BOOK VII.--THE SACK OF ROME.

I. HOW VON FRUNDSBERG ONCE MORE ENTERED ITALY WITH HIS LANZ-KNECHTS.

|Deeply mortified, Bourbon quitted Madrid immediately after the liberation of François I., and returned to Lombardy.

In order to conciliate him, Charles V. had appointed him to the supreme command of the army of Italy, and he had now no rival to thwart him, Pescara having died during his absence.

Francesco Sforza having joined the Italian league, as previously stated, and openly declared against the Emperor, had shut himself up in the citadel of Milan, where he was besieged by the Imperial generals. Their forces were quartered in the city, and the miserable inhabitants, having been disarmed, were completely at the mercy of the rapacious soldiers, who took what they pleased, forcing their victims by torments to give their property. The shops and magazines were gutted of their stores, and the owners not merely robbed, but ill treated.

To prevent egress from the city, the gates were strictly guarded, and many persons committed suicide by hurling themselves from the walls, in order to escape from the horrible tyranny to which they were subjected. It was while the inhabitants were in this miserable condition that Bourbon arrived at Milan to assume the command of the Imperial army.

As soon as he had taken up his quarters in the ducal palace, he was waited upon by the podesta and the magistrates, who represented to him in the most moving terms the lamentable state of the city, and implored him to encamp the army without the walls. Bourbon appeared touched by what he heard, but he professed his inability to relieve the city from oppression, unless the means of doing so were afforded him.

“I feel your distress, and the distress of your fellow-citizens, most acutely,” he said. “But I can only see one remedy for it. All the disorders on the part of the soldiery of which you complain, and which I deeply deplore, are caused by want of pay. The generals have had no money to give them, and have therefore been compelled to tolerate this dreadful licence. I am in the same predicament. Furnish me with thirty thousand ducats, so that I can offer these refractory troops a month's pay, and I will compel them to encamp without the walls of the city, and so liberate you from further persecution.”

“Alas! my lord, we are in such a strait that we cannot comply with your suggestion,” said the podesta. “_We_ have been plundered of our all.”

“Make a final effort, my good friends,” said Bourbon. “You must have some secret hoards kept for an extremity like the present. Do not hesitate. Without money I cannot help you.”

“We despair of raising the large sum named by your highness,” rejoined the podesta, dolefully. “But should we succeed, may we rely upon your promise? Pardon the doubt. We have been so often deceived.”

“I, too, have been deluded by false promises, and by a monarch whose word should be sacred,” rejoined Bourbon. “Bring the money without fear. If I deceive you, may I perish by the first shot fired by the enemy at the first battle in which I shall be engaged.”.

“Your oath is recorded in heaven, my lord!” said the podesta, solemnly. And he quitted the palace with his brother magistrates.

Two days afterwards, the money was brought and distributed by Bourbon among the soldiery, but he was unable to make good his word. The insatiable Spaniards refused to quit their quarters, and the wretched citizens, betrayed in their last hope, had no other refuge but death.

After holding out for a few weeks, at the end of which time the garrison was reduced to the last extremities, Sforza capitulated, and was allowed to retire to Como, from which city he subsequently fled to join the army of the Italian League.

Had the Emperor possessed the sinews of war, he might easily have subjugated the whole of Italy at this juncture; but as he was unable to pay his army, and allowed it to subsist by plundering the country, he could neither extend his conquests nor retain what he had won. All the cities of Lombardy were ready to throw off the yoke imposed upon them, and to rise against their oppressors. The Italian States, as we have previously mentioned, had leagued together for the defence of the country, and a powerful army had been raised by the Duke of Urbino, assisted by the renowned Giovanni de' Medici and other leaders, to hold Bourbon in check.

And there was good reason for apprehension. A storm was brewing, which threatened to lay waste the whole of the fair land of Italy. The restless ambition of Bourbon led him to seek for fresh conquests, and he now turned his thoughts towards the south, designing to plunder Rome and make himself King of Naples.

But the army, though devoted to him, was not sufficiently strong for the execution of his plan. While he was considering how he could increase his troops, he learnt, to his great joy, that his late companion-in-arms, Von Frundsberg, had again collected together a large force in Germany, and he immediately despatched Pomperant to acquaint that leader with his project, and to exhort him to enter Italy with all possible despatch, promising him a far larger booty in the new campaign than he had gained at the battle of Pavia.

Incited by this promise, Von Frundsberg entered Italy at the head of fourteen thousand lanz-knechts, and five hundred reiters contributed by the Archduke Ferdinand, under the command of Captain Zucker.

Debouching by the Val de Sabbia, devastating the country as he marched along, plundering the churches and destroying the images, Von Frundsberg at last reached Borgoforte on the Po, whither he was followed by the Duke of Urbino and Giovanni de' Medici.

A sharp engagement took place, but it was quickly decided in favour of the Germans. During a charge made at the head of his light horse by Medici, that valiant leader was struck by a shot from a falconet, and his leg being grievously shattered, he was carried off the field.

This unlucky event turned the fortune of the day. Discouraged by the fate of their leader, Medici's cavalry were dispersed by Zucker, while the Venetian infantry retired before Von Frundsberg.

The successful issue of this conflict, the first in which they had been engaged since their irruption into Italy, greatly encouraged the marauding army. Continuing their march without further interruption from the Duke of Urbino, they skirted the right bank of the Po, ravaging the whole territory of Modena, Reggio, and Parma, preying like a cloud of locusts on that rich and fertile district, sacking and burning villages, plundering the churches, and finally halted near Piacenza, where Von Frundsberg pitched his camp to await a junction with Bourbon.

