But Oliver was not yet satisfied. "I have seen the Moorish host," said
he. "The mountains and the plains, the valleys and the groves, are
full of them. Never have we fought against such great odds."

"Friend and brother," answered Roland, "say not another word. The king
has left us here, with a rear-guard of twenty thousand men, and he
esteems every one of us a hero. Do thou strike with thy lance and thy
good blade Haultclear. As for me, Durandal shall serve me well. And,
if I die, men shall say, 'This sword belonged to a noble knight.'"

Then the good Archbishop Turpin rode down the ranks, holding a sword in
one hand and a crucifix in the other. "Comrades," cried he, "the king
has left us here. He trusts in us, and for him we shall die. Cry now
your sins to Heaven. Pray God's mercy, and ask His blessing."

In a moment every knight among those twenty thousand horsemen had
dismounted. Humbly and reverently every knee was bent, and every head
was bowed. And the good archbishop blessed the company in God's name.

"If ye die," said he, "ye shall have places in paradise."

Then the warriors arose, light-hearted and hopeful. They rode into the
place which is called Roncevaux, the Vale of Thorns, and there they put
themselves in battle array, and waited the onset of their foes. Roland
sat astride of his good war steed, and proudly faced the Moorish host.
In his hand he held the bared blade Durandal, pointing toward heaven.
Never was seen a more comely knight. Courteously he spoke to the
warriors about him. Then, putting spurs to his steed, he cried,--

"Comrades, ride onward! The day shall be ours!"