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?”

“Slay him—slay him with this sword dyed in the blood of our enemies,” rejoined De Foix. “It is he who has brought this dire calamity on France. But for him this disastrous battle would not have been fought. If I can slay him, I shall die content. Where is he, sire? Show him to me.”

“Ride from the battle while you can, and seek a surgeon—'twere best,” said the king.

“No, I will first slay Bonnivet,” rejoined De Foix.

“Then seek him yonder,” said the king, pointing to the thickest part of the strife.

And while De Foix rode off, he himself renewed the combat. Scarcely knowing whither he was going, De Foix was quickly surrounded by several Burgundian lances, when he found himself confronted by a knight in black armour.

“Yield you, De Foix?” said this knight. And, raising his visor, he disclosed the features of Bourbon.

“I yield,” replied the other. “But you had better let your men finish me. There is not an hour's life in me.”

“Nay, I trust you are not so badly hurt as that,” said Bourbon. “Let him be taken at once to Pavia and carefully tended. Captain Castaldo, I give him in your charge.”

“Bourbon,” said De Foix, “I will forgive you all the wrong you have done to France, if you will slay Bonnivet.”

“'Tis he I seek,” rejoined Bourbon. “Is he with the king?”

“No,” replied De Foix. “He has gone in that direction,” pointing to another part of the field.

“Then I will find him, if he be not slain,” said Bourbon. “Heaven grant he may be reserved for my hand!”

And, renewing his orders to Castaldo, he rode off.

Casting his eyes round the field of battle, and glancing at the numerous groups of combatants, he discerned a French noble engaged in a conflict with three or four lanz-knechts. From the richness of his armour he knew it to be Bonnivet, and spurred towards him. Before he came up the Admiral had slain one of his assailants, and put the others to flight, and was about to ride off. When Bourbon called out to him, he immediately wheeled round.

“At last I have found you,” cried the duke, with a fierce laugh. “You cannot escape me now.”

“What! is it Bourbon?” cried Bonnivet, glancing at him.

“Ay,” replied the other. “Your mortal enemy. Back on your lives!” he added to the Burgundian lances. “I must settle this matter alone. You see that the victory is won,” he added to Bonnivet, “and you know what that means. FranÇois has lost the Milanese, and will lose his kingdom.”

“France will never be yours, vile traitor and rebel,” cried Bonnivet, in an access of rage. “You shall never boast of your triumph over the king. I will avenge him!”

And animated with the deadliest fury of hate, he attacked Bourbon.

The conflict was terrible, but brief. By a tremendous downward blow Bourbon struck his adversary's weapon from his grasp, and then, seizing his arm thrust the point of his sword into his throat above the gorget.

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.