Meanwhile, the army of the Italian League had lost its best leader--the only one, indeed, capable of successfully checking the invasion. From the field of Borgoforte the gallant Giovanni de' Medici was transported to Mantua, when it was found that his leg was so grievously injured that it was necessary to amputate the limb. The hardy young warrior held a light for the surgeons, and watched them during their task, without shrinking or even changing countenance. But his life could not be saved by the operation.

Thus died Italy's best champion, and on whom she might have relied at her hour of need.

II. HOW BOURBON COMMENCED HIS MARCH TO HOME.

|Long before Von Frundsberg and his barbarous hordes had reached Piacenza, Bourbon would have joined them, but he found it impossible to remove the Imperial army from Milan without giving them a modicum of the arrears of pay due to them. Already he had distributed his money and jewels among them, and had nothing more to give. In vain he endeavoured to extort fresh supplies from the miserable citizens; their resources were utterly exhausted, and the worst torments proved ineffectual.

In this dilemma, a plan of raising money occurred to him, and was at once put in execution.

Girolamo Moroni, Sforza's chancellor and private secretary, had been imprisoned in the Castle of Pavia by Pescara, and still remained a captive. Knowing that Moroni possessed great wealth, and hoping to extort a large sum from him by working on his fears, Bourbon visited him in the castle. The prisoner, who regarded Bourbon as a friend, was well pleased to see him.

“You are come to deliver me?” he said.

“I am come to deliver you from bondage, but not in the way you expect,” rejoined Bourbon, sternly. “Prepare for death. You will be beheaded to-morrow morning.”

“For what crime?” demanded Moroni, trembling. “What have I done?”

“You have conspired against the Emperor, and have induced Francesco Sforza to join the Italian League,” rejoined Bourbon.

“But in putting me to death you will deprive yourself of a most useful agent,” said the wily chancellor. “I can aid you effectually against the League.”

“I care not for the League,” rejoined Bourbon. “But I will save you on one condition. I know you have a large sum of money concealed------”

“I swear to your highness that you are mistaken,” interrupted Moroni. “I have been despoiled of all my treasures by Pescara.”

“I know better,” said Bourbon. “You have a secret hoard. Pay me thirty thousand ducats, and you shall be set free. Otherwise, your head will fall on the block.”

“Thirty thousand ducats! Impossible, highness! Where am I to get that sum?”

“That is best known to yourself. I will give you two days to find the money. On the morning of the third day, if it be not forthcoming, you will die.”

“I pray your highness to consider that compliance with the demand is impossible.”

“I make no demand,” said Bourbon. “I offer your life on very easy terms.”

And he quitted the cell.

As Moroni remained obstinate, in order to intimidate him still further, Bourbon caused a large scaffold to be reared in the court of the castle, in sight of the windows of his prison-chamber.

These dismal preparations were not without effect. Believing that Bourbon would really execute his threat, Moroni sent for him, and delivered him the money.

“Ha! I felt certain you could procure it,” cried Bourbon, as he took the bags of gold. “This money will enable me to march to Rome.”

On his return to Milan, Bourbon assembled his army, and after distributing the money among them, he thus harangued them:

“Valiant captains and brave soldiers!--The time has now arrived when I must acquaint you with my secret intentions. Ere long, I hope to enrich you all by the sack of Rome--to deliver to you its nobles, its senators, its prelates, with all their wealth. You shall have the whole consistory of cardinals to deal with as you list--nay, Pope Clement himself who has excommunicated us all, and who so unworthily fills the chair of Saint Peter.”

This address was received with enthusiastic acclamations. The captains drew their swords, and the men brandished their halberds, or shook their arquebusses above their heads, and a universal shout arose of “To Rome!--to Rome!”

“I will not deceive you, my brave companions,” pursued Bourbon, as soon as the clamour ceased. “I have nothing more to give you. I am a poor knight--poor as yourselves. But as I have told you, we shall all become rich at Rome. Let us march thither at once. The Baron von Frundsberg and his lanz-knechts are waiting for us near Piacenza. Let us join them without delay, or they may go on and reach Rome before us.”

“We are ready to march at once,” cried a thousand voices. “To Rome!--to Rome! Vive Bourbon!” Bourbon did not allow their enthusiasm to cool, but put them in order of march at once, using so much expedition, that late in the following day he had effected a junction with Von Frundsberg.

When the two armies were combined, Bourbon found himself at the head of twenty-two thousand men--namely, fourteen thousand lanz-knechts brought by Frundsberg, five hundred reiters under Captain tucker, five thousand Spaniards, two thousand Italians, and a thousand light horse.

“With such an army as this,” he said to Von Frundsberg, as they rode together along the lines, “I can conquer all Italy.”

III. HOW BOURBON REACHED THE APENNINES.

|In the fierce bands of which Bourbon was now the leader, Italy found a scourge such as it had not endured since it was overrun by Alaric. The Spaniards were cruel and rapacious, worse than brigands, and scarcely amenable to discipline. The Germans were equally savage, and even more undisciplined, and, being all Lutherans and inflamed with intense hatred against the Pope and the creed of Rome, believed they were serving the cause of the Reformed religion by plundering and slaughtering its opponents. The Italians, who were commanded by Fabrizio Maramaldo, Sciarra Colonna, and Ludovico Gonzaga, had all the worst qualities of their Spanish and German associates, being bloodthirsty and licentious, and capable of any deed of violence or rapacity. Among the Spanish leaders who still remained with the army was the Marquis del Vasto, but since the death of his redoubted relative, Pescara, and the increased popularity of Bourbon, he exercised little authority over the troops.

