THE DEATH OF ROLAND
Now Roland felt that death was near at hand. In one hand he took his
horn, and in the other his good sword Durendal, and made his way the
distance of a furlong or so till he came to a plain, and in the midst
of the plain a little hill. On the top of the hill in the shade of
two fair trees were four marble steps. There Roland fell in a swoon
upon the grass. There a certain Saracen spied him. The fellow had
feigned death, and had laid himself down among the slain, having
covered his body and his face with blood. When he saw Roland, he
raised himself from where he was lying among the slain and ran to the
place, and, being full of pride and fury, seized the Count in his
arms, crying aloud, "He is conquered, he is conquered, the famous
nephew of King Charles! See, here is his sword; 'tis a noble spoil
that I shall carry back with me to Arabia." Thereupon he took the
sword in one hand, with the other he laid hold of Roland's beard.
But as the man laid hold, Roland came to himself, and knew that some
one was taking his sword from him. He opened his eyes but not a word
did he speak save this only, "Fellow, you are none of ours," and he
smote him a mighty blow upon his helmet. The steel he brake through
and the head beneath, and laid the man dead at his feet. "Coward,"
he said, "what made you so bold that you dared lay hands on Roland?
Whosoever knows him will think you a fool for your deed."
And now Roland knew that death was near at hand. He raised himself
and gathered all his strength together--ah me! how pale his face
was!--and took in his hand his good sword Durendal. Before him was a
great rock, and on this in his rage and pain he smote ten mighty
blows. Loud rang the steel upon the stone; but it neither brake nor
splintered. "Help me," he cried, "O Mary, our Lady. O my good
sword, my Durendal, what an evil lot is mine! In the day when I must
part with you, my power over you is lost. Many a battle I have won
with your help; and many a kingdom have I conquered, that my Lord
Charles possesses this day. Never has any one possessed you that
would fly before another. So long as I live, you shall not be taken
from me, so long have you been in the hands of a loyal knight."
Then he smote a second time with the sword, this time upon the marble
steps. Loud rang the steel, but neither brake nor splintered. Then
Roland began to bemoan himself, "O my good Durendal," he said, "how
bright and clear thou art, shining as shines the sun! Well I mind me
of the day when a voice that seemed to come from heaven bade King
Charles give thee to a valiant captain; and forthwith the good King
girded it on my side. Many a land have I conquered with thee for
him, and now how great is my grief! Can I die and leave thee to be
handled by some heathen?" And the third time he smote a rock with
it. Loud rang the steel, but it brake not, bounding back as though
it would rise to the sky. And when Count Roland saw that he could
not break the sword, he spake again but with more content in his
heart. "O Durendal," he said, "a fair sword art thou, and holy as
fair. There are holy relics in thy hilt, relics of St. Peter and St.
Denis and St. Basil. These heathen shall never possess thee; nor
shalt thou be held but by a Christian hand."
And now Roland knew that death was very near to him. He laid himself
down with his head upon the grass, putting under him his horn and his
sword, with his face turned towards the heathen foe. Ask you why he
did so? To shew, forsooth, to Charlemagne and the men of France,
that he died in the midst of victory. This done he made a loud
confession of his sins, stretching his hand to heaven. "Forgive me,
Lord," he cried, "my sins, little and great, all that I have
committed since the day of my birth to this hour in which I am
stricken to death." So he prayed; and, as he lay, he thought of many
things, of the countries which he had conquered, and of his dear
Fatherland France, and of his kinsfolk, and of the good King Charles.
Nor, as he thought, could he keep himself from sighs and tears; yet
one thing he remembered beyond all others--to pray for forgiveness of
his sins. "O Lord," he said, "who art the God of truth, and didst
save Daniel Thy prophet from the lions, do Thou save my soul and
defend it against all perils!" So speaking he raised his right hand,
with the gauntlet yet upon it, to the sky, and his head fell back
upon his arm and the angels carried him to heaven. So died the great
Count Roland.