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?”