“Comrades,” cried he, “we shall have such a battle as no man has known.  The passes are full of armed Moors:  their hauberks and glittering helmets fill the lower valleys.  Great mischief is in store for us, but may we stand to the field like men!”

“Shame be to him that flees!” said the warriors who heard him.

Bewildered and amazed at sight of so terrible an array of Pagans, Oliver descended from the tree.

“Brother Roland,” said he, “I pray thee blow thy horn.  The king will hear it, and he will turn him about and come to our succor.”

“To do so would be to act as a craven,” answered Roland.  “Never shall it be said that I feared a foe.  I will strike strong strokes with my sword, Durandal.  Ill shall it fare with the Pagan traitors.”

“Comrade Roland,” again said Oliver, “now blow thy horn.  Charlemagne will hear it, and he will make his host return.”

“Never,” answered Roland, “shall my kinsmen upbraid me, or be blamed for me.  But I will strike with Durandal.  The brand which the king gave me when he knighted me, that shall be our succor.”

Then Oliver prayed him the third time, “Comrade Roland, sound now thine ivory horn.  Charlemagne, who is passing the gates, will hear us and come to our aid.”

“No man shall ever say,” answered Roland, “that I have blown my horn for Pagans.  My kinsmen shall not bear that reproach.  But when the great battle is joined, then you shall see the lightning flashes of Durandal in the thickest of the fight.  A thousand and seven hundred times shall the blade be dyed in the blood of the Moors.  Better would it be to perish than suffer shame.”

But Oliver was not yet satisfied.  “I have seen the Moorish host,” said he.  “The mountains and the plains, the valleys and the groves, are full of them.  Never have we fought against such great odds.”

“Friend and brother,” answered Roland, “say not another word.  The king has left us here, with a rear-guard of twenty thousand men, and he esteems every one of us a hero.  Do thou strike with thy lance and thy good blade Haultclear.  As for me, Durandal shall serve me well.  And, if I die, men shall say, ‘This sword belonged to a noble knight.’”

Then the good Archbishop Turpin rode down the ranks, holding a sword in one hand and a crucifix in the other.  “Comrades,” cried he, “the king has left us here.  He trusts in us, and for him we shall die.  Cry now your sins to Heaven.  Pray God’s mercy, and ask His blessing.”

In a moment every knight among those twenty thousand horsemen had dismounted.  Humbly and reverently every knee was bent, and every head was bowed.  And the good archbishop blessed the company in God’s name.

“If ye die,” said he, “ye shall have places in paradise.”

Then the warriors arose, light-hearted and hopeful.  They rode into the place which is called Roncevaux, the Vale of Thorns, and there they put themselves in battle array, and waited the onset of their foes.  Roland sat astride of his good war steed, and proudly faced the Moorish host.  In his hand he held the bared blade Durandal, pointing toward heaven.  Never was seen a more comely knight.  Courteously he spoke to the warriors about him.  Then, putting spurs to his steed, he cried,—­