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,
  Where, in the centre, carbuncles shone: 
  Down through his coif and his fell of hair,
  Betwixt his eyes came the falchion bare,
  Down through his plated harness fine,
  Down through the Saracen’s chest and chine,
  Down through the saddle with gold inlaid,
  Till sank in the living horse the blade,
  Severed the spine where no joint was found,
  And horse and rider lay dead on ground.

In spite of Roland’s doughty blows, his good sword suffers no harm, nor does that of Oliver (Hauteclaire), with which he does such good work that Roland assures him he will henceforth consider him a brother.  Although the French slay the pagans by thousands, so many of their own warriors fall, that, by the time they have repulsed the first Saracen division, only sixty of Roland’s men remain alive.

All nature seems to feel the terrible battle raging in the valley of Roncevaux, for a terrible storm breaks forth, in France, where, hearing the roll of the thunder, seeing the flash of the lightning, and feeling the earth shake beneath their feet, the French fear the end of the world has come.  These poor warriors are little aware that all this commotion is due to “nature’s grief for the death of Roland.”

  Now a wondrous storm o’er France hath passed,
  With thunder-stroke and whirlwind’s blast;
  Rain unmeasured, and hail, there came,
  Sharp and sudden the lightning’s flame;
  And an earthquake ran—­the sooth I say,
  From Besancon city to Wissant Bay;
  From Saint Michael’s Mount to thy shrine, Cologne,
  House unrifted was there none. 
  And a darkness spread in the noontide high—­
  No light, save gleams from the cloven sky. 
  On all who saw came a mighty fear. 
  They said, “The end of the world is near.” 
  Alas, they spake but with idle breath,—­
  ’Tis the great lament for Roland’s death.