Over the whole of this wild host, composed of such heterogeneous materials--Lutherans, Romanists, scoffers at all creeds--no one exercised supreme control but Bourbon. The lanz-knechts were devoted to Von Frunds-berg, and the reiters to Zucker, but neither Spaniards nor Italians would have served under such leaders. By a mixture of firmness and indulgence, which he knew so well how to practise, by his frankness and easiness of manner, Bourbon kept the wildest and most ferocious under a certain restraint and discipline, and though he was often compelled to make a severe example of some mutinous ruffian, the army ever recognised the justice of the sentence, and upheld his authority.

That Bourbon should be content to link his fortunes with soldiers whose professed objects were plunder and violence, may appear surprising, but it must be borne in mind that his nobler impulses had been checked, if not destroyed, by the life he had lately led. Ambition still reigned within his breast, the desire of conquest still animated him strongly as ever--even more strongly, perhaps--but he no longer cared by what means, or by what instruments, he attained his end. If he could gain a crown, no matter how it was won.

Meanwhile, he had succeeded in convincing the soldiers that he had become an adventurer like themselves. As we have said, he had stripped himself of all his money and jewels, and retained only his sword and lance, his accoutrements and his steed. Yet never had he been so powerful as now. None dared to disobey him. While idolising him, the men stood in awe of him, and the captains and generals feared him. He had become the master-spirit of the whole host, by whom all its plans and movements were directed. He was now without territory and without money, his home was the camp, his family the army. Of all his followers, the only one who accompanied him on his march to Rome was Pomperant. Like himself, Pomperant was still proscribed.

Proceeding slowly so as not to fatigue his troops, Bourbon marched by San Donino, Parma, Reggio, and Modena towards Bologna.

He did not stop to attack any of these cities, but contented himself with ravaging the surrounding country, emptying the granaries, and stripping the monasteries and churches of their plate and ornaments. The zealous Lutherans completed the work of destruction by demolishing the shrines and images. Abundance of provisions being brought in each day by the foraging parties, who scoured the country round, the army fared sumptuously, and Von Frundsberg caroused nightly in his tent with Zucker and the German captains.

When within a day's march of Bologna, Bourbon had a conference with Alfonso d'Este, Duke of Ferrara, who, having been excluded from the Italian League by the Pope, was favourable to the invasion.

Bourbon endeavoured to prevail upon the duke to furnish him with artillery, of which he stood greatly in need. D'Este declined to supply the cannon, but made Bourbon a large subsidy, which enabled him to give two crowns to each of the lanz-knechts, being the first pay they had received since they had started on the expedition.

Having no artillery to attack Bologna, Bourbon continued his march. His position was one of some danger. In his rear was the Duke of Urbino and the Venetian army, while in front were the Pontifical troops, commanded by the Marquis of Saluzzo. The latter, however, retired as the invaders advanced, and the Duke of Urbino, not wishing to risk an engagement, contented himself with harassing their rear.

As he pursued his march, Bourbon's army was daily augmented by hundreds of lawless adventurers, by deserters from the army of the League, and from the Pontifical army, who flocked round his standard, drawn towards it by the hope of plunder. Bourbon welcomed them all, brigands as they were, the bulk of his host being composed of similar material.

He was now approaching the Apennines, and had reached a wild and picturesque spot on the spur of the mountains, where the army, sheltered by some high rocks, had encamped for the night. The soldiers were collected in groups around their fires, carousing, gambling, jesting, quarrelling, or making merry, as was their wont. Some of the Spanish soldiers were chanting a song, composed in their leader's honour, which commenced thus:=

```Calla, calla, Julio Cesar, Hannibal, Scipion,

````Viva la fama de Bourbon!=

While Bourbon was making his rounds, he heard the sentinels challenge a horseman who was riding up the hill towards the camp, and sent Pomperant to question him.

IV. THE PRINCE OF ORANGE.

|The person stopped by the sentinels was a young man of about five-and-twenty, of martial bearing and aspect. He was tall, well proportioned, and possessed handsome features, characterised by a proud, fierce expression, and Pomperant's first impression on beholding him was, that he was a Venetian officer charged with a message from the Duke of Urbino; but as he drew near, and the stranger's countenance could be more clearly distinguished, Pomperant uttered an exclamation of surprise and pleasure, for he recognised in him one of the bitterest enemies of Franee, and one of the most devoted friends of the Duke de Bourbon, the Prince of Orange.

Young as he was, Philibert de Chalons, Prince of Orange, was one of the most distinguished captains of the day. He came of an ancient Burgundian house, and inherited all the warlike qualities of his ancestry. Of a remarkably fierce and vindictive temperament, he never forgave an injury. His animosity towards François I. originated in a slight offered him by that monarch. At the ceremonial of the baptism of the Dauphin, the Prince of Orange was one of the invited guests, and appeared at the Louvre with a retinue befitting his rank, but he was very coldly received by the king, and the apartments designed for him in the palace were given to another. Highly incensed by this treatment, he immediately returned to his castle of Nozerol, and subsequently offered his services to the Emperor, who received him with open arms, and compensated him by other lands for the territories of which he was deprived by the King of France.

Philibert's conduct justified the Emperor's sagacity. The young prince greatly distinguished himself at the siege of Fontarabia.

When Bourbon invaded Provence, Philibert sailed from Barcelona to join him, but being taken prisoner, as may be remembered, by Andrea Doria, he was carried to France, and imprisoned in the castle of Lusignan in Poitou, where he was detained in close captivity until after the battle of Pavia.

