It was all for me your lives ye gave,
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:
'Hast thou done it, my comrade, wittingly?
Roland, who loves thee so dear, am I;
Thou hast no quarrel with me to seek?'
Oliver answered: 'I hear thee speak,
But I see thee not. God seeth thee.
Have I struck thee, brother? Forgive it me.'
'I am not hurt, O Olivier,
And in sight of God I forgive thee here.'
Then each to each his head hath laid,
And in love like this was their parting made."