Mitaine had caught sight of the King of Saragossa, and made direct for him, without looking right or left. Miton, whose headlong courage had carried him into the ranks of the foe, was beside her, surrounded by the Saracens. He was striking out right and left at random, thinking only to hack and hew the bodies of Pagans. Alas for the double misfortune! Mitaine drew near him and her father’s sword traced a gory slash across her shoulder. She turned, and father and child recognised each other. “Is it you my father? It was a good stroke, but ‘tis wasted!” Horrified at the sight, Miton for a second forgot to defend himself. In another moment poor Mita was a widow! Meanwhile Mitaine had ridden close up to Marsillus, and rising up in her stirrups, to make sure Roland should see her, smote him on the face, crying, as loud as she was able--“Behold the King of Saragossa! Mountjoy for Charlemagne!” She could say no more. Marganice, King of Carthage, and uncle of Marsillus, dealt her a blow on the chest that was far heavier than was needed. The poor girl sank, insensible, and rolled under the horse’s hoofs, with blood gushing from her lips and nostrils. When Roland saw this, his rage overpowered him. He drew near Oliver, and said, “Brother, shall we go slay that boastful Marsillus yonder?” “It shall be done,” said the other. They dashed forward, followed by a few of the Franks still remaining on the field--Beuve, Lord of Beaune and Dijon, whose death was a sore loss to Charles--Yve, and Yvoire, and Gerard of Roussillon. Roland and Oliver penetrated farthest into the infidel ranks; at last they came within a few paces of Marsillus. “Is it you, then, whom they call the King Marsillus?” said Roland. “It is a name the Franks will not forget.” “I am called Roland. If you never knew me before you shall know me to-day;” and with that he smote off the King’s right hand as he raised it to strike. The Saracens shouted in alarm, “Mahomet preserve us!” and fled like doves before an eagle. If they had found legs to bring them thither, they had found wings to take them away. There remained on the field only a thousand Ethiopians, the forces of Marganice. They were drawn up at a distance, and seemed undecided whether to advance. Roland put his horn to his lips, and blew a blast so powerful that it echoed and re-echoed for twenty leagues around. “What are you doing?” said Oliver. “Have you lost all shame, and do you no longer fear to sound for help against Pagans?” “These are cruel words, comrade!” “Why disturb Charlemagne for such a trifle? We are three yet. If you had been less brave we should not have bequeathed this defeat to our country. If you sound the bugle on my behalf, do not trouble yourself--henceforth I do not desire to live. If for Turpin, our friend only survives by a miracle, and will be dead before any one can come to his aid. If you sound, it is for yourself; and, by Heaven’s truth! you will be a brave man to face Charlemagne.”