made up the Order of the Paladins
of Charlemagne, together with an army of 20,000 men.

The drums beat to arms in Saragossa's town, the tambours roll, the
tabors sound, and 400,000 men attend the call of King Marsil. From a
neighboring height Sir Olivier observes this countless host approaching.
He calls to Roland to blow his ivory horn and bring back the emperor.
Roland refuses, and the Franks prepare to fight; not, however, before on
bended knee they receive the archbishop's benediction and a promise of
paradise to all who die in this holy war against the pagan foe. With the
old French battle-cry, "Mont-joie! Mont-joie!" the Christians dash the
rowels into their steeds and close with the enemy. Homer does not relate
a bloodier fight than that which follows, and which takes eighty-six
stanzas, or fifty of Mr. O'Hagan's pages, to describe. Again and again
the Christians charge the Saracens. What deeds the great sword Durindana
did that day! The slain lie in thousands; the Saracens flee; and in the
pursuit all are killed save _one_, who reaches Saragossa. The triumph,
however, is short-lived; Ganelon had decreed that Roland must die, and
so a mightier army than before marches forth to exterminate Roland's
handful, now reduced to 300.

During this battle a terrible storm passes over France,--thunder and
whirlwinds, rain and hail, there came.

The people thought that the end of the world had come, but this was only
a foreshadowing of Roland's death. At last all the nobles are killed
except Roland, Olivier, the archbishop, and sixty men. Then only will
Roland deign to blow his horn. Charlemagne hears it thirty leagues away,
and orders his army to return to Roncesvalles. Ganelon alone seeks to
dissuade him, and is put in chains by the desire of the nobles, who
suspect him. The army of Charles hurries back, but all too late. They
will not arrive in time. Away in the Pass of Cizra, Roland looks around
on his dead comrades and weeps. He returns to Olivier's side, who is
engaged in a hand-to-hand encounter with King Marsil's uncle, the Moslem
prince, Algalif, from whom he receives his death-wound. Olivier reels in
his saddle, his eyes are dimmed with blood, and as he strikes madly
about with his spear, he smashes Roland's helmet. The friend of Olivier
is astonished, but soft and low he speaks to him thus:

"'Hast thou done it, my comrade, wittingly?
Roland who loves thee so dear am I.
Thou hast no quarrel with me t