“This mischance saddens our victory,” he said. “You must not die thus. I will send a surgeon to you, and my men shall erect a tent over you.”
“No surgeon will avail me, noble marquis, I am sped,” rejoined Bayard; “and I need no tent to over me. I shall sleep soundly enough anon. If you would show me favour, all I ask is this. Should my esquire fall into your hands, I pray you send him to me. And let not my sword be taken from me, but cause it to be delivered to De Lorges, to whom I have bequeathed it.”
“It shall be done as you desire. Aught more?”
“Nothing,” replied Bayard.
Pescara then placed a guard around the dying hero, and departed full of grief.
Not many minutes afterwards, Bayard's esquire came up and knelt beside his dying master.
The presence of this faithful attendant was a sensible satisfaction to the wounded knight. Since no priest was nigh, he confessed to him. Finding his end approaching, he besought his esquire to hold his sword towards him, and pressing his lips to the hilt, fell back.
So fled the spirit of the fearless and reproachless Bayard.