"Forget not the war cry of Charlemagne," said Oliver.

At these words the rocks and valleys rang with the cry, "Monjoie!
Monjoie!" And every warrior dashed forward to meet the foe.

Long and fierce was the fight, and terrible was the slaughter. With
heart and strength the French knights struck. The Moors were slain by
hundreds and by thousands. For a time victory seemed to be with the
French. Many and valiant were the deeds achieved by Roland and Oliver
and the archbishop and the peers that were with them. But at length
Marsilius came down upon them with a fresh troop of seven thousand
Moors. They hemmed the French heroes in on every side. Roland saw his
knights falling one by one around him. All were slain save sixty men.

"Oliver, my fair dear comrade," said he, "behold how many brave vassals
have fallen! The battle goes hard with us. If, now, we only knew how
to send news to Charlemagne, he would return and succor us."

"It is too late," answered Oliver. "Better would we die than suffer
shame."

Then said Roland, "I will sound my ivory horn. Mayhap Charlemagne, who
is passing the gates of Spain, will hear it and return."

"Do no such thing," answered Oliver. "Great shame would be upon you
and your kinsmen forever. You would not blow your horn when I advised
it, and now you shall not do so because the day is lost."

Then the archbishop rode up, and said, "The day is indeed lost, and to