"He did his right-hand glove uplift;
Saint Gabriel took from his hand the gift.
—Then drooped his head upon his breast,
And with clasped hands he went to rest."
There is indeed little in epic poetry to surpass the high simplicity of this loving portrayal of a hero's death.
It is the climax of the poem. The Emperor's army burst upon the scene, frantic with anxiety; but no eye was open to give them greeting. Roland was dead with his slaughtered rear-guard, and lying with his face to the foe. For three days the sun stayed its motion, at Charlemagne's frenzied petition, and the Moors were chased and cut to pieces, Saragossa taken,—a full and furious vengeance exacted. The whole army mourned for their companions; holy rites attended their stately burial; Ganelon was tried, condemned, torn to pieces by wild horses. But the joy of the Franks, their hero, their idol, was gone forever from them; retribution, even the bitterest, could count for little against the passing of that peerless spirit.
A pathetic meeting was afterward the old Emperor's with Alva, the affianced of Roland:
"'Where is my Roland, sire,' she cried,
'Who vowed to take me for his bride?'"
Brokenly at length he told her of the news. A moment she gazed at him unseeing: