r his soul off to Paradise.

Roland feeleth his hour at hand;
On a knoll he lies towards the Spanish land.
With one hand beats he upon his breast:
"In thy sight, O God, be my sins confessed.
From my hour of birth, both the great and small,
Down to this day, I repent of all."
As his glove he raises to God on high,
Angels of heaven descend him nigh.

PART III. REPRISALS. Roland has barely breathed his last when
Charlemagne arrives on the battle-field and, gazing around him,
perceives nothing but corpses. Receiving no answer to his repeated
call for the twelve peers, Charlemagne groans it was not without cause
he felt anxious and mourns that he was not there to take part in the
fray. He and his men weep aloud for their fallen companions, and
twenty thousand soldiers swoon from grief at the sight of the havoc
which has been made!

Still, only a few moments can be devoted to sorrow, for Duke Naimes,
descrying a cloud of dust in the distance, eagerly suggests that if
they ride on they can yet overtake and punish the foe! Detailing a
small detachment to guard the dead, Charlemagne orders the pursuit of
the Saracens, and, seeing the sun about to set, prays so fervently
that daylight may last, that an angel promises he shall have light as
long as he needs it. Thanks to this miracle, Charlemagne overtakes
the Saracens just as they are about to cross the Ebro, and, after
killing many, drives the rest into the river, where they are drowned.

It is only when the last of the foe has been disposed of that the sun
sets, and, perceiving it is too late to return to Roncevaux that
night, Charlemagne gives orders to camp on the plain. While his weary
men sleep peacefully, the emperor himself spends the night mourning
for Roland and for the brave Frenchmen who died to defend his cause,
so it is only toward morning that he enjoys a brief nap, during which
visions foreshadow the punishment to be inflicted upon Ganelon and all
who uphold him.

In the mead the Emperor made his bed,
With his mighty spear beside his head,
Nor will he doff his arms to-night,
But lies in his broidered hauberk white.
Laced is his helm, with gold inlaid.
Girt on Joyeuse, the peerless blade,
Which changes thirty times a day
The brightness of its varying ray.

Meanwhile the wounded Marsile has returned to Saragossa, where, while
binding up his wounds, his wife comments it is strange no one has been
able to get the better of