The wounded man, no longer able to see, meanwhile ranges wildly around the battle-field, striking madly right and left.

In doing so he runs against Roland, and, failing to recognize him, deals him so powerful a blow that he almost kills him.
Gently inquiring why his friend thus attacks one he loves, Roland hears Oliver gasp, "I hear you, friend, but do not see you.

Forgive me for having struck you,"-- a more than ample apology,--ere he dies.
See Roland there on his charger swooned, Olivier smitten with his death wound.
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 marvelled 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." Olivier 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 other his head has laid, And in love like this was their parting made.
On seeing that his friend has passed away, the heart-broken Roland again swoons in his saddle, but his intelligent steed stands still until his master recovers his senses.

Gazing around him, Roland now ascertains that only two other Frenchmen are still alive, and, seeing one of them severely wounded, he binds up his cuts before plunging back into the fray, where he accounts for twenty-five pagans, while the archbishop and the wounded soldier dispose of eleven more.
_Charlemagne Approaches._ The last Frenchmen are fighting madly against a thousand Moors on foot and four thousand on horseback, when the spears flung from a distance lay low the wounded man and deal a mortal wound to the archbishop.