Imprisonment did not tame his spirit, but rather envenomed his hatred of François I. Regardless of all consequences, he perpetually launched into fierce invectives against that monarch, and covered the walls of his prison with satirical remarks upon him.

In compliance with the treaty of Madrid, the Prince of Orange was set free, but as the convention was only executed in part, his confiscated domains were not restored to him.

Without a single follower, and almost without money, Philibert set forth to join Bourbon, and after many adventures and hindrances on his journey, which it is not necessary to recount, reached him at the foot of the Apennines, as described.

“I have come to join your highness,” said the young prince, when brought before Bourbon by Pomperant. “I have nothing to offer you but my sword, but that I devote to your service.”

“By Sainte Barbe! you are as welcome, prince, as if you had a thousand lances at your back,” rejoined Bourbon. “You offer me your sword. I accept it with gratitude. At any time, the offer would enchant me--now, it is doubly welcome. Your distinguished name will be of infinite service, and will help to confound my enemies. Before you ask aught from me, noble prince, I will evince my satisfaction by appointing you second in command to myself of the whole army.”

“I have done nothing to merit such consideration at your highness's hands,” rejoined Philibert.

“But you will do much hereafter, prince,” said Bourbon. “I know that in you I have a staunch partisan--a friend on whom I can rely. We have wrongs in common, and are both mortal enemies of the false and perfidious François de Valois.”

“His very name rouses my choler,” cried Philibert, fiercely. “May all the curses I have daily invoked upon the faithless tyrant during my captivity at Lusignan alight on his devoted head! Had I been in the Emperor's place, I would never have set him free till all the conditions of the treaty had been fulfilled. François de Valois is not to be trusted. He has broken his word with us all, and his name ought to be covered with infamy. But I beg pardon of your highness for my warmth,” he added, checking himself. “I thank you for the trust you repose in me. You shall find me a firm friend. And I hope the hour may come when we shall both be fully avenged on our common enemy.”

“Be sure the hour will come,” said Bourbon, sternly. “But the work of vengeance must be begun at Rome. Look around, prince. What do you behold?”

“An army of brave men--somewhat savage, perhaps, and not like the well-equipped legions of France, but able to conquer a kingdom.”

“Of this robber-host François has made me leader,” said Bourbon; “and he has compelled you to join it.”

“No matter. I serve Bourbon,” rejoined Philibert; “and I would rather serve him than any monarch in Europe. I care not of what the army is composed, so that the men can fight.”

“They can fight well, prince, and pillage as well as fight, as you will find, when you know them better,” said Bourbon, laughing.

“If they serve without pay, as I suppose they do, they must plunder,” said Philibert. “Despite their looks and equipments, they seem good soldiers.”

“The Pope will think so if they once get within the walls of Rome,” remarked Bourbon. “They are all impatience to be there, and I do not mean to balk them.”

“Then you do not design to attack Florence?” inquired the Prince of Orange.

“I have no artillery,” replied Bourbon, “and I do not wish to waste time in a siege. Florence will be defended by the army of the League and the Pontifical troops. Rome is more important.”

While they were thus conversing, Von Frundsberg and Zucker came up, and their new leader was presented to them by Bourbon.

Philibert possessed some of the qualities of Bourbon himself, and could put on, when he pleased, the rough frankness of a soldier. His manner pleased Von Frunds-berg, and that hardy veteran was delighted with him when they became better acquainted, and had passed half the night in a carouse.

V. HOW LANNOY VAINLY ATTEMPTED TO ARREST BOURBON'S MARCH.

|Next day, from the heights of the Apennines, Bourbon and his bands looked down upon the lovely city of Florence, and on the incomparable valley of the Amo. When the soldiers beheld Florence in all its ravishing beauty lying before them--when from the heights on which they stood they could count all its palaces and churches, their cupidity was so strongly excited that they demanded with frenzied eagerness to be led to the assault.

“Let us sack Florence, noble general!” they shouted.

“No, my brave companions, I cannot grant your request,” rejoined Bourbon. “Florence is too well defended. Mark the cannon on the walls and bastions? Mark the army encamped outside the walls, placed there to cover the city? Florence cannot be taken without artillery, and we have none, We must march on to Rome, which ean be easily taken, and where ten times the wealth of Florence is collected.”

Convinced by these arguments, the men ceased their solicitations, and Bourbon descending to the valley, and avoiding Florence, crossed the Upper Arno, and continued his march without molestation to Viterbo, in the neighbourhood of which city he halted.

It was during this halt that he was informed by his scouts of the approach of Lannoy with a small escort. An hour later the Viceroy of Naples arrived, and was received by Bourbon in his tent. The Prince of Orange, Del Vasto, Von Frundsberg, Zueker, and the other leaders were present at the interview.

“I have come to forbid your highness's further advance,” said Lannoy to Bourbon. “I have just concluded, on the part of the Emperor, a truce with the Pope, and have undertaken that the army shall retire.”

“Your highness has undertaken more than you can perform,” said Bourbon. “I need scarcely inform you that the troops are unpaid.”

“Let not that concern you,” rejoined Lannoy. “His Holiness has supplied me with sufficient money to pay them. The army must retire, I say. I am the representative of his Imperial Majesty in Italy, and I issue that order.”

“By the beard of my father! I shall not respect it,” cried Von Frundsberg. “I do not serve the Emperor!”

“Neither do we,” added Zueker, Maramaldo, and the Italian leaders. “We have received no pay from him. We serve the brave Bourbon.”

