“Put a dozen knights in line of array. And I will tumble all the twelve on their noses, only by the wind of my sword.”
It was the Count Roland laid the twelfth wager, in the fashion following:
“I will take my horn, I will go forth of the city and I will blow such a blast all the gates of the town will drop from their hinges.”
Olivier alone had said no word yet. He was young and courteous, and the Emperor loved him dearly.
“Olivier, my son,” he asked, “will you not make your brag like the rest of us?”
“Right willingly, sire,” Olivier replied.
“Do you know the name of Hercules of Greece?”
“Yea, I have heard some discourse of him,” said Charlemagne. “He was an idol of the misbelievers, like the false god Mahound.”
“Not so, sire,” said Olivier. “Hercules of Greece was a knight among the Pagans and King of a Pagan kingdom. He was a gallant champion and stoutly framed in all his limbs. Visiting the Court of a certain Emperor who had fifty daughters, virgins, he wedded them all on one and the same night, and that so well and throughly that next morning they all avowed themselves well-contented women and with naught left to learn. He had not slighted ever a one of them. Well, sire, an you will, I will lay my wager to do after the fashion of Hercules of Greece.”
“Nay, beware, Olivier, my son,” cried the Emperor, “beware what you do; the thing would be a sin. I felt sure this King Hercules was a Saracen!”