Said Roland to Oliver, “Brother, you know that it is Ganelon who has betrayed us.  Good store he has had of gold and silver as a reward; ’tis the King Marsilas that has made merchandise of us, but verily it is with our swords that he shall be paid.”  So saying, he rode on to the pass, mounted on his good steed Veillantif.  His spear he held with the point to the sky; a white flag it bore with fringes of gold which fell down to his hands.  A stalwart man was he, and his countenance was fair and smiling.  Behind him followed Oliver, his friend; and the men of France pointed to him, saying, “See our champion!” Pride was in his eye when he looked towards the Saracens; but to the men of France his regard was all sweetness and humility.  Full courteously he spake to them:  “Ride not so fast, my lords,” he said; “verily these heathen are come hither, seeking martyrdom.  ’Tis a fair spoil that we shall gather from them to-day.  Never has King of France gained any so rich.”  And as he spake, the two hosts came together.

Said Oliver, “You did not deem it fit, my lord, to sound your horn.  Therefore you lack the help which the King would have sent.  Not his the blame, for he knows nothing of what has chanced.  But do you, lords of France, charge as fiercely as you may, and yield not one whit to the enemy.  Think upon these two things only—­how to deal a straight blow and to take it.  And let us not forget King Charles’s cry of battle.”  Then all the men of France with one voice cried out, “Mountjoy!” He that heard them so cry had never doubted that they were men of valour.  Proud was their array as they rode on to battle, spurring their horses that they might speed the more.  And the Saracens, on their part, came forward with a good heart.  Thus did the Frenchmen and the heathen meet in the shock of battle.

Full many of the heathen warriors fell that day.  Not one of the Twelve Peers of France but slew his man.  But of all none bare himself so valiantly as Roland.  Many a blow did he deal to the enemy with his mighty spear, and when the spear was shivered in his hand, fifteen warriors having fallen before it, then he seized his good sword Durendal, and smote man after man to the ground.  Red was he with the blood of his enemies, red was his hauberk, red his arms, red his shoulders, aye, and the neck of his horse.  Not one of the Twelve lingered in the rear, or was slow to strike, but Count Roland was the bravest of the brave.  “Well done, Sons of France!” cried Turpin the Archbishop, when he saw them lay on in such sort.

Next to Roland for valour and hardihood came Oliver, his companion.  Many a heathen warrior did he slay, till at last his spear was shivered in his hand.  “What are you doing, comrade?” cried Roland, when he was aware of the mishap.  “A man wants no staff in such a battle as this.  ’Tis the steel and nothing else that he must have.  Where is your sword Hautclere, with its hilt of gold and its pommel of crystal?” “On my word,”