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