By this time the French are facing a second onslaught of the pagans, and Roland has felled twenty-four of their bravest fighters before Marsile challenges him to a duel.  Although weak and weary, Roland accepts, and with his first stroke hews off the Saracen’s right hand; but, before he can follow this up with a more decisive blow, Marsile is borne away by his followers.  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.

On seeing that his friend has passed away, the heart-broken Roland again swoons in his saddle, but his intelligent steed stands still until his master recovers his senses.  Gazing around him, Roland now ascertains that only two other Frenchmen are still alive, and, seeing one of them severely wounded, he binds up his cuts before plunging back into the fray, where he accounts for twenty-five pagans, while the archbishop and the wounded soldier dispose of eleven more.