one must be ready to suffer cold and heat, hunger and
thirst, and cheerfully shed his blood and endure every ill. Strike
with your lance, Oliver, as I shall strike with Durendal, the sword
which was given me by the King himself. And if I am slain, the man who
wins it may say, "it was the sword of a noble vassal."'

Then from a little hill Turpin the Archbishop spoke to them. 'Charles
has left us here; he is our King, and it is our duty to die for him.
Christianity is in danger, and you must defend it. You cannot escape a
battle; then fight, and ask God's pardon for your sins. In His Name, I
will give you absolution, and already they wait for you in Paradise.'
The Franks got off their horses and knelt on the ground, and the
Archbishop blessed them. After this they mounted again, and placed
themselves in order of battle.

Like lightning Roland on his horse Veillantif swept along the defiles,
his face bright and smiling, his lance in rest. Oliver his friend was
close behind him, and the Franks said to each other, 'Look at our
champion!' He glanced proudly at the Infidels, but when his eyes fell
upon the Franks they were soft and gentle. 'Go slowly, noble barons,'
said he; 'the Unbelievers to-day are seeking their martyrdom, and you
will find richer booty than ever King of France did before.'

'Words of mine are useless,' said Oliver; 'you would not let Charles
know of our peril, so you cannot blame him for our danger. Ride as
hard as you can, and think only of two things, how best to give and
receive blows. And do not forget the battle cry of King Charles.'

'Montjoie! Montjoie!' shouted the Franks, as the two armies came
together with a crash.

It were long to tell of that battle and of the brave deeds that were
done both by Christians and Unbelievers. Roland was there where the
strife was hardest, and struck with his lance till the wood snapped.
Then he drew Durendal from the scabbard and drove a bloody path
through the ranks of the Infidels. Oliver and the Twelve Peers were
not far behind him, and the ground was red from the corpses of the
pagans. 'Well fought, well fought!' cried the Archbishop, 'Montjoie,
Montjoie!'

Oliver seemed to be everywhere at once. His lance was broken in two,
and there was only the head and a splinter remaining, but it dealt
more death blows than the sword of many another man. 'What are you
doing, comrade?' cried Roland, when for a moment their horses touched.
'It is not wood that is