THE BATTLE
Oliver had climbed a hill, from which he could see into the plains of Spain. ‘Roland,’ cried he, ‘do you see those shining helmets and glittering swords? It is Ganélon who has done this, and it was he who had you left here.’
‘Be silent, Oliver,’ answered Roland. ‘He is my stepfather. I will not hear him ill spoken of.’ Then Oliver went down the hill and told his soldiers what he had seen. ‘No battle will ever be like this one,’ he said; ‘you will need all your strength to keep your ground and not be driven back.’ ‘Cursed be he who runs away,’ answered they. ‘There is not one of us but knows how to die.’
‘The Infidels are many,’ said Oliver again, ‘and our Franks are but few. Koland, blow your horn; Charles will hear it and come to our help.’
‘You are mad to say that,’ replied Roland, ‘for in France I should lose all my glory. No; but my sword Durendal knows how to strike, and our Franks will fight hard, and with what joy! It was an ill day for the Unbelievers when they came here, for none, I tell you, none will escape.’
‘The Unbelievers are many,’ said Oliver again, ‘and we are very few. Roland, my friend, sound your horn; Charles will hear it, and come to our help.’
‘I should be mad if I did so,’ answered Roland. ‘In France, when they knew it, I should lose all my glory! No; but my sword Durendal knows how to strike, and
