“Count Roland,” suggested Ganelon, “since he is the bravest. Does not the place of danger belong to him?”
“Count of Mayence, some evil intention influences that speech.”
“Why so, sire?” interposed Roland. “Sir Ganelon is right. The task is mine—I claim it.”
“So be it,” said the Emperor. “My peers shall accompany you with twenty-five thousand horsemen.”
“The Saracens will have a hot day’s work,” said Ganelon to himself.
The Saracens were concealed in the forests at the entrance of the pass. The Navarrese and Gascons (everlasting shame upon them!) were lying in ambush on the heights, ready to hurl death upon their brother Christians.
The vanguard, consisting of twenty thousand men, led by Ogier the Dane, was first to present itself. But it was not they who were wanted—-they were allowed to pass.
Charlemagne came next, with Ganelon in attendance upon him. For six hours the troops, the wagons, the booty, were slowly marching through the defile. There was an abundance of wealth; but who dared touch it? They were suffered to pass. Finally came the rear-guard, led by Roland. Then the Pagans began to be on the move, the Gascons prepared for action. The great carnage was about to begin.
Marsillus was on horseback at the head of his troops. Buriabel, King of Alexandria, came swaggering up to him.
“Sire, I have brought you thirty thousand soldiers, fully armed. I have not hesitated to risk my life in your service. In return for this, I only ask one thing—the honour of despatching Roland. If I meet him, he dies!”