“I am called Roland. If you never knew me before you shall know me to-day;” and with that he smote off the King’s right hand as he raised it to strike.
The Saracens shouted in alarm, “Mahomet preserve us!” and fled like doves before an eagle. If they had found legs to bring them thither, they had found wings to take them away.
There remained on the field only a thousand Ethiopians, the forces of Marganice. They were drawn up at a distance, and seemed undecided whether to advance. Roland put his horn to his lips, and blew a blast so powerful that it echoed and re-echoed for twenty leagues around.
“What are you doing?” said Oliver. “Have you lost all shame, and do you no longer fear to sound for help against Pagans?”
“These are cruel words, comrade!”
“Why disturb Charlemagne for such a trifle? We are three yet. If you had been less brave we should not have bequeathed this defeat to our country. If you sound the bugle on my behalf, do not trouble yourself—henceforth I do not desire to live. If for Turpin, our friend only survives by a miracle, and will be dead before any one can come to his aid. If you sound, it is for yourself; and, by Heaven’s truth! you will be a brave man to face Charlemagne.”
“Truly,” said Turpin, “you might do better than quarrel now. Wind your horn, Roland, not for our sakes, but for the honour of France. We shall be avenged, and our bones will be laid in consecrated soil. Wind your horn, Roland!”
The Count of Mans lifted his bugle to his lips, and blew so loud and long, that the veins in his temples stood up like ropes, and the blood flowed from his mouth.
The Emperor reined up his steed.
“Did you hear, as I did, the bugle of Roland?”