“But the Duke de Bourbon only derives his authority from the Emperor,” said Lannoy; “and I offer you payment for your troops.”

“That will not suffice,” cried Von Frundsberg, fiercely. “We have not crossed the Po, and marched thus far through Italy, to retire because the Emperor at the last moment has thought fit to conclude a truce with the Pope. The truce is not binding upon us. We have nothing to do with it. As to the paltry payment offered by your highness, we scout it. No sum could induce us to turn back, We are the sworn enemies of Antichrist. We will destroy the idolatrous city. We will plunder the Vatican and Saint Peter's of their treasures.”

“Is it possible your highness can tolerate this horrible impiety?” said Lannoy to Bourbon.

“At least, the Spanish soldiers will obey me. I shall take them with me to Rome for the defence of the city against this meditated attack. Bid them come with me in the Emperor's name,” he added to Del Vasto.

“I fear the attempt will be vain,” returned the marquis.

“Try them,” said Bourbon. “If they choose to depart, I shall not hinder them.”

On this, Del Vasto quitted the tent, but he had not been gone many minutes when a great disturbance was heard outside, and he returned with looks of alarm.

“You have met with ill success, I fear, my lord?” said Lannoy.

“I could scarce have met with worse,” rejoined the marquis. “The soldiers utterly refuse to obey me. They will not respect the truce. They will not protect the Pope. They are determined to sack Rome. They say they know no other leader than Bourbon, Your highness must fly. The soldiers are so infuriated against you that I fear they will do you injury.”

“How should I fly?” cried Lannoy, trembling. I put myself under your highness's protection,” he added to Bourbon.

“Fear nothing,” said Bourbon. “I will be answerable for your safety.”

As he spoke, a number of Spanish soldiers burst into the tent, shouting out, “Death to Lannoy! Death to the Pope's general!”

“How dare you force your way thus into my presence?” cried Bourbon, confronting them fiercely, and speaking in a stern authoritative tone. “Hence, mutinous rascals, or you shall be punished.”

“Deliver up the Viceroy to us, and we will go at once,” said the foremost of the band.

“Ha! dare you parley with me?” cried Bourbon.

“Away, I say, at once, or----”

On this the soldiers retired, but they cast menacing glances at Lannoy as they went, and the tumult outside the tent continued.

“It would have been well if your highness had ascertained the disposition of the army before venturing among them,” remarked Von Frundsberg. “They will not be balked of their plunder.”

“Your highness has promised me your protection,” said Lannoy, appealing to Bourbon.

“Fear nothing,” replied the other. “I will see you safely out of the camp. Come with me!”

Bourbon then went forth, closely followed by Lannoy and Del Vasto. As the party appeared, the soldiers assailed the Viceroy with renewed threats, but, overawed by Bourbon's determined manner, they fell back, and allowed the escort to approach. As soon as Lannoy had mounted his steed, and was surrounded by his little band, his courage in some degree returned, and he said to the soldiers, “Before I go, let me make a last appeal to you to return to your duty, and obey your liege lord, the Emperor.”

“We have no other leader now but Bourbon,” rejoined the men. “Vive Bourbon!”

“Have I no longer any authority over you?” said Del Vasto.

“None,” returned the soldiers. “You do not belong to us. You are banished the army.”

“Banished!” exclaimed Del Vasto. “Who dares to pronounce my banishment?”

“We do,” replied the men. “You would betray our interests. You would sell us to the Pope. Therefore we depose you. You are no longer our general. Go to your new master.”

“Have a little patience, my good friends, and listen to reason,” said Lannoy. “I speak for your own good. I would save you from a great crime.”

“No more! We will hear no more!” cried the soldiers, furiously. “Begone! If you return again, we will massacre you.”

“Your highness had better depart at once,” said Bourbon. “If you inflame the men further, I may not be able to restrain them. You must go likewise, my lord,” he added to Del Vasto. “It will not be safe for you to remain.”

The counsel was followed. To prevent mishap, Bourbon conducted them to the outskirts of the camp.

VI. VON FRUNDSBERG'S LAST CAROUSE.

|From Viterbo, Bourbon pressed on towards Rome, hoping to take the city by surprise. By this time his army, increased, as we have said, by deserters from the troops of the League and the Pontifical forces, amounted to upwards of forty thousand men.

As the first glimpse of the fated city, destined so soon to fall into their hands, was caught from the hills near Bracciano, the excitement of the whole host, captains and generals included, was prodigious. On that night Von Frundsberg had a grand carouse in his tent. Zucker and all the other German captains were with him, and they continued their revelry till past midnight, when Bourbon, accompanied by the Prince of Orange and Pomperant, entered the tent, hoping by his presence to put a stop to the orgie. Above the surrounding Bacchanals towered the gigantic figure of Von Frundsberg, his visage looking more inflamed than ever. As Bourbon and the others entered the tent, he was addressing his companions, telling them that in two days more Rome would be taken, and the sack begin.

“Then you will be amply rewarded,” he said; “then you may strip all those temples of their ornaments and slay their priests. I give you each a cardinal, but I reserve to myself the Sovereign Pontiff. You know what I mean to do with him,” added the sacrilegious wretch, producing his golden chain, and laughing loudly.

“Before you hang him, you must make him deliver up all his treasures--the tons of gold he has hidden in the Vatican and elsewhere,” said Zucker.

“Fear not that,” rejoined Von Frundsberg, with a tremendous roar of laughter. “I know well how to deal with him. But I must fulfil my mission. Have I not been told by Doctor Martin Luther himself that I am destined by Heaven to cast down Antichrist and to wash out the enormities of the polluted and idolatrous city of Rome in blood? For this purpose I have come hither.”

