said Oliver, “I have not had time to draw it; I was so busy with striking.”  But as he spake he drew the good sword from its scabbard, and smote a heathen knight, Justin of the Iron Valley.  A mighty blow it was, cleaving the man in twain down to his saddle—­aye, and the saddle itself with its adorning of gold and jewels, and the very backbone also of the steed whereon he rode, so that horse and man fell dead together on the plains.  “Well done!” cried Roland; “you are a true brother of mine.  ’Tis such strokes as this that make the King love us.”

Nevertheless, for all the valour of Roland and his fellows the battle went hard with the men of France.  Many lances were shivered, many flags torn, and many gallant youths cut off in their prime.  Never more would they see mother and wife.  It was an ill deed that the traitor Ganelon wrought when he sold his fellows to King Marsilas!

And now there befell a new trouble.  King Almaris, with a great host of heathen, coming by an unknown way, fell upon the rear of the host where there was another pass.  Fiercely did the noble Walter that kept the same charge the newcomers, but they overpowered him and his followers.  He was wounded with four several lances, and four times did he swoon, so that at the last he was constrained to leave the field of battle, that he might call the Count Roland to his aid.  But small was the aid which Roland could give him or any one.  Valiantly he held up the battle, and with him Oliver, and Turpin the Archbishop, and others also; but the lines of the men of France were broken, and their armour thrust through, and then:  spears shivered, and their flags trodden in the dust.  For all this they made such slaughter among the heathen that King Almaris, who led the armies of the enemy, scarcely could win back his way to his own people, wounded in four places and sorely spent.  A right good warrior was he; had he but been a Christian but few had matched him in battle.

Count Roland saw how grievously his people had suffered and spake thus to Oliver his comrade:  “Dear comrade, you see how many brave men lie dead upon the ground.  Well may we mourn for fair France, widowed as she is of so many valiant champions.  But why is our King not here?  O Oliver, my brother, what shall we do to send him tidings of our state?” “I know not,” answered Oliver.  “Only this I know—­ that death is to be chosen rather than dishonour.”

After a while Roland said again, “I shall blow my horn; King Charles will hear it, where he has encamped beyond the passes, and he and his host will come back.”  “That would be ill done,” answered Oliver, “and shame both you and your race.  When I gave you this counsel you would have none of it.  Now I like it not.  ’Tis not for a brave man to sound the horn and cry for help now that we are in such case.”  “The battle is too hard for us,” said Roland again, “and I shall sound my horn, that the King may hear.”  And Oliver answered again, “When I gave you