Spur your
horses, for I would fain see him before he dies. And let every trumpet
in the army sound its loudest!' The Unbelievers heard the noise of the
trumpets, which echoed through the mountains and valleys, and they
whispered fearfully to each other, 'It is Charles who is coming, it is
Charles!' It was their last chance, and a band of their best warriors
rode straight at Roland. At that sight the strength rushed back into
his veins, and he waited for them proudly. 'I will fight beside you,'
he said to Turpin, 'and till I am dead I will never leave you. Let
them strike as hard as they will; Durendal knows how to strike back.'

'Shame be upon every man who does not fight his best,' answered the
Archbishop, 'for this is our last battle. Charles draws near, and will
avenge us.'

The Infidels said afterwards that an army could not have wrought the
ruin that was done that day by the Archbishop and Roland. Veillantif
received thirty wounds in his body and then fell dead under his
master. But Roland leaped off, and smote the Saracens, who turned and
fled before him. He was too weak to follow after them, and turned to
see if the Archbishop still breathed. Kneeling by his side he unlaced
Turpin's golden helmet, and bound up his gaping wounds. Then he
pressed him closely to his heart and laid him gently on the ground. 'O
friend, we must take farewell of each other, now all our comrades have
gone before us. But let us do all we can for their bodies, which
cannot be left lying here. I will myself go and seek their corpses,
and bring them here and place them in rows before you.'

'Go,' answered the Archbishop, 'but do not stay long. Thanks be to
God, the victory remains with you and me.'

Alone Roland searched the battle-field; he went up the sides of the
mountains, he descended into the plains, and everywhere he saw the
dead faces of his friends. One after another he brought them, and laid
them at the feet of Turpin, and at the sight of their faces the
Archbishop wept sore. Then he held up his hand to bless them for the
last time. 'Noble lords,' he said, 'you have fallen upon evil days.
May God receive your souls into His Paradise. As for me, among all the
pains I suffer, the worst is that never shall I see my Emperor again.'

Under a pine, close to a sweet-briar, the corpse of Oliver was lying,
and Roland raised him in his arms and bare him to the Archbishop,
where he laid him on a shield, near to the other peers. Then his