Then Bernardo, round whose head the good sword Durindana flashes dangerously near, seizes a battle-axe from the hands of a warrior lying lifeless at his feet, and gathering all his strength, deals such a blow on Sir Roland that the steel pierces down upon his neck, and stretches him, mortally wounded, on the ground. Smitten to death, like a pious Christian he prepares to yield up his soul to God. But first, collecting all his strength, he clutches his faithful sword and thus addresses it: “O sword of unparalleled brightness, fair Durindana, with hilt of ivory and cross of gold, on which is graven the name of God--whom now wilt thou call master? He that possessed thee was never conquered before; nor daunted by foes, nor appalled by phantoms. O happy sword, never was a fellow made like thee! That thou shalt never fall into the hands of a craven or an infidel, I will smite thee on a rock in twain.” And so he did, in the throes of death as he was, cleaving the weapon in twain and flinging it afar. The “_Breach of Roland_,” in the Pyrenees, is noted from that day. Then, raising the horn slung over his corselet to his lips, with fast-ebbing breath he blew a blast so shrill that the sound reached even to Charlemagne’s camp, who, ignorant of the great disaster, lay in [Illustration: THE WALLS OF ZAMORA.] the valley of Fontarabia awaiting the issue of the battle. At length those eyes called by the minstrels, “the bright stars of battle and victory,” close in death, the hands drop which could root up live trees, the noble form stiffens as he lay with outstretched arms in the form of the cross, the sword-hilt of Durindana and the bugle by his side. Not only Roland, but the gentle Oliver lost his life, and the grim admiral, Guarino, was taken prisoner, so that the Franks lost heart and retreated into the mountain paths by which they came. A terrible massacre ensues, led by Bernardo, and to this day Roncesvalles is known as the “Valley of the Pass of Blood.” CHAPTER XXI Bernardo Learns the Secret of his Birth--Joins the Moors And now Bernardo is home again in the red-walled streets of Leon. Others long for life, he has sought for death; but the dark angel has not answered to his call. As he paces along a narrow path bordering the city walls, above him the low turrets which Witica had spared, looking over to the green plains of Galicia, he knows that he has won himself a name as great as that of Pelayo, but a dark frown is on his young face, and gloomy thoughts chase each other through his brain. How changed from the frank and joyous youth is this dark-visaged warrior! He shuns all his former friends; to no one will he speak, and least of all to the king, whom he justly accuses as the cause of his dishonour.