Then answered the treacherous Ganelon, "If that be the horn of Roland, he hunteth perchance in the woods. Too brave is he to sound it in battle. My lord the king groweth old, and his fears are childish. What a merry jest would it be should the king call his thousands and go to the succor of Roland only to find him hunting the hare." In pain and great weariness now, almost spent with loss of blood and the agony of his bursting temples, Roland again feebly winded his horn. In his palace Charles heard the feeble echo, and springing from his seat while the salt tears streamed from his eyes and rushed down his snowy beard, cried, "Oh Roland, my brave captain, too long have I delayed. Sorry is thy need, I know, by the wailing of thy horn. Men, to arms! Straightway will we go to help Roland. Seize that man," he said pointing to Ganelon; "bind him fast in chains, and keep him till I return. Then shall we judge whether by his treason he hath duped us." Fierce was the cruel throbbing in the brain of Roland as he turned wearily again to his fight, but his good sword leapt savagely out, and the redoubtable pagans fell around him in heaps. Those who were left of the rear guard cut down great masses of the pagans as a reaper cuts down ripening corn at the harvest time, but one by one the weary reapers fell ere the harvest could be gathered in. Yet beside each dead Frank was a sheaf of pagan dead to show how well he had reaped his little field. Then a pagan king, seeing where Oliver was fighting, stole up behind and smote him through the back a deadly wound, but Oliver turned, and with the fierce strength of a dying man swung his huge sword Haltclere, and before the pagan could know his triumph struck the king's helmet and cleft his head from forehead to teeth. Even now, with the pains of death so fastened upon him that his vision was blotted out, Oliver struck valiantly on every hand, shouting "Montjoy, Montjoy." Roland heard the feeble shout and cut his way through to help his companion from his horse; but Oliver, not knowing him, struck Roland such a mighty blow that he shattered his helmet on his throbbing head. In spite of all his pain, Roland lifted Oliver gently down from his horse, saying, "Dear comrade, I fear a deadly evil has happened to thee." "Thy voice is that of Roland, but I cannot see thy face." "It is I, Roland, thy comrade." "Forgive me that I smote thee," said Oliver; "it is so dark that I cannot see thy face. Give me thy hand. God bless thee, Roland. God bless Charlemagne and France."