Bonnivet fell to the ground at the feet of the victor. As Bourbon gazed at his noble lineaments, now disfigured and sullied with gore, a slight sentiment of compassion touched his breast. “Alas! unhappy man,” he exclaimed. “Your destiny was fatal--fatal to France and to me.” And he rode back towards the scene of strife and slaughter. XII. HOW THE KING SURRENDERED TO THE VICEROY OF NAPLES. |All the king's bravest nobles were now gone--slain or made prisoners. Already have we particularised the slain. Among the captives were the valiant Montmorency, Saint Pol, De Lorges, Laval, Ambricourt, Fleuranges, and many other illustrious personages. François alone confronted the enemy. He was wounded in three places, and his armour was hacked with many blows and stained with blood. But his prodigious strength seemed undiminished--nay, the very rage by which he was excited lent force to his arm. His blows were delivered with such fury and rapidity that his assailants seemed to fall around him on all sides. After sustaining this conflict for some time, finding his foes pressing around him he cut his way through them, and pushed his steed towards a bridge over the little river Vernacula. But ere he could reach it a shot from an arquebuss pierced the brain of his charger, and the noble animal, who had borne him so well, and who, like his master, was wounded in several places, fell to the ground. The king's assailants now made certain of capturing him alive. They were led on by a Spanish captain, Diego Avila, and Giovanni d'Urbieta, an Italian, neither of whom, however, recognised François, owing to a gash in his face, but they knew from the richness of his armour that he was a personage of the highest rank, and hoped to obtain a large ransom. Thus they now shouted loudly to him to yield, but he replied by striking at them with his sword, and as soon as he could liberate himself from his charger he renewed the attack, killing and slaying several more of his foes, among whom were Avila and Urbieta. But almost superhuman as was his force, it was impossible that he could long sustain himself against such tremendous odds. His enemies were closing around him, heavy blows were ringing against his armour, when Pomperant, who was riding near, caught sight of his towering figure amid the throng, and seeing the peril in which he stood, forced his way through the band of soldiers, shouting in a loud voice, “Hold! on your lives! It is the king!” “The king!” exclaimed the soldiers, falling back at the announcement. Most opportune was the rescue. In another minute François, who disdained to save his life by proclaiming himself, would have been laid low. Taking advantage of the pause, Pomperant flung himself from his steed, and prostrating himself before the king, who, with his reeking sword in hand, fiercely confronted his assailants.