“Truly,” said Turpin, “you might do better than quarrel now. Wind your horn, Roland, not for our sakes, but for the honour of France. We shall be avenged, and our bones will be laid in consecrated soil. Wind your horn, Roland!” The Count of Mans lifted his bugle to his lips, and blew so loud and long, that the veins in his temples stood up like ropes, and the blood flowed from his mouth. The Emperor reined up his steed. “Did you hear, as I did, the bugle of Roland?” The Count of Mayence trembled, but he answered, “‘Tis some goatherd calling together his flock.” “Do you think I’ve grown childish, that I should mistake a horn for a pipe? It was Roland’s horn, past a doubt.” “Well, sire, he sounds his bugle for nothing often; perchance he is chasing some wild animal.” “By your leave, sire, the horn has a mournful sound,” said Naymes of Bavaria, “and it is but due to your peers to go and see what has befallen them.” “You are right, friend. Ganelon, you will remain here;” and Charles called for Besgue, his head cook, and entrusted to him the custody of the Count of Mayence. “It is the duty of your scullions to guard this criminal. Have you any stout rope to put him to the question with?” “I have, sire, the rope, saving your presence, with which I tie up the pigs when I stick them.” “That will do well! And now, my comrades, let us hasten to Roland.” “There is no need to hurry,” said Ganelon, with a grin; “Roland does not ring the bell until mass is over.” “Even so, renegade,” said the Emperor, “we may arrive in time for vespers, and so much the worse for the Pagans.” Roland was the only one left alive on the plains of Roncesvalles. To the shouts and yells of conflict had succeeded a silence infinitely more terrible. Dismayed at their success, the Saracens had fled. The work was accomplished; the vultures would fitly succeed them. Insatiable parasites of the King of Saragossa, these new comers seldom had time to wipe their beaks between the banquets. Roland dismounted for the first time in the four-and-twenty hours. The brave knight could scarcely stand. Leaning his brow on his horse’s saddle, he cried like a child--he had poured out all his blood, and he had nothing left to shed but tears! [Illustration: 267] His wounds seemed nothing to him. It was despair that was killing him. In his grief he knelt beside the body of Oliver, and clasped it in his arms. He laid it on the turf, unlaced the helmet, kissed the cold brow, stripped off the armour, and examined it all over, unable to believe that he had really lost such a friend and companion in arms. He did the same for Turpin, Miton, and Gautier de Luz. But of what avail was it to lavish cares upon the lifeless clay? Their spirits were in heaven. Roland raised his head. He fancied he heard a faint but sweet voice pronounce his name. What happiness if there yet survived some one! “Do you not know me, my dear lord? Come hither and bid me farewell!”