“Tell your royal master,” he said to Russell, “that the time has now arrived when it will be needful to march his army into Picardy. Fifteen days hence, at the latest, I trust to be joined by the auxiliary forces about to be despatched by the Emperor from Catalonia. By that time Marseilles will have fallen.” “Your highness feels sure of that?” remarked the English envoy, with an incredulous smile. “I am certain of it,” said Bourbon, confidently. “The besieged have made a gallant defence, but they cannot hold out much longer. My approaches are now within a few toises of the moat. I have plenty of cannon of the largest calibre, which will soon make a breach in the walls.” “But I am told by Pescara that there is an inner fosse of great depth, filled with combustibles, and a second line of ramparts with cannon mounted on the embrasures,” remarked Sir John Russell. “No matter,” rejoined Bourbon. “I will take the city in spite of its defences, and, having done so, I shall withdraw to Aix, where I shall await the arrival of the Catalonian army. On being joined by it, I shall at once march to Avignon, and compel François to give me battle. If I am victorious, your royal master will be King of France.” “It will rejoice his majesty and the Lord Cardinal to learn that your highness is so confident of success,” replied Russell. “I now take my leave, and shall return at once to England.” Sir John Russell had not long been gone, when a great noise was heard outside the tent, and, surprised at the disturbance, Bourbon rushed out to ascertain the cause of it. “What means this noise?” he demanded of several arquebusiers, who were standing around, and whose countenances manifested alarm. “Is the enemy upon us?” “Worse than that, general,” replied one of the men. “A great shot from the accursed 'Basilisk' has just fallen upon the Marquis of Pescara's tent,” pointing in that direction. “Your highness may see the rent it has made.” “Great Heavens!” ejaculated Bourbon. “But the marquis!--is he safe?” “Alas, general, I much fear he is killed,” replied the arquebusier. “He was at mass at the time with his confessor, Padre Hilario.” Bourbon heard no more, but flew to the tent. On entering it, a terrible spectacle met his gaze. On the ground lay the mangled body of Padre Hilario, and near the unfortunate priest lay two Spanish officers, one of whom had been beheaded by the huge shot. Pescara was standing near the ghastly group, so bespattered with blood that Bourbon fancied he must be grievously wounded. A strange laugh, however, from the Spanish general convinced him to the contrary.