ere. This
battle had been fought and won. Marsil had been taken and slain. Thy
madness it is, Roland, that hath wrought our fate. Henceforward we
can serve Charlemagne never more. And now here endeth our loyal
friendship. Oh, bitter the parting this night shall see."

With terrible grief in his heart, stricken dumb with misery and pain,
Roland gazed upon his friend. But Archbishop Turpin had heard the
strife between the two, and setting spurs to his horse he rode swiftly
towards them. "Sir Roland, and you, Sir Oliver," he cried, "I pray you
strive not thus. See! we all must die, and thy horn, Roland, can avail
nothing now. Great Karl is too far and would return too late. Yet it
were well to sound it. For the Emperor when he hears it will come to
avenge our fall, and the heathen will not return joyously to their
homes. When the Franks come, they will alight from their horses, they
will find our bodies, and will bury them with mourning and with tears,
so we shall rest in hallowed graves, and the beasts of the field shall
not tear our bones asunder."

"It is well said," cried Roland.

Then to his lips he laid his horn, and taking a deep breath he blew
mightily upon it. With all the strength left in his weary body he
blew.

Full, and clear, and high the horn sounded. From mountain peak to
mountain peak the note was echoed, till to the camp of Charlemagne,
full thirty leagues away, it came.

Then as he heard it, sweet and faint, borne upon the summer wind, the
Emperor drew rein, and bent his ear to listen. "Our men give battle;
it is the horn of Roland," he cried.

"Nay," laughed Ganelon scornfully, "nay, Sire, had any man but thee
said it I had deemed he lied."

So slowly and sad at heart, with many a backward glance, the Emperor
rode on.

Again Roland put his horn to his mouth. He was weary now and faint.
Blood was upon his pale lips, the blue veins in his temples stood out
like cords. Very mournfully he blew upon his horn, but the sound of it
was carried far, very far, although it was so feeble and so low.

Again to the soft, sweet note Charlemagne bent his ear. Duke Naimes,
too, and all the Frankish knights, paused at the sound. "It is the
horn of Roland," cried the Emperor, "and very surely had there been no
battle, he had not sounded it."

"There is no battle," said Ganelon in fretful tones. "Thou art grown
old and fearful. Thou talkest as a frightened child. Well thou knowest
the pride of Roland, the str