ers. Seeing their master gallop off towards
Spain, the remainder of the Saracens, crying that Charlemagne's nephew
has triumphed, cease fighting and flee. Thus, fifty thousand men soon
vanish in the distance, leaving Roland temporary master of the
battle-field, which he knows the emperor will reach only after he has
breathed his last.

_The Death of Oliver._ Although the Saracens have fled, some Moors
remain to charge the Frenchmen, whom they wish to annihilate before
Charlemagne can arrive. Once more, therefore, Roland urges his
followers to do their best, cursing those who dream of yielding. Not
daring approach the small handful of doughty Frenchmen, the pagans
attack them from a distance with lance, arrow, and spear, tauntingly
crying Charlemagne will have no cause to pride himself upon having
appointed them to guard his rear! Mortally wounded by one of these
spears, Oliver, blindly cutting down the foes nearest him, bids Roland
hasten to his rescue, as it won't be long before they part. Seeing the
stream of blood which flows from his friend's wounds and catching a
glimpse of his livid face, Roland so keenly realizes Oliver's end is
near that he swoons in his saddle. The wounded man, no longer able to
see, meanwhile ranges wildly around the battle-field, striking madly
right and left. In doing so he runs against Roland, and, failing to
recognize him, deals him so powerful a blow that he almost kills him.
Gently inquiring why his friend thus attacks one he loves, Roland
hears Oliver gasp, "I hear you, friend, but do not see you. Forgive me
for having struck you,"--a more than ample apology,--ere he dies.

See Roland there on his charger swooned,
Olivier smitten with his death wound.
His eyes from bleeding are dimmed and dark,
Nor mortal, near or far, can mark;
And when his comrade beside him pressed,
Fiercely he smote on his golden crest;
Down to the nasal the helm he shred,
But passed no further, nor pierced his head.
Roland marvelled at such a blow,
And thus bespake him soft and low:
"Hast thou done it, my comrade, wittingly?
Roland who loves thee so dear, am I,
Thou hast no quarrel with me to seek."
Olivier answered, "I hear thee speak,
But I see thee not. God seeth thee.
Have I struck thee, brother? Forgive it me."
"I am not hurt, O Olivier;
And in sight of God, I forgive thee here."
Then each to other his head has laid,
And in love like this was their parting made.