“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.