had lost so much of his blood that he could not any more see clearly or know who it was that was near him.  So he raised up his arm and smote with all his strength that yet remained to him on the helmet of Roland his friend.  The helmet he cleft in twain to the visor; but by good fortune it wounded not the head.  Roland looked at him and said in a gentle voice, “Did you this of set purpose?  I am Roland your friend, and have not harmed you.”  “Ah!” said Oliver, “I hear you speak, but I cannot see you.  Pardon me that I struck you; it was not done of set purpose.”  “It harmed me not,” answered Roland; “with all my heart and before God I forgive you.”  And this was the way these two friends parted at the last.

And now Oliver felt the pains of death come over him.  He could no longer see nor hear.  Therefore he turned his thoughts to making his peace with God, and clasping his hands lifted them to heaven and made his confession.  “O Lord,” he said, “take me into Paradise.  And do Thou bless King Charles and the sweet land of France.”  And when he had said thus he died.  And Roland looked at him as he lay.  There was not upon earth a more sorrowful man than he.  “Dear comrade,” he said, “this is indeed an evil day.  Many a year have we two been together.  Never have I done wrong to you; never have you done wrong to me.  How shall I bear to live without you?” And he swooned where he sat on his horse.  But the stirrup held him up that he did not fall to the ground.

When Roland came to himself he looked about him and saw how great was the calamity that had befallen his army.  For now there were left alive to him two only, Turpin the Archbishop and Walter of Hum.  Walter had but that moment come down from the hills where he had been fighting so fiercely with the heathen that all his men were dead; now he cried to Roland for help.  “Noble Count, where are you?  I am Walter of Hum, and am not unworthy to be your friend.  Help me therefore.  For see how my spear is broken and my shield cleft in twain, my hauberk is in pieces, and my body sorely wounded.  I am about to die; but I have sold my life at a great price.”  When Roland heard him cry he set spurs to his horse and galloped to him.  “Walter,” said he, “you are a brave warrior and a trustworthy.  Tell me now where are the thousand valiant men whom you took from my army.  They were right good soldiers, and I am in sore need of them.”

“They are dead,” answered Walter; “you will see them no more.  A sore battle we had with the Saracens yonder on the hills; they had the men of Canaan there and the men of Armenia and the Giants; there were no better men in their army than these.  We dealt with them so that they will not boast themselves of this day’s work.  But it cost us dear; all the men of France lie dead on the plain, and I am wounded to the death.  And now, Roland, blame me not that I fled; for you are my lord, and all my trust is in you.”