"Christ aid! Christ and king! Heu! heu!" came back the deep roar of the Franks.
No longer did any look about at the barrier. All bent forward in their places, and as the flying mass of Saracens crashed upon their half-formed wedge, they met the enemy with mighty blows of axe and sword and war-hammer. Down went the foremost line of horses, and their riders fell slain with them; down went the second line, the third. Yet relentlessly the Moslems thrust forward, trampling over the bodies of their fallen leaders, to hurl themselves against the Frankish shieldwall.
Soon the Northern warriors began to give ground before the incessant shocks. Arrows and darts whirred into their midst from the Saracen rear, and many fell, pierced in throat or face. Others were crushed by the plunging horses, or thrust with lances through the joints of their rude armor; but most of all met their fate under the keen-edged scimetars.
The first impetus of the Saracen charge was quickly lost; but the dark riders gave the hated Afranj not a moment's time to gain breath. Their massed ranks closed up against the Franks, and overbore them with the sheer weight of the horses.
In vain Roland fought with a strength and skill such as no other Frank than Karl himself might have equalled; in vain Olvir, his face white to the lips and rigid with cold fury, spurred his courser forward into the mass of the Saracens, and struck down warriors to right and left with his lightning stabs.
Had there been room for retreat, the foremost Moslems would have shrunk away from the attack of the sword-brothers; but they had no choice. Penned between the cliffs, they were forced on by their fellows behind, without hope of escape other than in victory. In their rear rode Kasim Ibn Yusuf and a score of chosen men, threatening with instant death any who should turn. So, yelling with desperate rage, the Moslems continued to fling themselves upon the Afranj, each fiercely striving to cut down at least one unbeliever before he himself fell beneath the trampling hoofs.
At last the blows of the Franks began to lessen in force. Wearied by the furious struggle, and spent by wounds and blood-loss, increasing numbers sank beneath the steadily advancing hoofs. Only with the utmost effort could those who were left close the many gaps in their thinning ranks.
"The end draws near, brother!" cried Roland; and he drew back with his men, undaunted, but so wearied that he could hardly swing Ironbiter.
"Oh, for two score of my sea-wolves, with Floki at their head!" called back Olvir, bitterly. "We should soon rend our path through the midst of these swart hounds. Thor! Yonder rides the poisoner! I 'll cut my way to him, or die!"
But as the Northman sought to spur his horse farther into the dense jam of Saracens, Roland's voice rang out in a despairing cry: "Brother--brother! Farewell!"