Twenty lances were pointed at him--bullets rattled against his armour--but without doing injury to himself or his steed. Thus he retired across the bridge--ever keeping his face to the foe. A troop of horsemen followed him, but could not effect his capture. Ere many minutes, the French artillerymen were driven from their guns, and both horse and foot forced back in confusion. It was while rallying his men that the glorious career of Bayard was cut short. A bolt from a cross-bow struck him, and penetrating his armour at a point where it was weakest, lodged deeply in his side. He felt at once that the wound was mortal, and exclaimed, “Holy Jesus! I am slain!” Hearing the exclamation, De Lorges, who was nigh at hand, flew towards him, and prevented him from falling from his steed. With the assistance of some of the soldiers the wounded knight was borne from the scene of conflict, and as he was being thus removed, De Lorges inquired anxiously if he was much hurt. “Mortally,” replied Bayard. “I knew it would be so. But I have fulfilled my promise to Bonnivet. I have saved the army. It is useless to carry me farther. Lay me at the foot of yonder tree--with my face towards the foe.” It was done as he directed. “I have no priest to shrive me,” he murmured--“no crucifix to clasp--but lay my sword upon my breast. It must serve for a cross. Stay not with me,” he added to De Lorges and the soldiers. “You are needed elsewhere.” In this position he watched the conflict, and saw with anguish, greater than that of his wound, which did not extort a groan from him, that his soldiers were driven back. At the head of the victorious Imperialists rode Bourbon, sword in hand, and with his face flushed with triumph. No sooner did the conquering general perceive the wounded knight than he galloped towards him. “How fares it with you, noble chevalier?” cried Bourbon, in accents of deep commiseration. “I trust you are not badly hurt. I grieve to see you in this piteous case.” “Waste not your pity on me,” replied Bayard, sternly. “Grieve for yourself--you have more reason. I would not change places with you. I die for my country--you triumph as a rebel and a traitor.” “Beshrew your tongue, Bayard!” exclaimed Bourbon, impatiently. “I cannot listen to such language even from you. I am no more to be charged with disloyalty than was the Duke of Burgundy when fighting against Charles VII. and Louis XI. I have cast off my allegiance to your perfidious sovereign.” “But you are fighting against your country,” rejoined Bayard. “Whose blood reddens your sword? You are elated with triumph, but it were better for your soul's welfare that you were laid low like me. Your success is deplorable,--the end will be terrible.” “Hear me, Bayard!” cried Bourbon. “To none other but yourself would I deign to justify myself. But we have been brothers-in-arms--we fought together at Marignano. You know the wrongs I have endured.”