ied ranks were closing in on the Christian
band. Mountain, plain, and valley glittered red with their burnished
arms, as on their light Arab steeds they swept like the wind of the
desert on Roland's track. And as the rear-guard of the Christian army
rode into the deep defile of Roncesvalles, the Saracen bugles rang out a
challenge from the far distance.

Now Oliver, though brave as any of King Karl's peers, was wise enough to
recognize danger and to fear it. The sound of the war-trumpet brought
him at once to Roland's side, and he said,--

"Sir Comrade, there is battle at hand with the heathen!"

But Roland lacked wisdom, and exclaimed with his usual pride,--

"God grant it may be so! Let us be strong for mighty blows, lest songs
of scorn be sung against us. No craven part shalt thou see me fill this
day."

Oliver was not so anxious for an encounter with the enemy, and he
hastily climbed to a high point to get some idea of their numbers. Far
over the plain his eye could reach, and he was bewildered and dismayed
by the sight before him. Greater far than he had reckoned were the
Paynim hosts, and many times more ominous was their battle-array. One
long look at their serried, glittering masses, and he hastened down to
Roland.

"My comrade," urged he, "I have seen the enemy, and never on earth did
such host appear. I pray thee, sound thy horn, that Karl may hear and
return to our succor." But Roland answered:

"Such deed were madness! Lost in France would be my glory. My good sword
shall seal the felons' fate."

"Nay, Roland, sound on thine ivory horn, that Karl may bend his legions
back and lend us aid," exclaimed his wise companion. In vain he pleaded.

Nearer and nearer the Moslems swept, and Oliver exclaimed in reproach,--

"See, comrade, see how close are they, and help, alas, how far! The
rear-guard will make their last brave stand this day!"

But Roland was drunk with the joy of battle and cried,--

"My friend, my brother, my Oliver, the emperor hath left us here his
bravest. Full twenty-thousand men he gave to us, and among them no
coward heart. I shall so strike with this matchless blade that he who
wears it when I lie dead shall say, ''Twas the sword of a valorous
captain.'"

The time was all too short--the Moslems were almost upon them.
Archbishop Turpin, seeing their straits, spurred his horse to a jutting
crag, and addressed the men. There was silence among the Franks as the
voice of the beloved