“Sire,” cried Pomperant, in the most earnest tones he could command, “I conjure you not to struggle against fate. The battle is utterly lost, and all your valour can only end in your own destruction.” “I do not desire to survive this fatal day,” rejoined the king, fiercely. “I will not yield. If you would boast that you have slain the King of France, draw your sword and attack me.” “No, sire. I will never lift my arm against your person,” said Pomperant, respectfully. “But since you have done all that valour can achieve--since you have fought as monarch of France never fought before--since further resistance is in vain, let me implore you to yield to my master, the Duke de Bourbon.” “Yield to Bourbon! Yield to that rebel and traitor!--never!” exclaimed the king, furiously. “Wert thou not kneeling before me, villain, I would strike thee dead for daring to make the proposition to me. If I surrender to any one, it shall be to the Marquis of Pescara. He is a valiant captain, and loyal to his sovereign.” “Pescara is wounded, sire, and unable to protect you,” rejoined Pomperant. “But the Viceroy of Naples is at hand.” “Let him come to me, then,” said François. Some soldiers were instantly despatched on this errand by Pomperant, who remained standing near the king to protect him. Though smarting from his wounds, François refused all assistance; but feeling faint from loss of blood, he sat down upon the breathless body of his charger, and took off his helmet. “Fill this with water for me,” he said, giving the casque to a soldier. “I am sore athirst.” The man hurried to the river, filled the helmet, and brought it to him. François drank eagerly, and breaking off an ornament, bestowed it upon the soldier. At this moment Lannoy rode up, and, dismounting, knelt before the king, who had risen at his approach, and now assumed a dignified and majestic demeanour. When he spoke, his accents were firm, but full of sadness. “Here is my sword,” he said, delivering the bloodstained weapon to the Viceroy. “I yield myself prisoner to the Emperor your master. I might have saved myself by flight, but I would have died rather than quit the field dishonourably.” “Your majesty has held out to the latest moment,” rejoined Lannoy. “Scarce one of your soldiers but has thrown down his arms. Doubt not that you will be worthily treated by the Emperor.” Lannoy then kissed the hand graciously extended towards him, and drawing his own sword presented it to the king. “I will take the weapon, though I cannot use it,” said François. “Your wounds must be tended without delay, sire,” said the Viceroy. “You shall be transported at once to Pavia, where skilful chirurgeons can be obtained.” “No, not to Pavia,” said François, uneasily. “The inhabitants of that miserable city hate me, and with good reason, for I have shown them scant pity. Let me be taken to the Certosa, where my wounds can be dressed by the monks. They have good chirurgeons among them.”