“They do, my lord. Ha! the smoke clears off. I see the Prince of Orange now. He is upon the ramparts.”
“Bravely done, by Sainte Barbe! Would I were with him!” ejaculated Bourbon. “Do the men know I have fallen?”
“Some few may know the sad truth, my lord,” replied Pomperant. “But the mass believe you are on the ramparts. They are shouting your name. Hark!”
As he spoke, loud shouts of “Bourbon!—Bourbon!” could be distinctly heard above the terrible din of the conflict.
“The walls are gained, my lord,” said Pomperant, after a brief pause. “Your standard is placed on the battlements. Listen to those shouts of victory, with which your own name is mingled.
“I hear them,” cried Bourbon. “On! on! brave Philibert. On! on! to Saint Peter's—to the Vatican! I am with you!” he ejaculated, making a vain effort to rise.
“My lord—my dear lord! turn your thoughts towards Heaven!” cried Pomperant.
“I cannot pray amid this din of battle,” said Bourbon. “Oh! that I could have crossed those walls! Oh! that I could have reached Saint Peter's! But it was decreed that I should never enter Rome. Agrippa's prediction has come to pass, and the malediction I invoked has fallen upon me. I am justly punished for my sins.”
“Then implore Heaven's forgiveness while there is yet time, my dear lord,” cried Pomperant.
“Have mercy on me, Jesu! have mercy!” ejaculated Bourbon, fervently. “I have no hope save in thee.”