One day there came from Charlemagne a summons to arms. The Saracens from the East had landed in Italy, and were marching on Rome. Duke Namo waited scarcely an hour before he set out for the place of meeting, and Roland and Ogier went in his train.

Of that swift march and of the mighty army I will not speak. In one short week the mountains were crossed, and Charlemagne was face to face with his heathen foe.

The advance guard of the army was given to Duke Namo to command, and behind him, on a rise of ground where they could watch the battle, were his esquires. Should the duke become unhorsed, or should he lose any of his weapons, it was for them to rush to his assistance. In the forefront of the army rode Charlemagne, and at his right hand rode Alary, a knight of Lombardy, to whom the emperor had given the Oriflammes, or royal standard, to bear, for the battle was taking place in the province of Lombardy. This was the greatest honor knight could have, but Alary proved himself sadly unworthy of it.

When the combat was at its height, one division of the army became separated from the rest, so that Charlemagne was in danger and the outcome of the fight in that place was uncertain. All of a sudden the esquires saw Alary lower his banner and turn his horse in flight, leaving Charlemagne and a few brave knights alone in the midst of a band of Saracens.

Right into the arms of the esquires Alary rode, fleeing blindly and caring not where he went if only he could escape from the battle. But Ogier had seen his cowardly act, and he seized his bridle and stopped him, crying: "Stop, Alary! Are you conquered? Where is the king? How have ye left him?"

"The king is taken. The French are cut off and killed," wailed Alary in terror.

"You lie. Rather have you failed him in his hour of peril," cried Ogier, and he tore off Alary's armor, felling him with a blow of his fist, and put it on with all speed, calling to his fellow esquires to follow his example.

"Shame be on any, Ogier, who shall fail thee!" they cried, and they fell upon the retreating Lombard who had followed Alary, and armed themselves from their weapons as best they might. He who could not find a lance broke a staff of apple tree or ash. Their linen shirts they tore for pennons, and Ogier rode at the head in ill-fitting armor, but bearing the royal standard with its golden cords, and next to him rode Roland.

When the esquires reached the place where Charlemagne had been, they could not see him, for the center of the battle had changed and the emperor had been driven from his stand by the onrush of the enemy. When they reached him he was in the midst of the Saracens, who had come upon him from behind, and he and his trusty band of knights were in grave peril. But their hearts were glad when they heard the cry of Ogier and saw the Oriflammes once more. When the enemy had fallen back a little, Charlemagne found a moment to ride to his standard bearer and say to him, "Brave Alary, I thought thou hadst failed me, but now I see that it is to thee I owe my safety!"

Ogier made no reply,—indeed there was no time,—but plunged once more into the thick of battle, and ere long the Saracens were fleeing in every direction and the heathen horde had been defeated.

Then the Archbishop Turpin laid aside his armor, and standing beside the emperor, gave thanks to God for the victory he had given them. When he had finished, Ogier came in his heavy armor to lay the Oriflammes at the feet of the emperor, and behind him walked a company of warriors who were burdened by their ill-fitting armor. Ogier knelt before Charlemagne, who embraced him, calling him Alary, from his armor, and thanked him for his aid in the moment of danger. But Roland, his nephew, could no longer abide this error. He threw off his helmet and unfastened that of Ogier, and all the young esquires that stood with them did likewise.

No chronicler has ever been able to picture the astonishment and joy of the great emperor as he looked upon these youthful warriors. There on the battle field he had the soldiers lay a rude altar, whereon were placed two shining swords. The archbishop blessed the weapons, and the emperor bade Ogier and Roland kneel before him. With his famous sword, Joyeuse, Charlemagne dealt them each the accolade, which is to say, three blows on the shoulder.

Then Charlemagne called: "Rise, Sir Ogier; rise, Sir Roland, henceforth my loyal knights."

With his own hands he girt on their swords. That was a great honor for these knights.

The name of the sword of Ogier was Cortana, and of Roland, Durindana. In a dream Charlemagne had been told of this sword Durindana which should come to him, how it had once belonged to Hector, prince of Troy, and had been carried by a long line of valiant heroes since that day. And the closing words of that message were: "This sword belongs only to a right valiant captain. See that it goes to him." Now the emperor deemed Roland worthy to carry it.