At this moment his eye alighted upon Bourbon, and he called out,

“Welcome, noble general! thrice welcome! We are making merry, as you see, in anticipation of our victory. Our next carouse shall be in Rome, and it shall be a rare one--ho! ho!”

“You have sat late enough, and drank enough, baron,” said Bourbon, glancing around at the inebriated crew. “We shall march betimes to-morrow, and you will need clear heads.”

“One more cup of wine, and we have done,” said Von Frundsberg. “Nay, you must join us, general,” he added to Bourbon, who shook his head. “We have got some famous Montepulciano, of the Pope's own vintage, and destined to the Pope's own cellar--ho! ho! Taste it, I pray your highness. You will find it delicious,” smacking his lips. “Fill for me! fill!” he called to a soldier who served him, holding out an immense gilt chalice stolen from an altar at San Lorenzo-alle-Grotte--“fill to the brim! All must do me reason. It may be the last cup we shall drink together. Who knows?”

“You do not mean to empty that chalice, baron?” said Bourbon, looking in astonishment at the vessel, which held nearly a gallon of wine.

“By my faith! but I do, your highness,” rejoined Von Frundsberg, with a tremendous roar of laughter. “I drink to the speedy downfall of Rome.”

And, as he spoke, he raised the brimming chalice to his lips, and did not remove it till it was completely drained.

After accomplishing this feat, he gazed at Bourbon, but his triumph was of short duration. With a convulsive attempt at utterance, which shook his whole frame, he fell heavily backwards.

Immediate assistance was rendered him, but it was of no avail. Suffocated by the draught he had swallowed, in a few seconds the infuriated drunkard had ceased to exist.

Bourbon shuddered as he gazed at the inanimate mass, and all the fierce soldiers around were impressed by the catastrophe. Von Frundsberg died with the chain of gold tightly clasped, in his left hand.

Had Von Frundsberg's death occurred earlier, it might have produced some effect upon the lanz-knechts. But he had brought them within sight of Rome, and though they grieved for him, they did not for a moment falter in their purpose, but accepted the Prince of Orange, whom Bourbon appointed as their general. Von Frundsberg found a rude grave at Bracciano, and the chain of gold was buried with him.

VIII. HOW BOURBON AND HIS BANDS ARRIVED BEFORE ROME.

|Next morning, as soon as it was light, Bourbon, who had not taken off his armour, and had only snatched a couple of hours of sleep, rode to the summit of a hill, whence he could command a good view of the city he was about to deliver to destruction.

There lay the ancient capital of the world--and now the chief city of Christendom--the burial-place of the holy apostles and martyrs--there it lay, with its seven hills, its heathen temples and Christian fanes, its ruins, its monuments, its palaces hallowed by a thousand historical recollections. There was the mighty Coliseum, there the Forum, there the Palatine, crowned with the palace of the Caesars. There was Mount Aventine--there the Esquiline, with the Baths of Titus--there the Pincian Hill, with its cypresses. Over all, and dominating the ancient temples, rose the Basilica of Saint Peter--then, however, wanting its incomparable dome. Near to this stately fane were the Vatican and the frowning Castle of Saint Angelo, with the yellow Tiber flowing past its walls. Could he gaze on that time-hallowed city, unmoved--knowing he was about to doom it to destruction? Some feelings of compunction did, indeed, cross him, but he quickly crushed them.

At a later hour in the same day--it was the 5th of May, 1527--the sentinels on the walls and gates of Rome, and on the battlements of the Castle of Saint Angelo, descried the mighty host advancing along the wide and desolate Campagna. Presently came numerous messengers, wild with terror, describing the number and savage character of the troops. But the Pope did not appear to be alarmed by the tidings brought him. Though usually timid and irresolute, he did not exhibit any uneasiness now, but declared that ample preparations had been made for the defence of the city. He would not allow the bridges to be cut connecting the Borgo with the city, and prohibited the terrified merchants from removing their goods by the Tiber.

The reason of this apparent confidence was, that he fully believed he should be able to treat with Bourbon, and save the city from assault by payment of a large subsidy--never reflecting that it was not in Bourbon's power to treat with him, and that nothing less than the sack of the city would content the rapacious soldiery.

The defence of the city had been committed by the Pontiff' to Renzo da Ceri, who persuaded himself that he could resist Bourbon as successfully at Rome as he had done at Marseilles. Besides the garrison of the Castle of Saint Angelo, and the Pope's Swiss guard, there were in Rome at the time about two thousand arquebussiers, and a small troop of cavalry. The walls and fortifications were for the most part in good order, and well supplied with ordnance, and as it was known that Bourbon was entirely without artillery, and almost without munitions, it was not deemed likely he could take the city by assault. Renzo's confidence was, therefore, excusable. But he was wrong. Bourbon had now an army with him whom no walls could keep out.

On arriving before Rome, Bourbon placed his army between the Janiculum Hill and the Vatican, and he had no sooner taken up this position than he sent Pomperant with a trumpet to summon the Pope to surrender the city.

Presenting himself at the ancient Porta Flaminia, which was succeeded, some half a century later, by the Porta del Popolo, Pomperant caused the trumpeter to sound his clarion thrice, and in the name of the Constable de Bourbon summoned the Sovereign Pontiff' to surrender the city.

Response was immediately made in haughty terms by Renzo da Ceri, who ordered Pomperant to retire or he would fire upon him, and the latter accordingly withdrew.

