He gave them his blessing, and they rose, comforted and encouraged.
Presently the sound of the enemies’ horses was heard, and before long the two armies had encountered each other. Lances were shattered—the field wras covered with fragments of arms and armour. Death had made a speedy harvest, and riderless horses were galloping hither and thither, amid the groans and cries of the wounded.
Everywhere destruction was being dealt out.
At the head of the Saracens rode Arroth, nephew of Marsillus.
“By Allah! Charlemagne must be childish to give the command of the rear-guard of his forces to Roland.”
The Count of Mans heard him, but answered not. Lance in rest, he rode down on him. Good heavens! what a thrust!—nothing could resist it. It clave the shield of the nephew of the King of Saragossa, pierced his chest, broke his spine, and pinned him to the earth.
Fauseron, brother of King Marsillus, beheld Miton, and shouted to him—“Your Emperor, Charlemagne, must be sorely jealous of the fame of his knights, to send them to be slaughtered thus.”
Miton dashed at him with uplifted blade, and dealt him three terrific wounds: a partridge might have flown through any one of them with ease.
“You lie, knave!” cried the father of Mitaine; “our Charles is the bravest of the brave, and whoever questions it shall die the death of a dog—as you die!”
Anseis charged at Turgis of Toulouse, and ran him through with his lance. The white pennon was stained crimson with the thrust.