and fell to the ground. The good archbishop felt such distress as he
had never known before. He staggered to his feet; he took the ivory
horn in his hands, and went to fetch water from the brook which flows
through the Vale of Thorns. Slowly and feebly he tottered onward, but
not far: his strength failed and he fell to the ground. Soon Roland
recovered from his swoon and looked about him. On the green grass this
side of the rivulet, he saw the archbishop lying. The good Turpin was
dead.

And now Roland felt that he, too, was nigh death's door. He took the
ivory horn in one hand, and Durandal in the other, and went up a little
hill that lies toward Spain. He sat down beneath a pine tree where
were four great blocks of marble. He looked at the blade Durandal.
"Ha, Durandal," he said, "how bright and white thou art! Thou shinest
and flamest against the sun! Many countries have I conquered with
thee, and now for thee I have great grief. Better would it be to
destroy thee than to have thee fall into the hands of the Pagan folk."

With great effort he raised himself on his feet again. Ten times he
smote with Durandal the great rock before him. But the sword was
bright and whole as ever, while the rock was split in pieces. Then the
hero lay down upon the grass, with his face toward the foe. He put the
sword and the horn under him. He stretched his right glove toward
heaven, and an unseen hand came and took it away. Dead was the
matchless hero.

Not long after this King Charlemagne with his host came to the
death-strewn Vale of Thorns. Great was the grief of the king and of
all the French, when they found that they had come too late to save
even a single life. Roland was found lying on the grass, his face