“Fill this with water for me,” he said, giving the casque to a soldier. “I am sore athirst.”
The man hurried to the river, filled the helmet, and brought it to him. François drank eagerly, and breaking off an ornament, bestowed it upon the soldier.
At this moment Lannoy rode up, and, dismounting, knelt before the king, who had risen at his approach, and now assumed a dignified and majestic demeanour. When he spoke, his accents were firm, but full of sadness.
“Here is my sword,” he said, delivering the bloodstained weapon to the Viceroy. “I yield myself prisoner to the Emperor your master. I might have saved myself by flight, but I would have died rather than quit the field dishonourably.”
“Your majesty has held out to the latest moment,” rejoined Lannoy. “Scarce one of your soldiers but has thrown down his arms. Doubt not that you will be worthily treated by the Emperor.”
Lannoy then kissed the hand graciously extended towards him, and drawing his own sword presented it to the king.
“I will take the weapon, though I cannot use it,” said François.
“Your wounds must be tended without delay, sire,” said the Viceroy. “You shall be transported at once to Pavia, where skilful chirurgeons can be obtained.”
“No, not to Pavia,” said François, uneasily. “The inhabitants of that miserable city hate me, and with good reason, for I have shown them scant pity. Let me be taken to the Certosa, where my wounds can be dressed by the monks. They have good chirurgeons among them.”
“Your majesty's wishes shall be obeyed,” said Lannoy.