“The king is killed!”
The report was like a death-knell to the Swedes, but only for a moment.
The king’s horse with an empty saddle was seen galloping wildly down the road.
“Lead us again to the attack,” the leaders demanded of George of Saxe-Weimar.
The spirit of the dead king seemed to infuse the little army with more than human valor. The men fought as though they were resolved to give their lives to their cause. The memory of the king’s words in the morning thrilled them. Nothing could stand before such heroism. Pappenheim fell. The Imperialists were routed. The Swedes at night, victorious, possessed the field, but they had lost the bravest of kings, and one of the most unselfish of rulers.
“We left Stockholm for Upsala, the student city. The paddles of the boat brushed along the waters of the Mälar; the old city retreated from view, and landscape after landscape of variegated beauty rose before us.
“The Mälar Lake is margined with dark pines, bright meadows and fields, light green linden-trees, gray rocks, and shadowy woods. Here and there are red houses among the lindens.
“We pass flat-bottomed boats, that dance about in the current made by the steamer.
“The hills of Upsala come into view. The University next appears, like a palace; then a palace indeed, red like the houses; then the gabled town.
“We went to the church, and were conducted into a vaulted chamber where were crowns and sceptres taken from the coffins of dead kings. We wandered along the aisle after leaving the treasure-room of the dead, and gazed on cold tombs and dusty frescos.