But the king was not to be deceived.  He ordered Ganelon to be seized and bound and given in charge of his cooks, who were to hold him a close prisoner.  They bound him with a great chain, and laid him across the back of a sumter horse; they pulled his beard; they struck him with their fists; they beat him with sticks.  Sorry indeed was the traitor’s plight, but his punishment was just.  As for Charlemagne, he turned and with all his host hastened back to the succor of Roland and the valiant rear-guard.  High were the mountain walls, and darkly did they overhang the way; deep were the mountain gorges; swift and strong were the torrents; narrow and steep was the road.  The trumpets sounded:  anxiously and with haste the king and his horsemen retraced their steps.

Fiercely still the battle raged in the fated Vale of Thorns.  One by one the French knights fell; but for every one that was slain ten Pagans bit the dust.  At length Oliver was wounded unto death; but still he sat on his horse and struck valiantly about him with his good Haultclear.  His eyes lost their strength:  he could not see.  He met Roland, and struck him a blow which split his helmet down to the nose-piece, but luckily wounded him not.

“Brother,” said Roland softly and gently, “thou hast not done this willingly.  I am Roland, he who has loved thee so long and so well.”

“Ah, comrade!” said Oliver, “I hear thee; but I cannot see thee.  Pray forgive me if I have harmed thee.”

“I am none the worse,” answered Roland; “and there is naught to forgive.”

Then the two brothers bent over from their steeds, and embraced each other; and amid much love and many hasty words of farewell, they parted.

And now all the French were slain, save only Roland and the archbishop.  The hero was wounded in a dozen places:  he felt his life-blood oozing away.  Again he drew his ivory horn, and feebly sounded it.  He would fain know whether Charlemagne were coming.  The king was in the pass, not far away, and he heard the failing blast.

“Ah, Roland!” said he, “the battle goes ill with thee.”  Then he turned to his host, and said, “Blow loud your trumpets, that the hero may know that succor comes.”

At once sixty thousand bugles were blown so loudly that the valley and the caves resounded, and the rocks themselves trembled.  Roland heard it and thanked God.  The Pagans heard it and knew that it boded no good to them.  They rushed in a body upon Roland and the archbishop.  Roland’s horse was slain beneath him; his shield was split in twain; his hauberk was broken.  The 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.”