" Never shall sweet France be so dishonored. One hundred
thousand blows shall I give with my sword, my Durendal,
and the Moors will fall and die 1 "

When Olivier found his pleading vain, he mounted his
steed and rode with Roland to the front of the lines.
Long was the fight and terrible. If gallantry and strength
sat with the twelve peers and their followers, they were with
their opponents as well. No sooner had Roland, or Olivier, '
or Turpin, or Engelier cleft the body of a Moorish knight
down to the saddle, than down fell a Christian, his helmet
broken, his hauberk torn by the lance of his dreaded foe.
The nephew of Marsile fell by the hand of Roland, who
taunted him as he lay in death ; Olivier struck down Mar-
sile's brother. " A noble stroke I " cried Roland.
" A baron's stroke 1 " exclaimed the archbishop, as Sam-
sun pierced the Almazour with his lance and he fell dead.
Olivier spurred over the field, crushing the pagans and beat-
ing them down with his broken lance.
" Comrade, where is thy sword, thy Halteclere ? " called
Roland to his friend.
200 NATIONAL EPICS.
" Here, but I lack time to draw it/' replied the doughty
Olivier.
More than a thousand blows struck Turpin ; the pagans
fell by hundreds and by thousands, and over the field lay
scattered those who would nevermore see sweet France.
Meanwliile, in France, hail fell and rain ; the sky was
vivid with lightning bolts. The earth shook, and the land
lay in darkness at noonday. None understood the portent.
Alas ! it was Nature's grief at the death of Count Roland.
