"Shame be to him that flees!" said the warriors who heard him.

Bewildered and amazed at sight of so terrible an array of Pagans,
Oliver descended from the tree.

"Brother Roland," said he, "I pray thee blow thy horn. The king will
hear it, and he will turn him about and come to our succor."

"To do so would be to act as a craven," answered Roland. "Never shall
it be said that I feared a foe. I will strike strong strokes with my
sword, Durandal. Ill shall it fare with the Pagan traitors."

"Comrade Roland," again said Oliver, "now blow thy horn. Charlemagne
will hear it, and he will make his host return."

"Never," answered Roland, "shall my kinsmen upbraid me, or be blamed
for me. But I will strike with Durandal. The brand which the king
gave me when he knighted me, that shall be our succor."

Then Oliver prayed him the third time, "Comrade Roland, sound now thine
ivory horn. Charlemagne, who is passing the gates, will hear us and
come to our aid."

"No man shall ever say," answered Roland, "that I have blown my horn
for Pagans. My kinsmen shall not bear that reproach. But when the
great battle is joined, then you shall see the lightning flashes of
Durandal in the thickest of the fight. A thousand and seven hundred
times shall the blade be dyed in the blood of the Moors. Better would
it be to perish than suffer shame."