"That death was on him he knew full well;
Down from his head to his heart it fell.
On the grass beneath a pine tree's shade,
With face to earth, his form he laid;
Beneath him placed he his horn and sword,
And turned his face to the heathen horde
Thus hath he done the sooth to show
That Karl and his warriors all may know
That the gentle Count a conqueror died.
'_Mea culpa_,' full oft he cried,
And for all his sins, unto God above
In sign of penance he raised his glove.

* * * * *

"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