Meanwhile, the king had thrown himself into the thickest of the fight. His lance having long since been broken, he had drawn his trenchant sword, and, like a paladin of old, dealt blows right and left, and did not refuse a hand-to-hand combat when offered him. Already, as we have shown, he had slain Castrioto, and now several others fell by his hand. Among them was a knight from the Franche Comté, named Andelot, with whom François had a long conflict. While drawing breath after this encounter, he heard shouts on the right, and, turning at the sound, beheld the flying bands of the Swiss mercenaries. “Great Heavens!” he exclaimed, in mingled amazement and indignation, “what means that rush of men?” “The Swiss are retreating, sire--shamefully retreating--almost without a blow,” rejoined Bonnivet, who was near him. “Ha, dastards! ha, traitors! do they desert me thus!” cried the king, furiously. “Come with me, Bonnivet.” And spurring his steed, he dashed after the flying Swiss, striving to rally them, but his efforts were in vain. At the same juncture, the Duke d'Alençon, alarmed by the destruction of the Black Bands, the rout of the right wing, and the disorder of the main body, sounded a retreat, and withdrew ingloriously from the field. Vainly did La Roche du Maine, his lieutenant, and the Baron de Trans, try to turn him from his fatal resolution. Finding him immovable, they threw themselves into the main body, towards which the efforts of the enemy were now directed. Once more the lion-hearted king made a tremendous charge against the Spanish cavalry, led on by Pescara. For a moment it seemed as if this charge would turn the tide of victory, so great was the havoc it occasioned. Pescara himself was wounded by a sword-cut in the cheek, stricken from his steed, and trampled under foot by the enemy. With difficulty he was rescued by his men, and dragged out of the way. Lannoy again brought on his Neapolitans, and was repulsed with heavy loss. The battle now raged furiously, and the din of arms Was as if a thousand smiths were at work, mingled with the rattle of arquebusses, the shrieks of wounded horses, and the shouts, curses, and groans of the combatants. Terrible was the carnage. On all sides could be seen the bravest and noblest of the French chivalry flocking towards the king's standard, resolved to win the day or perish with him, for his actions showed that he would never retire. But the decisive moment had come. Pescara was down, and severely wounded as we have seen, and his squadron shattered by the last charge of the king. Lannoy, who had advanced to sustain him, was likewise repulsed. For a brief space the heroic king persuaded himself that he could retrieve his losses, but his exultation was speedily quelled. He saw a dense dark mass gathering in front that threatened to overwhelm him.