Then Duke Namo fastened silver spurs on both knights, for they had already won them by their service on their first battle field.

So were Roland and Ogier made knights.

There was a custom in the olden days that when there was cause to war between two kingdoms each might choose, if they both so willed, a champion who should meet in single combat the knight chosen by the enemy. Thus would the honor of both parties be satisfied, and long and bloody war be averted.

Such a combat was agreed upon to settle the dispute which had arisen between Charlemagne and one of his Italian vassals; and Roland, who was by this time a full-fledged warrior, was so fortunate as to be chosen for Charlemagne, while one of the Italian lord's grandsons drew the lot to fight for his province. The meeting place was to be an island in a river that ran between Italy and France.

When the appointed day came, Roland was escorted by the knights of Charlemagne to the bank of the river, and rowed out to the island amid the shouts and cheers of the throng that lined the shores. From the other side of the stream came the Italian champion, and there on that island they met. When those two knights faced each other, clad in the heavy armor that covered them from head to foot, the crowds that lined the shores could not have told, save for the color of the pennons that waved from their lances, which was the French champion and which the Italian, so nearly matched were they in size.

The trumpet sounded, and before the sound of that blast had died away the champions had dashed forward on their steeds, with lances in position, clashed together with a force that shivered both lances and made their horses reel, and passed each other. The first great test of knightly combat had been passed, and neither champion had been unhorsed.

Now they dismounted and drew their swords. For two long hours and more they fought, and neither missed a stroke nor failed to parry a thrust. Those who watched on the shore had never seen such sword play, nor two champions so equally matched. One would think they would be weary, but they leaped to their blows as though they were fresh to the combat. While they marveled at Roland's skill, the men of France trembled lest some blow from the sword of this stranger knight should throw the fair pennon of Charlemagne in the dust. And the Italians, as they cheered, whispered one to another in fear lest their hero had met his match.

Suddenly Roland drove forward with so mighty a stroke that he buried his sword Durindana in the shield of his opponent. It went so deep that he could not withdraw it. At the same moment his antagonist struck so fiercely against Roland's breastplate that his sword snapped off at the hilt. Thus were both warriors left weaponless.

Without a pause they rushed upon each other, each striving to throw the other to the ground. Long they struggled, and neither could down the other. Those who watched scarce moved or breathed as they saw that combat. Finally each snatched at the other's helmet to tear it away. Both succeeded, and the two champions stood bareheaded. Then the men of France and of Italy saw a sight that they could scarce credit. Those two knights, who had fought with all their might for two long hours and more, rushed into each other's arms and embraced. The watchers thought it was some new and deadly move; but no! they stood off and gazed into each other's eyes, and once more they embraced.

Then the knight of Italy shouted in ringing tones, "I yield me to Roland."

And Roland called even more loudly, "I am conquered by Oliver."

And so it was! The stranger knight was Oliver, the friend of Roland's boyhood, from whom he had been separated since that winter day when Charlemagne had passed through the little Italian village and found there his nephew. Now they had fought with one another in deadly combat for nearly three hours.

The knights of France and Italy came with haste to see wherefore the battle had ceased. Some urged that it was the duty of the two champions to renew their strife to settle their countries' quarrel; but neither would hear to it.

"Not for country, nor cause, nor king will I fight the friend of my life," said Roland, and Oliver was with him.

A truce of four days was declared, in which Charlemagne and his rebellious lord should confer through their knights and see whether other champions should be chosen; but in that time, by the efforts of Roland and Oliver, the dispute was peacefully settled. The two friends refused to part, and Charlemagne took Oliver as one of his peers, for he had proven himself worthy of the highest honors of knighthood. Henceforth Roland could not hold his proud place as the best of Charlemagne's knights, but he cared not for that, since he and his beloved Oliver were but equally matched, and neither could do better than the other. So well matched were they that when people of the court would tell that one thing was the equal of another, they said: "They are the same. It matters not which it is. 'Tis but a Roland for an Oliver." And it is from those days that the saying has come down to us.