The officers who filled the chamber were silent; then one of them drew Louis to the door of an inner room which had been a monk's cell.
This little apartment was flooded with light which poured through the dancing green branches of the fruit trees without and was musical with the evening song of birds.
The only furniture was a chair, a table, and a bed.
On the chair was a splendid stained sword, on the table a black casque with a flame-like plume, and on the bed something wrapped in the banner with the Nassau device which had waved that morning at the head of Adolphus' little troop of horse.
Louis could read quite plainly the words, "Nunc aut nunquam, recuperare aut mori,"—they were slightly sprinkled with blood.
And at the bottom of the bed the banner lifted, showing the soles of two mailed feet.
For a moment Louis felt his courage and strength leave him; he leant against the door-lintel as weak as a sick girl.
Then, "He is dead," he said; "why was I not told?" and with a firm step he approached the bed, and turned back the silk fold of the banner.
The young man lay with his head turned towards the wall. Aremberg's sword, cutting through steel and leather, had cloven the fair curls and the youthful forehead an inch deep; the reverently placed linen bandage was crimson with blood, and the long locks were clotted and tangled; the lips were strained into what seemed a stern smile, and the head had fallen so that the chin was raised haughtily. The orange scarf was pierced by a bullet that had entered under the edge of the cuirass, above this wound the young warrior's fine hands had been crossed.
Louis gazed long and earnestly, recalling every word of the youth's speech last night, every gesture, recalling his last embrace that morning—and the victory, bought with this dear blood, became as nothing to Louis of Nassau.