Bourbon expected no other answer, but on receiving it he gave immediate orders that the city should be assaulted on the following morning at daybreak.

At eventide, Bourbon, attended by the Prince of Orange and Pomperant, surveyed the city from the Monte Mario. After a careful examination of the walls, which then formed a circuit of more than five leagues, he decided on making the assault at different points of the Aurelian Wall between the Janiculum Hill and the Vatican. This being settled, he rode back towards the camp.

As yet not a single gun had been fired on either side, for the Pope had ordered his general not to precipitate matters by opening fire from the Castle of Saint Angelo upon the enemy. But the cannon were all shotted, and the sentinels with their arquebusses on the shoulder, were pacing to and fro on the ramparts.

When Bourbon returned to the camp, he called together the men, and thus addressed them:

“Captains and brave soldiers! fortune has at last brought us to the city we have so ardently desired to reach. Rome is before you. On the other side of those old walls countless treasures await you. But you must fight hard to win the treasures. The walls must be scaled, since we have no cannon to breach them.”

“We will do it, noble general,” cried the men. “We need no breach.”

“I myself will lead the assault,” continued Bourbon, “and will show you how to take the city.”

“We will follow, fear not! Vive Bourbon!” shouted the soldiers.

“Listen to me, my friends,” he pursued. “The famous astrologer, Cornelius Agrippa, of whom you must have heard, foretold that I should die before the walls of a great city. It may be here--before Rome--that I am destined to perish. If it be so, I care not. The death will be glorious--worthy of a soldier. I shall lead the assault without fear, certain that you, my brave companions, will capture the city, and avenge me.”

“'Tis a false prediction!” cried a hundred voices. “We will all guard you. You will not die thus. You are destined to be King of Rome.”

“Be my fate what it may,” said Bourbon--“whether I share your triumph, or die beforehand, I know that Rome, with all its treasures, with its Pope, its cardinals, its nobles, and its fair women, will be yours. And now return to your tents, and take your rest. You will have enough to do to-morrow. An hour before dawn, make ready for the assault. Your captains have their full directions. You may rest without fear. I will take care that strict watch is kept.”

The soldiers then dispersed, singing, “Calla, calla! Viva la fama de Bourbon!”

“You have no faith in that idle prediction?” remarked the Prince of Orange to Bourbon, as he accompanied him to his tent.

“I have scarcely thought of it before to-day, but it came upon me forcibly as I gazed on Rome this evening from the Monte Mario,” rejoined Bourbon. “If I should fall, you must take the command of the army.”

“No such necessity, I trust, may arise,” said Philibert. “But the army shall not want a leader.”

“It will have a good one in you,” rejoined Bourbon. “And now leave me. Come to me an hour before daybreak.”

With this the Prince of Orange departed, and Bourbon was left alone, and passed several hours in deep self-communion.

About midnight he roused himself, and, issuing from his tent, looked around. It was a glorious night, and the old walls that rose before him were bathed in the moonbeams. The camp was hushed, and all was so still at the moment, that the tread of the sentinels could be heard on the ramparts. Having looked around for a short time, he re-entered his tent, trimmed his lamp, and sat down to look at a plan of Rome, which was laid on the table before him. From this occupation he was roused by the noise of some one entering the tent, and, looking up, he perceived Pomperant, accompanied by a nun.

Surprised at the sight, he inquired why he was thus disturbed.

“The holy sister herself will explain her errand,” replied Pomperant. “She has ventured forth from the city to see your highness, and I could not refuse to bring her to you.”

“You have done wrong,” said Bourbon, sternly. “I have no time to waste on women now. Depart, good sister.”

“Dismiss me not, I pray your highness, till you have heard what I have to say,” rejoined the nun. “Am I so much changed? Does this garb disguise me so greatly, that you fail to recognise Marcelline d'Herment?”

“Marcelline d'Herment!” exclaimed Bourbon, in surprise.

“I am vowed to Heaven, as you see,” she rejoined. “I have entered a convent in Rome, and hoped to pass the rest of my days in peace. But I have been sorely troubled since I learnt that your highness was marching to lay waste the city, and determined, at whatever risk, to make an effort to save it. With that view I came forth to-night. I ventured to approach the sentinels, and I desired to be brought before your highness. The men refused, but while they were talking with me the Seigneur Pomperant came up, and at once consented to bring me before you.”

“If I have done wrong, I trust your highness will forgive me,” said Pomperant, “but I could not refuse the request.”

“Nay, there is no harm done,” said Bourbon. “But how comes it that you have abandoned the world?” he added to Marcelline. “I thought you had given your heart to Pomperant. Why have you placed this insurmountable bar between yourself and him?”

“Ah! why, indeed?” cried Pomperant, reproachfully.

“I could not do otherwise,” she rejoined. “But I have not come hither to tell my own sad story. I have come to entreat your highness, even at the eleventh hour, to abandon your impious purpose. Oh! prince, listen to me, I implore you. Treason and rebellion are great crimes, but they are as naught compared with the act you are about to commit. If you deliver over Rome to pillage and slaughter, your name will be for ever execrated. Turn back, I implore of you!”

“I cannot turn back. Be that my answer,” said Bourbon, impatiently.

“But it is in your power to save the city!” cried Marcelline. “You can come to terms with his Holiness, who will enable you to satisfy your men.”

“Bah!” exclaimed Bourbon. “Nothing will satisfy them but the plunder of the city.”

“Will no consideration move you?” she cried. “Have you no pity for the innocent and the aged? Will you allow the temples of your religion to be destroyed and polluted?”

