“Whither goes your nephew, sire?” said Turpin to Charlemagne, following Roland with his eyes. “Is he mad, or tired of life?”
“I don’t know what he is going to do, but he has bidden me have all ready for the assault, saying that within an hour the breach will be made.”
“He will do it, then, sire, as he has said it; and, by my faith! I am grateful to him, for we are beginning to grow mouldy here.”
Charles mounted his horse, and began to make his dispositions for the assault. The Saracen sentries on guard on the rampart hardly took any notice of the single warrior who approached the city; but, hearing a great noise, they leant over and saw Roland, who was hammering at the wall with repeated strokes of the pommel of Durandal.
The Saracens laughed, and asked one another what the idiot wanted.
“Shall we smash him?” said one of them, preparing to roll a huge stone over the rampart.
“What for?” said another. “Is there any reason to be afraid of him? Shouldn’t you like; to know what he has come here to do?”
Curiosity is the worst of advisers. The sentinels exposed themselves in order to see better, and four arrows struck them in the face. It was the hour of target-practice with the pages of Charlemagne.
“I am afraid this is likely to make the infidels squint!” said Mitaine, choosing a new arrow.
Roland, heedless of all that was passing around him, continued his work of destruction. The wall began at last to yawn, and the knight to smile, delighted at his success.