While the two armies yet stood face to face in battle array Oliver
replied: "What good is it to speak? You would not sound your horn, and
Charles cannot help us; he is not to blame. Barons and lords, ride on
and yield not. In God's name fight and slay, and remember the war-cry
of our Emperor." And at the words the war-cry of "Montjoie! Montjoie!"
burst from the whole army as they spurred against the advancing
heathen host.

The Fray

Great was the fray that day, deadly was the combat, as the Moors and
Franks crashed together, shouting their cries, invoking their gods or
saints, wielding with utmost courage sword, lance, javelin, scimitar,
or dagger. Blades flashed, lances were splintered, helms were cloven
in that terrible fight of heroes. Each of the Twelve Peers did mighty
feats of arms. Roland himself slew the nephew of King Marsile, who had
promised to bring Roland's head to his uncle's feet, and bitter were
the words that Roland hurled at the lifeless body of his foe, who had
but just before boasted that Charlemagne should lose his right hand.
Oliver slew the heathen king's brother, and one by one the Twelve
Peers proved their mettle on the twelve champions of King Marsile, and
left them dead or mortally wounded on the field. Wherever the battle
was fiercest and the danger greatest, where help was most needed,
there Roland spurred to the rescue, swinging Durendala, and, falling
on the heathen like a thunderbolt of war, turned the tide of battle
again and yet again.

"Red was Roland, red with bloodshed:
Red his corselet, red his shoulders,
Red his arm, and red his charger."

Like the red god Mars he rode through the battle; and as he went he
met Oliver, with the truncheon or a spear in his grasp.

"'Friend, what hast thou there?' cried Roland.
'In this game 'tis not a distaff,
But a blade of steel thou needest.
Where is now Hauteclaire, thy good sword,
Golden-hilted, crystal-pommeled?'
'Here,' said Oliver; 'so fight I
That I have not time to draw it.'
'Friend,' quoth Roland, 'more I love thee
Ever henceforth than a brother.'"

The Saracens Perish

Thus the battle continued, most valiantly contested by both sides, and
the Saracens died by hundreds and thousands, till all their host lay
dead but one man, who fled wounded, leaving the Frenchmen masters of
the field, but in sorry plight--broken were their swords and lances,
rent their hauberks, torn and bl