lon fare
among them. They pulled out his hair and his beard and smote him with
their staves; then they put a great chain, such as that with which a
bear is bound, about his neck, and made him fast to a pack-horse.

This done, the King and his army hastened with all speed to the help of
Roland. In the van and the rear sounded the trumpets as though they
would answer Roland's horn. Full of wrath was King Charles as he rode;
full of wrath were all the men of France. There was not one among them
but wept and sobbed; there was not one but prayed, "Now, may God keep
Roland alive till we come to the battle-field, so that we may strike a
blow for him." Alas! it was all in vain; they could not come in time for
all their speed.

Count Roland looked round on the mountain-sides and on the plains. Alas!
how many noble sons of France he saw lying dead upon them! "Dear
friends," he said, weeping as he spoke, "may God have mercy on you and
receive you into His Paradise! More loyal followers have I never seen.
How is the fair land of France widowed of her bravest, and I can give
you no help. Oliver, dear comrade, we must not part. If the enemy slay
me not here, surely I shall be slain by sorrow. Come then, let us smite
these heathen."

Thus did Roland again charge the enemy, his good sword Durendal in his
hand; as the stag flies before the hounds, so did the heathen fly before
Roland. "By my faith," cried the Archbishop when he saw him, "that is a
right good knight! Such courage, and such a steed, and such arms I love
well to see. If a man be not brave and a stout fighter, he had better by
far be a monk in some cloister where he may pray all day long for our
sins."

Now the heathen, when they saw how few the Frenchmen were, took fresh
courage. And the Caliph, spurring his horse, rode against Oliver and
smote him in the middle of his back, making his spear pass right through
him. "That is a shrewd blow," he cried; "I have avenged my friends and
countrymen upon you."

Then Oliver knew he was stricken to death, but he would not fall
unavenged. With his great sword Hautclere he smote the Caliph on his
head and cleft it to the teeth. "Curse on you, pagan. Neither your wife
nor any woman in the land of your birth shall boast that you have taken
a penny's worth from King Charles!" But to Roland he cried, "Come,
comrade, help me; well I know that we two shall part in great sorrow
this day."

Roland came with all speed, and saw his frien