In vain Oliver implored.  “I see no dishonor shouldst thou wind thy horn,” he said, “for I have beheld the Saracen host.  The valleys and the hills and all the plains are covered with them.  They are many and great, and we are but a little company.”

“So much the better,” cried Roland, “my desire to fight them grows the greater.  All the angels of heaven forbid that France, through me, should lose one jot of fame.  Death is better than dishonor.  Let us strike such blows as our Emperor loveth to see.”

Roland was rash as Oliver was wise, but both were knights of wondrous courage, and now Oliver pleaded no more.  “Look,” he cried, “look where the heathen come!  Thou hast scorned, Roland, to sound thy horn, and our noble men will this day do their last deeds of bravery.”

“Hush!” cried Roland, “shame to him who weareth a coward’s heart.”

And now Archbishop Turpin spurred his horse to a little hill in front of the army.  “My lords and barons,” he cried, turning to them, “Charlemagne hath left us here to guard the homeward march of his army.  He is our King, and we are bound to die for him, if so need be.  But now, before ye fight, confess your sins, and pray God to forgive them.  If ye die, ye die as martyrs.  In God’s great paradise your places await you.”

Then the Franks leapt from their horses and kneeled upon the ground while the archbishop blessed them, and absolved them from all their sins.  “For penance I command that ye strike the heathen full sore,” he said.

Then springing from their knees the Franks leapt again into their saddles, ready now to fight and die.

“Friend,” said Roland, turning to Oliver, “thou wert right.  It is Ganelon who is the traitor.  But the Emperor will avenge us upon him.  As for Marsil, he deemeth that he hath bought us, and that Ganelon hath sold us unto him.  But he will find it is with our swords that we will pay him.”

And now the battle began.  “Montjoie!” shouted the Franks.  It was the Emperor’s own battle-cry.  It means “My joy,” and came from the name of his famous sword Joyeuse or joyous.  This sword was the most wonderful ever seen.  Thirty times a day the shimmering light with which it glowed changed.  In the gold of the hilt was encased the head of the spear with which the side of Christ had been pierced.  And because of this great honor the Emperor called his sword Joyeuse, and from that the Franks took their battle-cry “Montjoie.”  Now shouting it, and plunging spurs into their horses’ sides, they dashed upon the foe.  Never before had been such pride of chivalry, such splendor of knightly grace.

With boasting words, King Marsil’s nephew came riding in front of the battle.  “Ho, felon Franks!” he cried, “ye are met at last.  Betrayed and sold are ye by your King.  This day hath France lost her fair fame, and from Charlemagne is his right hand torn.”

Roland heard him.  With spur in side and slackened rein, he dashed upon the heathen, mad with rage.  Through shield and hauberk pierced his spear, and the Saracen fell dead ere his scoffing words were done.  “Thou dastard!” cried Roland, “no traitor is Charlemagne, but a right noble king and cavalier.”