harles Returns

With all speed the whole army retraced their steps, turning their
faces to Spain, and saying: "Ah, if we could find Roland alive what
blows we would strike for him!" Alas! it was too late! Too late!

How lofty are the peaks, how vast and shadowy the mountains! How dim
and gloomy the passes, how deep the valleys! How swift the rushing
torrents! Yet with headlong speed the Frankish army hastens back, with
trumpets sounding in token of approaching help, all praying God to
preserve Roland till they come. Alas! they cannot reach him in time!
Too late. Too late!

Roland Weeps for his Comrades

Now Roland cast his gaze around on hill and valley, and saw his noble
vassals and comrades lie dead. As a noble knight he wept for them,
saying:

"'Fair Knights, may God have mercy on your souls!
May He receive you into Paradise
And grant you rest on banks of heavenly flowers!
Ne'er have I known such mighty men as you.
Fair France, that art the best of all dear lands,
How art thou widowed of thy noble sons!
Through me alone, dear comrades, have you died,
And yet through me no help nor safety comes.
God have you in His keeping! Brother, come,
Let us attack the heathen and win death,
Or grief will slay me! Death is duty now.'"

He Fights Desperately

So saying, he rushed into the battle, slew the only son of King
Marsile, and drove the heathen before him as the hounds drive the
deer. Turpin saw and applauded. "So should a good knight do, wearing
good armour and riding a good steed. He must deal good strong strokes
in battle, or he is not worth a groat. Let a coward be a monk in some
cloister and pray for the sins of us fighters."

Marsile in wrath attacked the slayer of his son, but in vain; Roland
struck off his right hand, and Marsile fled back mortally wounded to
Saragossa, while his main host, seized with panic, left the field to
Roland. However, the caliph, Marsile's uncle, rallied the ranks, and,
with fifty thousand Saracens, once more came against the little troop
of Champions of the Cross, the three poor survivors of the rearguard.

Roland cried aloud: "Now shall we be martyrs for our faith. Fight
boldly, lords, for life or death! Sell yourselves dearly! Let not fair
France be dishonoured in her sons. When the Emperor sees us dead with
our slain foes around us he will bless our valour."

Oliver Falls

The pagans were emboldened by the sight of the t