“You forget, it appears to me,” said the King of Saragossa, in a severe tone, “that I am here. I am not in the habit of handing over difficult tasks to others; Roland belongs to me! You will have enough to do with the rest.”
Then, armed to the teeth, they rode forward in serried ranks.
The Franks entered the pass. Roland halted them, and spoke:—“Brothers in arms! We are going to have a tough day’s work. But few of us will ever again behold fair France. Ganelon, the traitor, has brought us to this evil pass! He has sold us to the Saracens. In a few minutes these rocks will be hurled down upon us, and we shall hear the Saracen trumpets sounding. They do not know that we are forewarned, and the sound of our bugles will be the signal. Let those who are in doubt about our safety, therefore, leave us to join the main body. But let those, who desire wounds more awful than death—those who are ready to sacrifice their lives, in order to be revenged on Ganelon—let those remain with me!” Not a single knight quitted the ranks.
“If any one of us escapes, his life must be devoted to the extermination of Ganelon, and all his race. For my part, I swear to do this!”
All repeated the oath. Roland heard behind him a voice, shriller than any of the others, cry, “By the Shrine of St. Landri, death to the Count of Mayence!”
He turned, and saw Mitaine.
“Ah, unhappy child, what are you doing here? You know well what fate awaits us. Is this a place for babes-in-arms?”
“You do wrong to blame me, sir knight. You will, perhaps, have reason to be sorry for your words before sunset.”
Mitaine was on the summit of a peak. She gazed around on all sides, and soon discovered the enemy. The sun was shining brightly, and glistened on corslet and casque, spear and pennon. At the same moment the neighing of horses reached her ear.