Great was the fray that day, deadly was the combat, as the Moors and Franks crashed together, shouting their cries, invoking their gods or saints, wielding with utmost courage sword, lance, javelin, scimitar, or dagger. Blades flashed, lances were splintered, helms were cloven in that terrible fight of heroes. Each of the Twelve Peers did mighty feats of arms. Roland himself slew the nephew of King Marsile, who had promised to bring Roland's head to his uncle's feet, and bitter were the words that Roland hurled at the lifeless body of his foe, who had but just before boasted that Charlemagne should lose his right hand. Oliver slew the heathen king's brother, and one by one the Twelve Peers proved their mettle on the twelve champions of King Marsile, and left them dead or mortally wounded on the field. Wherever the battle was fiercest and the danger greatest, where help was most needed, there Roland spurred to the rescue, swinging Durendala, and, falling on the heathen like a thunderbolt of war, turned the tide of battle again and yet again. "Red was Roland, red with bloodshed: Red his corselet, red his shoulders, Red his arm, and red his charger." Like the red god Mars he rode through the battle; and as he went he met Oliver, with the truncheon or a spear in his grasp. "'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-pommeled?' '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.'" The Saracens Perish Thus the battle continued, most valiantly contested by both sides, and the Saracens died by hundreds and thousands, till all their host lay dead but one man, who fled wounded, leaving the Frenchmen masters of the field, but in sorry plight--broken were their swords and lances, rent their hauberks, torn and blood-stained their gay banners and pennons, and many, many of their brave comrades lay lifeless. Sadly they looked round on the heaps of corpses, and their minds were filled with grief as they thought of their companions, of fair France which they should see no more, and of their emperor who even now awaited them while they fought and died for him. Yet they were not discouraged; loudly their cry re-echoed, "Montjoie! Montjoie!" as Roland cheered them on, and Turpin called aloud: "Our men are heroes; no king under heaven has better. It is written in the Chronicles of France that in that great land it is our king's right to have valiant soldiers." A Second Saracen Army