“Do you not know me, my dear lord? Come hither and bid me farewell!”
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!”