pagans
will be laid low.

"Roland, Roland, yet wind one blast!
Karl will hear ere the gorge be passed,
And the Franks return on their path full fast."
"I will not sound on mine ivory horn:
It shall never be spoken of me in scorn,
That for heathen felons one blast I blew;
I may not dishonor my lineage true.
But I will strike, ere this fight be o'er,
A thousand strokes and seven hundred more,
And my Durindana shall drip with gore.
Our Franks will bear them like vassals brave.
The Saracens flock but to find a grave."

In spite of the fact that Oliver thrice implores him to summon aid,
Roland thrice refuses; so his friend, perceiving he will not yield,
finally declares they must do their best, and adds that, should they
not get the better of the foe, they will at least die fighting nobly.
Then Archbishop Turpin--one of the peers--assures the soldiers that,
since they are about to die as martyrs, they will earn Paradise, and
pronounces the absolution, thus inspiring the French with such courage
that, on rising from their knees, they rush forward to earn a heavenly
crown.

Riding at their head, Roland now admits to Oliver that Ganelon must
have betrayed them, grimly adding that the Saracens will have cause to
rue their treachery before long. Then he leads his army down the
valley to a more open space, where, as soon as the signal is given,
both friends plunge into the fray, shouting their war-cry
("Montjoie").

_The Medley._ In the first ranks of the Saracens is a nephew of
Marsile, who loudly boasts Charlemagne is about to lose his right arm;
but, before he can repeat this taunt, Roland, spurring forward, runs
his lance through his body and hurls it to the ground with a turn of
his wrist. Then, calling out to his men that they have scored the
first triumph, Roland proceeds to do tremendous execution among the
foe. The poem describes many of the duels which take place,--for each
of the twelve peers specially distinguishes himself,--while the
Saracens, conscious of vastly superior numbers, return again and again
to the attack. Even the archbishop fights bravely, and Roland, after
dealing fifteen deadly strokes with his lance, resorts to his sword,
thus meeting the Saracens at such close quarters that every stroke of
his blade hews through armor, rider, and steed.

At the last it brake; then he grasped in hand
His Durindana, his naked brand.
He smote Chernubles' helm upon,