sed they beheld the Saracen host close upon them.
Then Roland spoke brave words of cheer to his army and commended their
souls and his own to Christ, "who suffrid for us paynes sore," and
for whose sake they had to fight the enemies of the Cross. Behind
every tree and rock a Saracen seemed to be hidden, and in a moment the
whole pass was alive with men in mortal strife.

Surely never in any fight were greater prodigies of valour performed
than those of Roland and his comrades. Twelve Saracen kings fell
before their mighty swords, and many a Saracen warrior was hurled down
the cliffs to pay for the lives of the men of France whom they had
trapped to their death. Never before, in one day, did one man slay so
many as did Roland and Oliver his friend--"A Roland for an Oliver" was
no good exchange, and yet a very fair one, as the heathen quickly
learned.

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

In the thickest of the fight he and Oliver came together, and Roland
saw that his friend was using for weapon and dealing death-blows with
the truncheon of a spear.

"'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-pommelled?'
'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.'"

When the sun set on that welter of blood, not a single Saracen was
left, and those of the Frankish rearguard who still lived were very
weary men.

Then Roland called on his men to give thanks to God, and Bishop
Turpin, whose stout arm had fought well on that bloody day, offered up
thanks for the army, though in sorry plight were they, almost none
unwounded, their swords and lances broken, and their hauberks rent and
blood-stained. Gladly they laid themselves down to rest beside the
comrades whose eyes never more would open on the fair land of France,
but even as Roland was about to take his rest he saw descending upon
him and his little band a host of Saracens, led by Marsile himself.

A hundred thousand men, untired, and fiercely thirsting for revenge,
came against the handful of wearied, wounded heroes. Yet with
unwavering courage the Franks responded to their leaders' call.

The war-cry of the soldiers of Fra