ROLAND 43 in attempting to bring water in the famous horn for the dying Paladin, falls from loss of blood. Roland recovers only in time to see him die ; then, as he feels that death is near him also, he looks once more on his goodly sword Durindana, and as he looks he cries : " Oh fair and holy, my peerless sword, What relics lie in thy pommel stored Tooth of St. Peter, Saint Basil's blood, Hair of St. Denis beside them strewed, Fragment of Holy Mary's vest 'Twere shame that thou with the heathen rest, Thee should the hand of a Christian serve, One who should never in battle swerve." In despair lest it fall into pagan hands he tries to break it in pieces, and the mighty slashes he made in the rocks are still pointed oui <o the " Breche de Ro- land" You remember Wordsworth's lines : " the Pyrenean breach, Which Roland clove with huge two-handed sway, And to the enormous labor left his name, Where unremitting frost the rocky crescents bleach." Surely Roland might now rest from his labors, amid the " flowerets of Para- dise." But no ; he had yet to smash the head of a prowling Saracen who thought him an easy prey. In doing so he spoiled forever the ivory horn, his only weapon. Not till then could he clasp his hands as he went to rest, and not till then did " God from on high send down to him One of His angel cherubim." St. Michael it was, who with St. Gabriel bore his soul to Paradise. It would be too long a story to tell of the vengeance of the Emperor Charles, how the sun stood still till the Franks had killed every one of the Saracens ; how Ganelon was accused of treachery, tried by combat, and sentenced to be torn to pieces by wild horses. The story is a true tragedy, terrible as the tragedy of CEdipus. From another source we gather the mournful sequel. Long before the battle of Roncesvalles Roland and Olivier had met in single combat on a quiet island in the Rhone. Toward even a fleecy cloud hovered over them, and from its midst an angel " wrapped in rosy light " separated the combatants, bidding them be friends, and telling them to turn their swords against the enemies of the Faith. The heroes shook hands, the angel vanished, and from that day there were no truer friends than Roland and Olivier. Their union was further cemented by the betrothal of Roland to the Lady Alda, Sir Olivier's sister, a maiden who had already, in Roland's presence, proved herself as bold in war as she was loving in peace.
