Roland gazed at his great horn, Olifant, which was hanging at his side. It was made of ivory with gold inlaid, and, when blown by one who understood how to sound it, would send its voice for miles around.
“Look, faithful friend,” said the hero, “I was given this horn, and my good sword Durindart, by an angel from heaven. I then swore only to blow the horn in case of utmost need. We are not now in such a case; I think we are strong enough to make these heathen bite the dust. Ha! what do I see? Look, there is the traitor Marsilio! No doubt the faithless Ganelon has betrayed us for much red gold, but we will fight for the good cause. Monjoie, Saint Denys! Up, soldiers of Christ, let us do battle for our holy Faith!”
The heroes and their men rushed on to meet the Moorish hosts, who withstood their furious onslaught with the greatest courage; but after a while fell back, and fled, pursued by the Christians, who slew all they came up with.
When the heroes had recalled their little army from the pursuit, they made their men sit down and rest. Before they had sat very long, they were startled by a shout behind them of “Machmet! Machmet!” and a great blowing of trumpets and beating of drums. A larger army than that which they had already put to flight was approaching in their rear. Marsilio was at its head.
Roland prepared for battle. He sent Count Walter to guard a wooded height, and then, accompanied by his brother Balduin, brave Olivier, the bold Archbishop Turpin, and the other paladins, advanced with his men against the foe.
The battle raged with intensest fury round the leaders. Wild cries and the clash of arms filled the air. At last Roland flew at Marsilio, but next moment his horse was killed beneath him. He sprang to his feet, and fought so desperately that the Moors turned and fled. He looked round, and could see none but the dead or dying. He raised his horn to his lips, and blew a mighty blast. About a hundred men-at-arms appeared in answer to his call, then came a few more, and lastly Olivier, Balduin, Archbishop Turpin, and others of the heroes.
“Your horn has a goodly sound, and carries far, friend Roland,” said Olivier; “the emperor must have heard it, and will return and help us. It will be high time, in sooth; for see how the wild Moors assemble in close order, and prepare to renew the attack.”
“Up, ye faithful of the Lord,” cried Roland; “close your ranks. May Christ preserve us!”
The hero mounted an Arab horse he had caught a moment before, and took his place at the head of his men. Soon spears were hurtling through the air, and swords were clashing. Many a doughty deed was done by small and great in the Christian force; but fight as they might, the Franks were so few in number, that it seemed as if the Moors must finally prevail. Olivier fell defending his friend and brother-in-arms. Roland’s sword did such terrible execution that the Moors once more retreated in fear, and the hero was too weary to pursue them. His wounded horse fell dead beneath him, and he, bleeding from many wounds, and feeling that his end was near, staggered into a neighbouring gorge, and sank upon the ground at the foot of a rock. Then, raising his eyes to heaven, he whispered,—
“Lord, give me grace in Thy sight. Receive, if so be that Thou hearest me, this pledge of my submission to Thy will.”