Culpa_. Then passed his gentle spirit to Paradise;
and Roland cried in his anguish,--

"Since thou art dead, to live is pain!"

But life and pain were Roland's for yet a little space, and he had need
to bear him to the end a cavalier. Rousing himself from his grief, he
beheld about him a mere handful of the sixty he had counted last, each
fighting "as if knight there were none beside"; so, grasping Durindana,
he pressed into the strife. The next instant he beheld the good
archbishop flung to the ground from a dying charger. But Turpin was on
his feet almost instantly; and though he bore four lance-wounds in his
body, he raised his sword on high and ran to the side of Roland,
crying,--

"I am not defeated! A brave soldier yields with life alone!" Then
wreaked he such vengeance upon the heathen hordes that some say God
wrought a miracle in his behalf.

If miracle of God there was, it was not granted to save the Christian
few from destruction. In the last struggle, the valiant Turpin, wounded