Presently the sound of the enemies’ horses was heard, and before long the two armies had encountered each other. Lances were shattered--the field wras covered with fragments of arms and armour. Death had made a speedy harvest, and riderless horses were galloping hither and thither, amid the groans and cries of the wounded. Everywhere destruction was being dealt out. At the head of the Saracens rode Arroth, nephew of Marsillus. “By Allah! Charlemagne must be childish to give the command of the rear-guard of his forces to Roland.” The Count of Mans heard him, but answered not. Lance in rest, he rode down on him. Good heavens! what a thrust!--nothing could resist it. It clave the shield of the nephew of the King of Saragossa, pierced his chest, broke his spine, and pinned him to the earth. Fauseron, brother of King Marsillus, beheld Miton, and shouted to him--“Your Emperor, Charlemagne, must be sorely jealous of the fame of his knights, to send them to be slaughtered thus.” Miton dashed at him with uplifted blade, and dealt him three terrific wounds: a partridge might have flown through any one of them with ease. “You lie, knave!” cried the father of Mitaine; “our Charles is the bravest of the brave, and whoever questions it shall die the death of a dog--as you die!” Anseis charged at Turgis of Toulouse, and ran him through with his lance. The white pennon was stained crimson with the thrust. But I should never finish if I told you all the wonderful blows they interchanged. At last the spear of Roland shivered. He drew Durandal and rushed into the thickest of the fight, slicing off heads with his sword as easily as a pigeon severs the heads of millet with its sharp beak. The fury of the combat was redoubled. The Franks performed prodigies of valour, but the Saracens seemed never to tire of being slaughtered. No sooner were thirty thousand Pagans stretched on the earth than thirty thousand more offered themselves for slaughter. The swords were blunted with repeated blows, but the strength of the heroes wearied not. How many Christians had received the crown of martyrdom! Yonder they lay, trampled under the horses’ hoofs, while their mothers, their wives, their daughters were, perchance, singing cheerily as they awaited their return. At length came a time when there were no more Saracens left to kill. Of a hundred thousand Pagans but two survived. “Mountjoy St. Denis!” resounded over the field. But lo! King Marsillus arrived with the main body. They had only encountered the advanced guard! “Brethren,” said Turpin, pointing to the Saracens with his mace, “yonder comes our death-struggle. Let us be polite, and go meet it; we shall only be in Paradise the sooner!” and he rode off as swiftly as if he bestrode a swallow. “Shame, false friend, to outstrip me!” cried Roland, spurring Veillantif. “Bishop, do not perish without e!” Once more the contest raged furiously. Turpin perceived Abyme, the most unbelieving Pagan of them all.