When Roland blew the horn for the third time he had hardly breath to awaken the echoes; but still Charlemagne heard. "How faintly comes the sound! There is death in that feeble blast!" said the emperor; and Duke Naimes interrupted eagerly: "Sire, Roland is in peril; some one has betrayed him--doubtless he who now tries to beguile you! Sire, rouse your host, arm for battle, and ride to save your nephew." Ganelon Arrested Then Charlemagne called aloud: "Hither, my men. Take this traitor Ganelon and keep him safe till my return." And the kitchen folk seized the felon knight, chained him by the neck, and beat him; then, binding him hand and foot, they flung him on a sorry nag, to be borne with them till Charles should demand him at their hands again. Charles Returns With all speed the whole army retraced their steps, turning their faces to Spain, and saying: "Ah, if we could find Roland alive what blows we would strike for him!" Alas! it was too late! Too late! How lofty are the peaks, how vast and shadowy the mountains! How dim and gloomy the passes, how deep the valleys! How swift the rushing torrents! Yet with headlong speed the Frankish army hastens back, with trumpets sounding in token of approaching help, all praying God to preserve Roland till they come. Alas! they cannot reach him in time! Too late. Too late! Roland Weeps for his Comrades Now Roland cast his gaze around on hill and valley, and saw his noble vassals and comrades lie dead. As a noble knight he wept for them, saying: "'Fair Knights, may God have mercy on your souls! May He receive you into Paradise And grant you rest on banks of heavenly flowers! Ne'er have I known such mighty men as you. Fair France, that art the best of all dear lands, How art thou widowed of thy noble sons! Through me alone, dear comrades, have you died, And yet through me no help nor safety comes. God have you in His keeping! Brother, come, Let us attack the heathen and win death, Or grief will slay me! Death is duty now.'" He Fights Desperately So saying, he rushed into the battle, slew the only son of King Marsile, and drove the heathen before him as the hounds drive the deer. Turpin saw and applauded. "So should a good knight do, wearing good armour and riding a good steed. He must deal good strong strokes in battle, or he is not worth a groat. Let a coward be a monk in some cloister and pray for the sins of us fighters." Marsile in wrath attacked the slayer of his son, but in vain; Roland struck off his right hand, and Marsile fled back mortally wounded to Saragossa, while his main host, seized with panic, left the field to Roland. However, the caliph, Marsile's uncle, rallied the ranks, and, with fifty thousand Saracens, once more came against the little troop of Champions of the Cross, the three poor survivors of the rearguard.