Pale, stretched on the field among the slain, lay the godchild of Charlemagne. “Heaven be praised, my pretty one! To see you still alive makes me almost fancy Heaven smiles upon me. You will not die--I would not be the cause of your death! Charles will be here soon, and will bear you back to our own beloved France.” “You deceive yourself, Roland. I shall never again behold the great Emperor--never again my native land! Before long I shall meet my father once more. But tell me, have the Saracens retreated?” “They have retreated into Spain.” “Then the victory belongs to us two! By the shrine of St. Landri! I am happier than I ever dreamed of being.” Roland knelt down, took off one of his great gold spurs, and fixed it on Mitaine’s heel. “There, brave little hero, none ever better merited the rank of knight!” and he buckled it on. The two little feet of the squire would have both fitted easily into the single spur. In an ecstacy of joy, Mitaine raised herself, and flung her arms round Roland’s neck. “Quick, quick, my beloved lord! give me the accolade, for I feel I am dying!” And Mitaine sank back on the turf, plucked with a last effort two blades of grass, which she fashioned into a cross, and expired while kissing it with fervour. [Illustration: 269] Roland felt very solitary now. Feeling the shades of death gathering round him, he stole up to Veillantif. “My brave charger, your mouth is not meant for the bit of the Saracen, nor your sides for the Pagan spur.” And Roland, having kissed its soft muzzle, killed his favourite steed with one blow of Durandal. “Now, my treasured Durandal, what shall I do with thee? Thy hilt encloses one of the teeth of St. Peter, and a hair from the beard of St. Denis. Neither must thou fall into the hands of unbelievers!” He called up all his strength, and struck his sword upon the granite. It clave the rock, without denting its blade. Three times he essayed again, but with no better success. His sight was failing him. A cold chill seized him. He sank down beside a granite peak, stretched upon his invincible sword, that people might know well that he died a conqueror. Roland had just ceased to breathe when Charlemagne arrived on the field. You will imagine, my young friends, that the Emperor made the Saracens pay dearly for the loss of his knights. It was not until he had utterly destroyed the infidel army that Charles would consent to dismount from his horse on the plains of Roncesvalles. Alas! the butchery of Saracens could not restore life to Roland or his companions. Poor Charlemagne! he tore his grey hair and long beard, and having ordered the bodies of the Count of Mans, Turpin, Oliver, Miton, and Mitaine to be placed in coffins of black marble, he had them borne back to France with every mark of honour.