yet, and
the taunt of the Caliph stung his blood. With all the strength he had
left, he swung his sword Hauteclair on high, and it came down upon the
Caliph's helmet with a crash, cleaving it clean through. 'Ah, pagan,'
said he, 'you will never boast now of the prizes you have taken in
battle.' Then 'Roland! Roland!' he cried, and Roland came. When he saw
Oliver before him, livid and bleeding, he swayed on his horse as if he
should faint. Oliver's sight was weak and troubled from loss of blood,
and not hearing Roland's voice he mistook him for an enemy, and struck
him a hard blow on his helmet. This blow restored Roland to his
senses, and he sat upright. 'My friend,' said he, 'why have you done
this? I am Roland, who loves you well, and never did I think you could
lift your hand against me.'

'I hear you,' answered Oliver, 'I hear you speak, but I cannot see
you. If I have struck you, forgive me, for I knew it not.'

'I forgive you from my heart,' said Roland, and they embraced each
other for the last time.

The agony of death was falling upon Oliver; his sight had failed, his
hearing was fast failing too. Slowly he dismounted from his horse and
laid himself painfully on the ground, making, in a loud voice, the
confession of his sins. Then he prayed God to bless Charlemagne, fair
France, and Roland his friend, and after that his soul left him. And
Roland returned and found him dead, and wept for him bitterly. At last
he stood up and looked around. Of all the twenty thousand men, not
one was left except himself, and Turpin and Gautier. And these three
placed themselves shoulder to shoulder, and sent many an Infidel to
join his dead brothers. But the wounds they received in their bodies
were without number, and at length the Archbishop tottered and fell.
But they had not slain him yet: with a mighty struggle he rose to his
feet and looked round for Roland. 'I am not conquered yet,' he said;
'a brave man dies but never surrenders.' Then with his good sword he
rushed into the _melee_ dealing death around him. Roland fought as
keenly as his friend, but the moments seemed long till Charles brought
them help. Again he sounded his horn, though the wound in his head
burst out afresh with his effort. And the Emperor heard it, and
stopped for an instant on his march. 'My lords,' he said, 'things are
going badly with us; we shall lose my nephew Roland to-day, for I know
by the way he blows his horn that he has not long to live.