Bourbon was there with his lanz-knechts, his German reiters, and his Burgundian lances. At his right and left wing were Von Frundsberg and Sittich. Fierce and terrible was the joy that lighted up the duke's haughty features at that moment. He saw the king, who had so deeply wronged him. He saw him surrounded with his peerless knights and nobles. Chaumont was there, the Marshal de Foix, Lambese, Lavedan, the Grand Master of France, and a hundred other noble knights. There also was the hated Bonnivet. He could crush them all. After gazing at them as the eagle gazes ere swooping upon its prey, Bourbon gave word to charge. The trumpets sounded, and the Burgundian lances and German reiters dashed on, shouting loudly, “Vive Bourbon!” Clearing the ground between them and the foe, they burst like a thunder-cloud upon the French men-at-arms and knights. Tremendous was the splintering of lances--loud the rattle of musketry--sharp the clash of swords. But the squadron gathered round the king was broken in six places, and could not rally. In the terrific mêlée that ensued, half the gallant knights whom Bourbon had seen were slain. Chaumont was transfixed in the charge--Lavedan cut down--the Grand Master buried beneath a heap of dead. Vainly the king and those near him essayed to rally the men. They were panic-stricken, and could not be got together again. If the strife was not yet over, the victory was won, and the decisive blow had been given by Bourbon. XI. HOW BONNIVET WAS SLAIN BY BOURBON. |The lanz-knechts and Burgundians were now wholly occupied in making prisoners and slaughtering the foe. Heaps of slain lay thick on all sides, the plain was deluged in blood, and the knights rode over the dead and dying. It was at this terrible crisis that the king's eye, ranging over the field, caught Bonnivet, who instantly rode up to him. “What orders, sire?” he demanded. “Hence!” cried François. “Quit my sight for ever. This is your work.” “Sire,” rejoined Bonnivet, “if I have done wrong it has been unwittingly. Let me die by your side.” “No, I will not have you near me,” cried François. “Away, false traitor, away!” “Sire, by Heaven I am no traitor!” rejoined Bonnivet. “But I will not long survive your displeasure.” And, without a word more, he dashed into the thick of the enemy. He had not been gone more than a minute, when the Marshal de Foix rode up, his left arm shattered, his armour sullied, and his steed covered with gore. From his ghastly looks it was evident he was mortally wounded, but he had still strength enough to sit his horse. “Where is Bonnivet, sire?” he demanded. “I thought I saw him with you.” “He is gone,” rejoined the king. “What would you with him?”