“Rolland raised to his lips the olifant,
Drew a deep breath, and blew with all his force. 
High are the mountains, and from peak to peak
The sound reechoes; thirty leagues away
’Twas heard by Carle and all his brave compeers. 
Cried the king:  ‘Our men make battle!’ Ganelon
Retorts in haste:  ’If thus another dared
To speak, we should denounce it as a lie.’ 
Aoi”
Chanson de Roland (Rabillon’s tr.).

[Sidenote:  Steed Veillantif slain.] Wounded and faint, Roland now slowly dragged himself to the entrance of the pass of Cisaire,—­where the Basque peasants aver they have often seen his ghost, and heard the sound of his horn,—­and took leave of his faithful steed Veillantif, which he slew with his own hand, to prevent its falling into the hands of the enemy.

“’Ah, nevermore, and nevermore, shall we to battle ride! 
Ah, nevermore, and nevermore, shall we sweet comrades be! 
And Veillintif, had I the heart to die forgetting thee? 
To leave thy mighty heart to break, in slavery to the foe? 
I had not rested in the grave, if it had ended so. 
Ah, never shall we conquering ride, with banners bright unfurl’d,
A shining light ‘mong lesser lights, a wonder to the world.’”

          
                                                                        BUCHANAN, Death of Roland.

[Sidenote:  Sword Durandana destroyed.] Then the hero gazed upon his sword Durandana, which had served him faithfully for so many years, and to prevent its falling into the hands of the pagans, he tried to dispose of it also.  According to varying accounts, he either sank it deep into a poisoned stream, where it is still supposed to lie, or, striking it against the mighty rocks, cleft them in two, without even dinting its bright blade.

    “And Roland thought:  ’I surely die; but, ere I end,
    Let me be sure that thou art ended too, my friend! 
    For should a heathen hand grasp thee when I am clay,
    My ghost would grieve full sore until the judgment day!’
    Then to the marble steps, under the tall, bare trees,
    Trailing the mighty sword, he crawl’d on hands and knees,
    And on the slimy stone he struck the blade with might—­
    The bright hilt, sounding, shook, the blade flash’d sparks of light;
    Wildly again he struck, and his sick head went round,
    Again there sparkled fire, again rang hollow sound;
    Ten times he struck, and threw strange echoes down the glade,
    Yet still unbroken, sparkling fire, glitter’d the peerless blade.” 
                                               BUCHANAN, Death of Roland.

Finally, despairing of disposing of it in any other way, the hero, strong in death, broke Durandana in his powerful hands and threw the shards away.

Horse and sword were now disposed of, and the dying hero, summoning his last strength, again put his marvelous horn Olivant to his lips, and blew such a resounding blast that the sound was heard far and near.  The effort, however, was such that his temples burst, as he again sank fainting to the ground.