The best version to refer to is that which has been given almost word for word, from the original text, by M.Leon Gaultier, in his beautiful work, so justly crowned by the _Academie des Inscriptions et Belles-lettres, on Lee Epopees Francaises_.
In 778 Charlemagne was returning from a great expedition in Spain, during which, after having taken Pampeluna, he had failed before Saragossa, and had not considered himself called upon to prolong his struggle with the Arab Mussulmans.

He with the main body of his army had crossed the Pyrenees, leaving as rearguard a small division under his nephew Roland, prefect of the Marches of Brittany, Anselm, count of the palace, Oliver, Roland's comrade, Archbishop Turpin, and several other warriors of renown.

When they arrived at the little valley of Roncesvalles, between the defiles of Sizer and Val Carlos, this rearguard was unexpectedly attacked by thousands of Basque mountaineers, who were joined by thousands of Arabs eager to massacre and plunder the Christians and Franks, who, indeed, perished to a man in this ambuscade.

"The news of this disaster," says Eginhard, in his Annales, "obscured the glory of the successes the king had but lately obtained in Spain." This fact, with large amplifications, became the source of popular legends and songs, which, probably towards the end of the eleventh century, became embodied in the _Song of Roland,_ attributed, in two manuscripts, but without any certainty, to a certain Thuroulde (Turold), Abbot of Malmesbury and Peterborough under William the Conqueror.

It must suffice to reproduce here only the most beautiful and most characteristic passages of this little national epopee, a truly Homeric picture of the quasi-barbarous times and manners of knightly Christendom.
The eighty-second strophe of the poem commences thus: "'Of Paynim yonder, saw I more,' Quoth Oliver, 'than e'er before The eye of man hath seen An hundred thousand are a-field, With helm and hauberk, lance and shield, And pikes and pike-heads gleaming bright; Prepare for fight, a fiercer fight Than ever yet hath been.
Blow Olifant, friend Roland, blow, That Charles and all his host may know.' "To whom Sir Roland in reply: 'A madman, then, good faith, were I For I should lose all countenance Throughout the pleasant land of France Nay, rather, facing great and small, I'll smite amain with Durandal, Until the blade, with blood that's spilt, Is crimson to the golden hilt.' 'Friend Roland, sound a single blast Ere Charles beyond its reach hath passed.' 'Forbid it, God,' cried Roland, then, 'It should be said by living men That I a single blast did blow For succor from a Paynim foe!' When Roland sees what moil will be, Lion nor pard so fierce as he.
"Archbishop Turpin looks around, Then forward pricks to higher ground He halts, he speaks; the French give ear: 'Lords barons, Charles hath left us here, And for our king we're bound to die; For him maintain the Christian cause; Behold! how near the battle draws; Behold! where yonder Paynim lie; Confess to God; and I will give Absolvement, that your souls may live.
Pure martyrs are ye if ye fall; And Paradise awaits ye all.' "Down leap the French, on bended knee They fall for benison; and he Doth lay on all a penance light-- To strike their hardest in the fight.
"The French have risen to their feet; They leap upon their chargers fleet; Into the defiles rides their chief On his good war-horse, Veillantif.
O, in his harness he looks grand! On, on he goes with lance on high Its tip is pointed to the sky; It bears a snow-white pennon, and Its golden fringes sweep his hand.
He scans the foe with haughty glance, With meek and sweet the men of France 'Lords barons, gently, gently ride; Yon Paynim rush to suicide; No king of France could ever boast The wealth we'll strip from yonder host.' And as the words die off his lips, Christian and Paynim are at grips.
"A wondrous fight! The men of France Thrust fiercely with the burnished lance! O, 'twas a sight of grief and dread, So many wounded, bleeding, dead! On back or face together they, One on another falling, lay! The Paynim cannot choose but yield, And, willy-nilly, quit the field The eager French are on their track, With lances pointed at the back.