heart
broke with a cry, and he fell fainting beside Oliver. At the sight of
Roland's grief the Archbishop's own sorrow grew double, and he
stretched out his hand for the horn which lay near him. A stream ran
down the valley of Roncevalles, and he dragged himself towards it, to
fetch water to revive Roland. But he was too weak from the blood he
had lost to reach the river, and he fell where he stood. 'Pardon for
my sins,' he said, and died, the servant of God and of Charles. The
cry was heard by Roland, who was slowly coming back to life, and he
rose to his feet and went to the dead Archbishop and crossed his hands
upon his breast. 'Ah, noble Knight,' he said, 'in God's hands I leave
you, for never since the Apostles has He had a more faithful servant.
May your soul henceforth be free from sorrow, and may the Gates of
Paradise stand wide for you to enter in!'

As he spoke, Roland knew that his own death was not far off. He made
his peace with God, and took his horn in one hand and Durendal in the
other. Then he mounted a small hill where stood two pine trees, but
fell almost unconscious as soon as he reached the top. But a Saracen
who had watched him, and had feigned to be dead, sprang up and seeing
him cried, 'Conquered! he is conquered, the nephew of Charles! and his
famous sword will be carried into Arabia'; so he grasped Durendal
tightly in his fist, and pulled Roland's beard in derision. If the
Saracen had been wise he would have left Roland's beard alone, for at
his touch the Count was brought back to consciousness. He felt his
sword being taken from him, and with his horn, which was always beside
him, he struck the Saracen such a blow on his helmet that he dropped
Durendal, and sank dead to the earth. 'Coward,' said Roland, 'who has
told you that you might dare to set hands on Roland, living or dead?
You were not worthy a blow from my horn.' Still death was pressing
closer and closer, and Roland knew it. He rose panting for breath, his
face as white as if he was already in the grave, and took Durendal out
of its scabbard. Ten times he struck it hard on a brown rock before
him, but the steel never gave way. 'O my faithful Durendal, do you
know that the hour of our parting has come?' he cried. 'You have
gained many battles for me, and won Charles many kingdoms. You shall
never serve another master after I am dead.' Again he smote the rock
with all his force, but the steel of Durendal glanced aside. When
Roland saw