And I was helpless to shield or save.'"
The last Frankish man-at-arms at length fell; only the three foremost paladins remained of all the host. But the Saracens dared no longer to approach them; they hurled their lances from afar. Spent and faint and bleeding, the three still stood out, but the death-wound of Oliver finally came; his vision swam, he swayed blindly on his horse. There is no more touching and beautiful incident in the whole range of song than this of his death:
"His eyes from bleeding are dimmed and dark,
Nor mortal near or far can mark;
And when his comrade beside him pressed,
Fiercely he smote on his golden crest;
Down to the nasal the helm he shred,—
But passed no further nor pierced his head.
Roland marveled at such a blow,
And thus bespake him, soft and low: