“Are you much hurt, my lord?” he inquired, anxiously.
“Mortally,” gasped Bourbon. “I have not many minutes of life left. But do not tarry with me, Pomperant. Supply my place. On! on!”
“I cannot leave you thus, my dear lord,” said Pomperant, “Perhaps you are not dangerously hurt.”
“I tell you I am sped,” groaned Bourbon. “My eyes are growing dim. What are the men doing? Are they mounting the ladder?”
“A hundred ladders are placed against the walls, and the men are swanting up them,” rejoined Pomperant.
“I cannot see them, but I hear their shouts, mingled with the rattle of arquebusses and the roar of cannon, “cried Bourbon. “Have any gained the ramparts?”
“None as yet, my lord,” rejoined Pomperant. “The foremost have all been struck down, but others are pressing on.”
“Where is the Prince of Orange?” asked Bourbon, anxiously.
“The smoke is so thick that I cannot discern him,” replied Pomperant. “The besieged make a desperate resistance. Our men are hurled from the battlements by scores.”
“But they do not give way? Others mount—ha?”