“The king!” exclaimed the soldiers, falling back at the announcement.
Most opportune was the rescue. In another minute François, who disdained to save his life by proclaiming himself, would have been laid low.
Taking advantage of the pause, Pomperant flung himself from his steed, and prostrating himself before the king, who, with his reeking sword in hand, fiercely confronted his assailants.
“Sire,” cried Pomperant, in the most earnest tones he could command, “I conjure you not to struggle against fate. The battle is utterly lost, and all your valour can only end in your own destruction.”
“I do not desire to survive this fatal day,” rejoined the king, fiercely. “I will not yield. If you would boast that you have slain the King of France, draw your sword and attack me.”
“No, sire. I will never lift my arm against your person,” said Pomperant, respectfully. “But since you have done all that valour can achieve—since you have fought as monarch of France never fought before—since further resistance is in vain, let me implore you to yield to my master, the Duke de Bourbon.”
“Yield to Bourbon! Yield to that rebel and traitor!—never!” exclaimed the king, furiously. “Wert thou not kneeling before me, villain, I would strike thee dead for daring to make the proposition to me. If I surrender to any one, it shall be to the Marquis of Pescara. He is a valiant captain, and loyal to his sovereign.”
“Pescara is wounded, sire, and unable to protect you,” rejoined Pomperant. “But the Viceroy of Naples is at hand.”
“Let him come to me, then,” said François.
Some soldiers were instantly despatched on this errand by Pomperant, who remained standing near the king to protect him. Though smarting from his wounds, François refused all assistance; but feeling faint from loss of blood, he sat down upon the breathless body of his charger, and took off his helmet.