Ere the paynims came upon them, Oliver spoke to Roland, saying: "My comrade, the enemy are in fearful force, and our Franks are but few. Sound upon thy horn. Then Charlemagne will hear and his host return."

Round Roland's neck hung a magic horn of carved ivory. If he blew upon it in case of need, the sound would be carried over hill and dale far onward to the ears of Charlemagne.

But Roland would not listen to Oliver.

"I were mad to do such a deed. Lost in France were my glory. My Durindana shall smite full hard, and the heathen shall find their fate in this pass."

"Nay, Roland, sound on your horn, that Charlemagne may send his legions back to lend us aid," entreated the wise Oliver. But he pleaded in vain.

The Moslems swept nearer, and Oliver warned Roland again, saying, "Thou seest the heathen foe, how near they are and how many, and thou knowest how few are we. Thou didst scorn to blow thy horn. The rear guard shall do their last brave feat to-day. Nevermore will they mingle in mortal battle."

But Roland, wild with the joy of combat, cried, "The emperor has left us his bravest men, never a coward heart among them. We shall not fail."

Then Roland rode in front of his ranks of knights, and cried, "Franks, remember your chivalry!"and the Franks responded with the war-cry of Charlemagne, "Montjoie! Montjoie!" Proudly they rode at their paynim foes, with shout of victory on their lips.

But Charlemagne rode sadly toward France, for he had dreamed a dream that told him Ganelon was a traitor, and it was Ganelon who had set Roland to guard the pass. As he rode he said sadly to the Duke of Namo, who rode beside him,

Charlemagne would have gloried in his knights, had he seen them on that day at Ronceval. With sword and lance they dashed upon the Saracens, making havoc in their ranks and slaying those they met in single combat, till it seemed as if there could be none left. Everywhere through the press rode Roland and Oliver, doing marvelous deeds, and the knights were never far behind them. Ensigns and pennons were torn and bloodstained, and many a knight lay dead on that field. The foe fell by thousands, and France, too, was reft in that day of the best of her chivalry. Dearly they sold their lives, but well they knew, as they met that mighty host of warriors, that the fair land of France would see them no more. Such battle was never seen in all the fierce strife that King Charlemagne had waged in that land, and at last the Saracens turned and fled before the Franks. They could not stand against that onslaught. So the battle was won by the Christian host,—the first battle of that fight,—but, oh! what sorrow remains to tell!

Of the mighty host whom King Marsilius had led into that pass, one hundred thousand lay dead on the field, and with them lay hundreds of gallant knights of the Franks who had sold their lives full dearly for their cause. As Roland and Oliver and those who survived were seeking their dead on the field, they heard a mighty blast of trumpets, and behold! a second heathen host, greater than the one they had vanquished, riding down upon them. Yet went they bravely to the fight again, and the cry of "Montjoie!" sounded forth in the ears of that Saracen foe.

Once more the sound of battle rose; once more the gallant knights met their foe with lance and sword, and alas! once more the ground was strewn with dead. Mighty were the deeds of valor that were done that day. But one and another fell, until there were but three hundred left of all that company.

As Roland watched Oliver ever in the press of the fight, dealing blow upon blow, his heart went out to him, and he cried aloud, "Oh, my comrade faithful and true, this day shall end our love! this day we shall part on earth forever!"

Oliver heard, and spurred his horse to Roland's side. "Keep near me," he said; "we will die together, if God so will."

Yet the slaughter went on, fiercer and fiercer, till only sixty weary Franks were left. As Roland gazed on his men lying cold in death, and the pitiful little band of sixty who yet remained, his heart was heavy within him, and he cried to his wise companion, "Would God he had been with us, our emperor, Charlemagne! How shall we send tidings to him?"

"I know not," said Oliver.

"I will sound upon my horn," said Roland, "that he may hear."

"You were mad to do such a deed. Lost in France would be your glory," said Oliver recalling to him his words of the morning.

But Roland's pride was broken, and he repeated, "Nay, I will sound upon my horn.

"Wouldst thou call for aid?" said Oliver for his heart was bitter within him for the needless slaughter of the chivalry of France.

The good archbishop Turpin heard, and he spake to Roland sadly, saying: "Aye, it were well to sound the call. It will avail us nothing now, but Charlemagne will return to avenge our death and bear our bodies back to gentle France, there to sleep in hallowed earth."

Then Roland raised his horn and sounded a mighty blast. With all the strength in his body he blew, and the blast was borne onward till it came to the ears of Charlemagne. Then, though the traitor Ganelon sought to dissuade him and tell him he had not heard aright, the emperor knew that Roland was in dire distress, and he turned him and all the host. Sadly they rode back with sorrow and fear in their hearts, along the mountain road towards Spain.

Meanwhile Roland had rushed once more into the fight, crying to Oliver, "My brother, I die of grief and shame, if I escape unslain."

Once more he swung his sword with such blows as only he could give, and the heathen gave way before him. But what did it avail? A thousand were pressing on behind. Roland seeing the battalions advancing cried, "Our hour is come!" and even as he spoke a heathen warrior came upon Oliver from behind, while he was dealing out blows to those before him, and thrust him through with his lance.

"Roland, my comrade," cried the dying Oliver, "ride near me; our parting is near."

"O God!" cried Roland in anguish, as he looked upon his friend and saw his ghastly whiteness; "is this the end of thy prowess, my gentle friend? On earth there shall never be such as thou. Ah, France, thou art indeed bereft of thy bravest!"

Then Oliver slipped from his horse and lay stretched on the ground, but ere he passed away he breathed a prayer that God would bless him, and King Charlemagne, and France, and last of all his brother Roland. So he passed away, and Roland was left alone.

"Since thou art dead, to live is pain," he cried.

Once more he dashed into the press, and fought fiercely. Yet first he raised his horn and sounded it. It was but a feeble blast, for his strength was near gone, but the answer came from sixty thousand clarions, for Charlemagne's host was drawing nearer.

"Charlemagne! Charlemagne!" cried the heathen. "France is upon us. Let us flee!"

And they turned and fled in dire panic from that field; but as they went the bravest of the Moslems hurled their weapons at Roland, for he alone of all the warriors was left. Yet he sank not then before their onset, but when they were gone he knew his end was near. On a mound beneath a pine tree he laid him down to die, but ere he passed away he thought of his good sword Durindana, and he knew that it must not fall into heathen hands.

"Ah, Durindana," he cried, "thou wert given to Charlemagne to belong to a valiant captain, and he girded thee on me. Many regions I have won with thee for him, but now I must leave thee, and thou shalt never fall in heathen hands."

He struggled to his feet and smote with it upon a great rock. Yet had he not strength to break it, but only to bend it past all use.

So Charlemagne found Roland lying when he came to Ronceval, with his unsurrendered sword beneath him and his face toward Spain.