and afoot, and the matchless Roland faced the Moslem hosts alone.

Fled was Count Roland's pride and vanity. With certain death before him,
his one thought was to summon Karl to vengeance, and to die like a
cavalier. The pain in his brow, from the bursting of the vein, was
growing more and more intense; not long, he knew, could his fainting
spirit bide. Once again he raised his ivory horn to his lips, and
sounded a call to the hosts of Charlemagne.

It was but a feeble strain, but on the north wind an answer came.
Suddenly, along the pass, rang a peal of sixty thousand clarions, and
the mountains caught up the strain and shouted it back again.

"King Karl! King Karl!" the echoes seemed to call to each other.

"Let us flee and save us!" cried the heathen. "These are the trumpets of
France! Karl, the mighty emperor, is upon us!"

Never was heathen but trembled at that name. Aghast for one moment the
hosts of the Moslem stood, then, like hunted things, they broke and fled
from the field.

As the infidels gave way in dire panic, Count Roland called to the
archbishop,--

"Let us give the heathen back their onset!" and he spurred his
Veillantif after their flying numbers.

"Who spares to strike is base," answered the valiant churchman; and
wounded though he was, he joined in the pursuit.

"Leave not this Roland alive!" cried one of the fleeing infidels; and he
turned and flung his javelin at the Christian knight. A hundred Moslems
at once followed his lead. Weapon after weapon was hurled upon the
dauntless Roland; but though his armor was all broken, and his raiment
frayed, his flesh remained unscathed. Veillantif, his noble charger,
however, was slain under him, and fell to the ground, pierced by thirty
wounds.

The heathen vanished; and Roland, unable to keep up on foot, was left
alone on the field. His first thought was to succor the good archbishop,
who had been grievously wounded in the fight, so he turned back and
searched till he found the faithful Turpin.

"The field is thine, and God's the glory," was Turpin's greeting to him;
and even as he spoke, his head drooped upon his breast, and his pious
spirit passed away. So died the great Archbishop Turpin,--a champion
ever of the Christian faith with word and weapon.

Noble and generous always, Roland had thought of his comrade first. Now,
left alone, his thoughts turned upon himself, and he knew from the pain
in his brow that his end was at hand. Karl and h