"My comrade," urged he, "I have seen the enemy, and never on earth did such host appear. I pray thee, sound thy horn, that Karl may hear and return to our succor." But Roland answered:
"Such deed were madness! Lost in France would be my glory. My good sword shall seal the felons' fate."
"Nay, Roland, sound on thine ivory horn, that Karl may bend his legions back and lend us aid," exclaimed his wise companion. In vain he pleaded.
Nearer and nearer the Moslems swept, and Oliver exclaimed in reproach,—
"See, comrade, see how close are they, and help, alas, how far! The rear-guard will make their last brave stand this day!"
But Roland was drunk with the joy of battle and cried,—
"My friend, my brother, my Oliver, the emperor hath left us here his bravest. Full twenty-thousand men he gave to us, and among them no coward heart. I shall so strike with this matchless blade that he who wears it when I lie dead shall say, ''Twas the sword of a valorous captain.'"
The time was all too short—the Moslems were almost upon them. Archbishop Turpin, seeing their straits, spurred his horse to a jutting crag, and addressed the men. There was silence among the Franks as the voice of the beloved churchman rang through the hollow pass:
"Barons, we are here for our emperor's sake; strike we for him, though death be our portion." He stretched out his arms above them, and the Franks alighted and knelt on the ground, crying, "Mea culpa!" Then he assoiled them and blessed them, giving them for penance, to smite their best.
The next instant the storm of battle broke, and Paynim and Christian closed in the death-struggle, each hoping, believing, to find in the blood of the other his passport into Paradise; each with the name of God on his lips.