Scarcely had it become light when word was passed along the whole line that the assault was about to be made, and the manifestations of impatience, heretofore exhibited, were increased in a tenfold degree, the men becoming so fiercely excited that they could be scarcely restrained by their captains. While they were all eagerly awaiting the signal, a movement was made in the centre of the line, and Bourbon appeared, fully accoutred, and wearing his emblazoned surcoat over his armour. He was attended by his standard-bearer, carrying his banner, which was of yellow taffety, embroidered with flaming swords, and bearing the motto, “Espérance, Espérance.” Close behind came Pomperant, while in front ran several Spanish soldiers with a long scaling-ladder, which they reared against the wall at the appointed spot. All this was accomplished with the utmost rapidity. A charge was then sounded loudly by the trumpeters, and Bourbon, sword in hand, mounted the ladder, shouting in a loud voice, “Follow me, my brave fellows! On! on!” But he had not ascended many steps when the barrel of an arquebuss was protruded over the ramparts, and the next moment the discharge was heard. The shot struck the duke below the gorget and traversed his right side. Feeling himself mortally wounded, he made an effort to descend, but, unable to retain his hold of the ladder, he fell to the ground. As he dropped, Benvenuto Cellini, with his face lighted up by a fierce exulting smile, was seen looking down from above. “Saints be praised! the first shot has told,” cried the sculptor. “I have killed him.” As the words were uttered, a hundred bullets from the infuriated soldiers whistled about his ears, but not one hit its mark. Pomperant, who was close behind, and had just set foot on the ladder when Bourbon fell, now rushed to his wounded leader's assistance. “Are you much hurt, my lord?” he inquired, anxiously. “Mortally,” gasped Bourbon. “I have not many minutes of life left. But do not tarry with me, Pomperant. Supply my place. On! on!” “I cannot leave you thus, my dear lord,” said Pomperant, “Perhaps you are not dangerously hurt.” “I tell you I am sped,” groaned Bourbon. “My eyes are growing dim. What are the men doing? Are they mounting the ladder?” “A hundred ladders are placed against the walls, and the men are swanting up them,” rejoined Pomperant. “I cannot see them, but I hear their shouts, mingled with the rattle of arquebusses and the roar of cannon, “cried Bourbon. “Have any gained the ramparts?” “None as yet, my lord,” rejoined Pomperant. “The foremost have all been struck down, but others are pressing on.” “Where is the Prince of Orange?” asked Bourbon, anxiously. “The smoke is so thick that I cannot discern him,” replied Pomperant. “The besieged make a desperate resistance. Our men are hurled from the battlements by scores.” “But they do not give way? Others mount--ha?”