The two armies met on undulating ground, descending from the chain of the Pyrenees in front of the Pass of Roncesvalles--through which the French had marched into Spain confident of victory--a close and terrible defile, narrow and deep, cleft into precipitous cliffs following from St. Jean de Luz and the defile of Guvarni on the French side, among almost impassable gorges, which back the city of Pampeluna close on the province of Cantabria, the land of Pelayo. As a forest of lances and spears set on a plain of gold did the glittering helmets look from afar in the radiance of the sunshine, darkened by clouds of arrows, and the blades of javelins and lances cutting the light of day as the ranks closed in deadly strife of quivering spears and flying pennons falling round wounded horses, the blast of trumpets and cries of dying men. And gallantly did the King of Leon bear himself, the jewelled crown on his _morion_ shining out in the thick of the battle, Favila and Ricardo fighting by his side, when lo! a company of Gallic lords bore down with such force as to leave the king alone, face to face with a knight in dark armour, taller than the rest, a steel helmet pressing on his fiery eyes, and the bars of his vizor raised that all might know him, as he brandished a sword no other man could wield. “Where,” cries this terrible paladin known as Sir Roland the Brave, flashing fire as he whirls his good sword Durindana in the air, “is that perjured Goth, Alonso of Leon, who bids strangers to his land and seeks to slay them?” “If you mean me,” answers Alonso, spurring forward, “I am here to answer the charge.” “Then make short shrift, false king,” cries Roland, “for traitor and felon you are to Charlemagne, and as such you shall die.” In courage the king is not wanting, but he stands almost alone; several of the knights about him are dismounted, and swarms of the enemy are gathering about them where they lie. Already the swords strike fire, but he is soon in evil plight; Durindana has cleft the crown on his head-piece and wounded his good charger. The weakness of his blows show that he is no match for such an antagonist. Alonso staggers in the saddle, when Bernardo, pounding through the centre of the Gothic knights as with the shock of a thunderbolt, spurs forward. “Shame on you, Sir Paladin,” he shouts, “as a craven. Are you blind, that you see not the king’s arm is stiff with age? Turn now the fury of your weapon on me, Bernardo del Carpio.” “I know you not, vain boy,” is the reply, eyeing Bernardo with disdain. “Get you a beard upon your chin before you feel the steel of Durindana.” “Come on!” shouts Bernardo, glaring at him through the bars of his helmet. “I promise you, you shall know me all too soon for your glory. I am a man in search of death.” The onslaught is so furious that blood flows in the first encounter; the horses are disabled by the shock. To extricate themselves is the work of a moment, and on their feet they fight.