But Ganelon the King handed over to the knaves of his kitchen.  “Take this traitor,” said he, “who has sold his country.”  Ill did Ganelon fare among them.  They pulled out his hair and his beard and smote him with their staves; then they put a great chain, such as that with which a bear is bound, about his neck, and made him fast to a pack-horse.

This done, the King and his army hastened with all speed to the help of Roland.  In the van and the rear sounded the trumpets as though they would answer Roland’s horn.  Full of wrath was King Charles as he rode; full of wrath were all the men of France.  There was not one among them but wept and sobbed; there was not one but prayed, “Now, may God keep Roland alive till we come to the battlefield, so that we may strike a blow for him.”  Alas! it was all in vain; they could not come in time for all their speed.

Count Roland looked round on the mountain-sides and on the plains.  Alas! how many noble sons of France he saw lying dead upon them!  “Dear friends,” he said, weeping as he spoke, “may God have mercy on you and receive you into His Paradise!  More loyal followers have I never seen.  How is the fair land of France widowed of her bravest, and I can give you no help.  Oliver, dear comrade, we must not part.  If the enemy slay me not here, surely I shall be slain by sorrow.  Come then, let us smite these heathen.”

Thus did Roland again charge the enemy, his good sword Durendal in his hand; as the stag flies before the hounds, so did the heathen fly before Roland.  “By my faith,” cried the Archbishop when he saw him, “that is a right good knight!  Such courage, and such a steed, and such arms I love well to see.  If a man be not brave and a stout fighter, he had better by far be a monk in some cloister where he may pray all day long for our sins.”

Now the heathen, when they saw how few the Frenchmen were, took fresh courage.  And the Caliph, spurring his horse, rode against Oliver and smote him in the middle of his back, making his spear pass right through him.  “That is a shrewd blow,” he cried; “I have avenged my friends and countrymen upon you.”

Then Oliver knew he was stricken to death, but he would not fall unavenged.  With his great sword Hautclere he smote the Caliph on his head and cleft it to the teeth.  “Curse on you, pagan.  Neither your wife nor any woman in the land of your birth shall boast that you have taken a penny’s worth from King Charles!” But to Roland he cried, “Come, comrade, help me; well I know that we two shall part in great sorrow this day.”

Roland came with all speed, and saw his friend, how he lay all pale and fainting on the ground and how the blood gushed in great streams from his wound.  “I know not what to do,” he cried.  “This is an ill chance that has befallen you.  Truly France is bereaved of her bravest son.”  So saying he went near to swoon in the saddle as he sat.  Then there befell a strange thing.  Oliver