fight these heathen for our country and
our faith."

As Oliver heard the sounds of battle come nearer, he climbed to the
top of the hill, so that he could see far over the country. There
before him he saw the Saracens marching in pride. Their helmets,
inlaid with gold, gleamed in the sun. Gaily painted shields, hauberks
of shining steel, spears and pennons waved and shone, rank upon rank
in countless numbers.

Quickly Oliver came down from the hill, and went back to the Frankish
army. "I have seen the heathen," he said to Roland. "Never on earth
hath such a host been gathered. They march upon us many hundred
thousand strong, with shield and spear and sword. Such battle as
awaiteth us have we never fought before."

"Let him be accursed who fleeth!" cried the Franks. "There be few
among us who fear death."

"It is Ganelon the felon, who hath betrayed us," said Oliver, "let him
be accursed."

"Hush thee, Oliver," said Roland; "he is my stepsire. Let us hear no
evil of him."

"The heathen are in fearful force," said Oliver, "and our Franks are
but few. Friend Roland, sound upon thy horn. Then will Charlemagne
hear and return with all his host to help us."

For round Roland's neck there hung a magic horn of carved ivory. If he
blew upon this in case of need, the sound of it would be carried over
hill and dale, far, far onward. If he sounded it now, Charlemagne
would very surely hear, and return from his homeward march.

But Roland would not listen to Oliver. "Nay," he said, "I should
indeed be mad to sound upon my horn. If I call for help, I, Roland, I
should lose my fame in all fair France. Nay, I will not sound, but
I shall strike such blows with my good sword Durindal that the blade
shall be red to the gold of the hilt. Our Franks, too, shall strike
such blows that the heathen shall rue the day. I tell thee, they be
all dead men."

"Oh Roland, friend, wind thy horn," pleaded Oliver. "To the ear of
Charlemagne shall the sound be borne, and he and all his knights will
return to help us."

"Now Heaven forbid that my kin should ever be pointed at in scorn
because of me," said Roland, "or that fair France should fall to such
dishonor. No! I will not sound upon my horn, but I shall strike such
blows with my sword Durindal that the blade shall be dyed red in the
blood of the heathen."

In vain Oliver implored. "I see no dishonor shouldst thou wind thy
horn," he said, "for I have beheld the Saracen host. The vall