So marked a change then took place in his noble features, that Pomperant thought all was over. A slight pressure of the hand, however, showed him that the duke was still conscious.
All at once, Bourbon roused himself by a supreme effort, and said,
“Farewell, my friend! To the battle!—away! Cover me—leave me!”
With these words, he expired.
Pomperant gazed for a moment with blinded eyes at the inanimate form of the hero he had loved so well, and served so long and faithfully, and exclaimed, in mournful accents, “Farewell, valiant Bourbon! Farewell, noble prince and gallant knight! Thou hast not left thy peer behind thee! Farewell for ever!”
He then cast a cloak over the body, and, snatching up the duke's sword, which had fallen near him, pushed aside the throng of soldiers who were struggling to mount the ladder, and shouting, “Bourbon!—Bourbon!” gained the ramparts without difficulty.
X. IN SAINT PETER'S.
The broad parapet was ankle-deep in blood, and was covered with dying and dead—Romans, Spaniards, Germans. But the defenders of the breach were all gone. Bourbon's broad banner was floating above the battlements, but his standard-bearer was lying stark beside it.