he archbishop was mortally wounded, and
stretched upon the ground. Again the trumpets of Charlemagne's host
were heard, and the Pagans fled in great haste toward Spain.

Then Roland knelt by the side of the dying archbishop. "Kind friend,
so good and true," said he, "now the end has come. Our comrades whom
we held so dear are all dead. Give me leave to bring them and lay them
in order by thee, that we may all have thy blessing."

"It is well," answered the good Turpin. "Do as thou wilt. The field
is thine and mine."

So Roland, weak and faint, went all alone through that field of blood,
seeking his friends. He found Berenger and Otho and Anseis and Samson,
and proud Gerard of Roussillon; and one by one he brought them and laid
them on the grass before the archbishop. And lastly he brought back
Oliver, pressed gently against his bosom, and placed him on a shield by
the others. The archbishop wept; and he lifted up his feeble hands and
blessed them: "Sad has it been with you, comrades. May God, the
glorious King, receive your souls in His paradise!"

Then Roland, faint with loss of blood, and overcome with grief, swooned
and fell to the ground. The good archbishop felt such distress as he
had never known before. He staggered to his feet; he took the ivory
horn in his hands, and went to fetch water from the brook which flows
through the Vale of Thorns. Slowly and feebly he tottered onward, but
not far: his strength failed and he fell to the ground. Soon Roland
recovered from his swoon and looked about him. On the green grass this
side of the rivulet, he saw the archbishop lying. The good Turpin was
dead.

And now Roland felt that he, too, was nigh death's door. He took the
ivory horn in one hand, and Durandal in the other, and went up a little
hill that lies toward Spain. He sat down beneath a pine tree where
were four great blocks of marble. He looked at the blade Durandal.
"Ha, Durandal," he said, "how bright and white thou art! Thou shinest
and flamest against the sun! Many countries have I conquered with
thee, and now for thee I have great grief. Better would it be to
destroy thee than to have thee fall into the hands of the Pagan folk."

With great effort he raised himself on his feet again. Ten times he
smote with Durandal the great rock before him. But the sword was
bright and whole as ever, while the rock was split in pieces. Then the
hero lay down upon the grass, with his face toward