paynes sore," and for whose sake they had to fight the enemies of the Cross. Behind every tree and rock a Saracen seemed to be hidden, and in a moment the whole pass was alive with men in mortal strife.
Surely never in any fight were greater prodigies of valour performed than those of Roland and his comrades. Twelve Saracen kings fell before their mighty swords, and many a Saracen warrior was hurled down the cliffs to pay for the lives of the men of France whom they had trapped to their death. Never before, in one day, did one man slay so many as did Roland and Oliver his friend—"A Roland for an Oliver" was no good exchange, and yet a very fair one, as the heathen quickly learned.
"Red was Roland, red with bloodshed;
"Red his corselet, red his shoulders.
"Red his arm, and red his charger."
In the thickest of the fight he and Oliver came together, and Roland saw that his friend was using for weapon and dealing death-blows with the truncheon of a spear.
"'Friend, what hast thou there?' cried Roland.
"'In this game 'tis not a distaff,
"But a blade of steel thou needest.
"Where is now Hauteclaire, thy good sword,
"Golden-hilted, crystal-pommelled? '
"'Here,' said Oliver; 'so fight I
"That I have not time to draw it,'
"'Friend,' quoth Roland, 'more I love thee
"Ever henceforth than a brother.'"
When the sun set on that welter of blood, not a single Saracen was left, and those of the Frankish rearguard who still lived were very weary men.
