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.
[Original Size] -- [Medium-Size]
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.