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!
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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!