But I should never finish if I told you all the wonderful blows they interchanged. At last the spear of Roland shivered. He drew Durandal and rushed into the thickest of the fight, slicing off heads with his sword as easily as a pigeon severs the heads of millet with its sharp beak.
The fury of the combat was redoubled. The Franks performed prodigies of valour, but the Saracens seemed never to tire of being slaughtered. No sooner were thirty thousand Pagans stretched on the earth than thirty thousand more offered themselves for slaughter. The swords were blunted with repeated blows, but the strength of the heroes wearied not. How many Christians had received the crown of martyrdom! Yonder they lay, trampled under the horses’ hoofs, while their mothers, their wives, their daughters were, perchance, singing cheerily as they awaited their return.
At length came a time when there were no more Saracens left to kill. Of a hundred thousand Pagans but two survived.
“Mountjoy St. Denis!” resounded over the field. But lo! King Marsillus arrived with the main body.
They had only encountered the advanced guard!
“Brethren,” said Turpin, pointing to the Saracens with his mace, “yonder comes our death-struggle. Let us be polite, and go meet it; we shall only be in Paradise the sooner!” and he rode off as swiftly as if he bestrode a swallow.
“Shame, false friend, to outstrip me!” cried Roland, spurring Veillantif. “Bishop, do not perish without e!”
Once more the contest raged furiously. Turpin perceived Abyme, the most unbelieving Pagan of them all.
“What deity do you serve?” cried the bishop.
“None,” said the heretic; whereupon, with three mighty blows of his mace, Turpin scattered over the field the amethysts, topazes, and carbuncles that covered the Pagan’s shield. At the third blow the soul of Abyme fled to the regions below.