“My heart is steeled to pity,” rejoined Bourbon, sternly. “All your solicitations are in vain.”

“Then since you are deaf to all entreaties, tremble!” she cried. “Tremble! for Heaven's vengeance will alight upon you. Grace has been offered you, but you have cast it aside. But you will not enjoy your triumph. You will not enter the city.”

“Who shall prevent me?” demanded Bourbon.

“Heaven,” she rejoined. “Heaven will prevent you.”

“Were you a messenger from Heaven itself, you should not prevent me from being first to scale the walls,” said Bourbon. “This interview can lead to nothing, and must not be prolonged,” he added to Pomperant, “Conduct the Sister Marcelline through the camp, and place her where she may safely enter the city.”

“It shall be dene,” replied Pomperant,

He then withdrew with Marcelline. On reaching the outskirts of the camp, she said to him, “Are you determined to follow Bourbon?”

“To the last,” he rejoined. “If he is shot down, I will take his place.”

Marcelline made no reply, but darted from him, and ran towards the Aurelian Wall.

Plunging into the dry fosse which skirted the wall, she hurried along the bottom of the trench for some distance in the direction of the Vatican. All at once she stopped, and clapped her hands. At the signal, a ladder was let down, and, mounting it, she gained the ramparts.

Marcelline fancied her movements were unobserved, but she was mistaken. Curious to ascertain how she could gain access to the city, Pomperant had followed her. On approaching the spot where she had disappeared, he perceived that the old wall, which was built of brick, and of great solidity, was in this part considerably dilapidated--so much so, as almost to form a breach.

After carefully examining the spot, he hastened back to Bourbon's tent to acquaint him with the important discovery he had made. Bourbon had thrown himself on a couch, but without divesting himself of his armour, and he was wrapped in the last slumber he was destined to enjoy, when Pomperant entered his tent, and aroused him.

“I am sure your highness will forgive me for disturbing you,” he said, “when I tell you that I have discovered a breach in the walls.”

“Ha! that is indeed good news!” cried Bourbon. “But how did you make the discovery?”

“I made it while following Marcelline to see how she entered the city,” replied Pomperant.

“Take me to the spot,” said Bourbon. “I must be satisfied with my own eyes that you have not been deceived. It is strange that you roused me from a dream of the assault. I thought an angel with a flaming brand stood on the battlements to drive me back, but I went on. Listen to me, Pomperant. When dealing with the miserable Milanese, as you know, I took Heaven to witness that I meant them fairly, wishing I might perish by the first shot at the first battle if I played them false. This is the first battle, and not a shot has yet been fired.”

“The first shot will not harm you, my lord,” rejoined Pomperant. “You did not wilfully deceive the Milanese. The Spanish soldiers refused to obey your orders.”

“True,” replied Bourbon; “but I feel that I violated my promise, and if Heaven punishes me, I cannot complain. But come. Let us examine the wall.”

They then quitted the tent, and, enveloped in long russet-coloured cloaks, which completely covered their armour, passed out of the camp, and cautiously approached the Aurelian Wall.

VIII. BENVENUTO CELLINI.

No sooner had Marcelline gained the ramparts, than the ladder she had ascended was drawn up by the sentinels. Before she could move off, a martial personage, accoutred in a steel cap and corslet, and armed with an arquebuss, came up and detained her.

“Ha! where have you been, sister?” he demanded, sternly. “Speak!--give an account of yourself.”

“I have been in the enemy's camp,” she replied, “and have spoken with the general himself.”

“With Bourbon!” exclaimed the soldier. “You are trifling with me.”

“On my life I am not,” she rejoined, “I have seen him as I see you, but I have failed in my object, which was to dissuade him from the attack.”

“I am not surprised at it,” said the soldier, contemptuously. “You have gone on a mad errand. Did you for a moment suppose that Bourbon would turn back at your entreaties?”

“Bourbon has a noble heart, and I thought to move him,” she rejoined.

“Tut! Rome is not likely to be saved from sack by a woman's prayers and entreaties,” said the soldier. “We must keep Bourbon and his bands out of the city, if we can. If they once get in, woe betide us! But how is this?” he cried, noticing the dilapidated state of the ramparts. “This wall ought to have been repaired.”

“It will be repaired in the morning, good Messer Benvenuto Cellini,” replied the sentinel.

“To-morrow may be too late,” remarked Cellini. “I will see our general about it without delay.”

“You need not go far to seek him, brave Benvenuto,” said Renzo da Ceri, marching towards them. “What have you to say to me?”

“I would pray your lordship to look at the condition of these ramparts,” said Cellini. “There is a breach as if made by cannon.”

“By Heaven! the wall is very ruinous here!” cried Renzo. “I cannot think how the gap escaped my notice.”

“Since it has escaped your lordship's quick eyes, it may escape those of the enemy,” said Cellini. “But it may be well to have it speedily repaired.”

“It shall be repaired to-morrow morning,” said Renzo.

“Provided Bourbon does not enter by it in the mean time,” said Cellini.

“Oh! he will not attempt the assault for a month,” rejoined Renzo, contemptuously. “He has no artillery. To-morrow, or next day at the latest, we shall have Count Guido Rangone, with five thousand fantassins and a corps of artillery. He is now at Ponte Salario. We shall also be speedily reinforced by detachments from the armies of the Duke of Urbino and the Marquis of Saluzzo. Rome, therefore, is secure.”

“Your lordship must pardon me, but I cannot think Rome secure while Bourbon is encamped before it,” remarked Cellini.

“Well, you have abandoned your trade of goldsmith, and have taken up arms for its defence,” said Renzo, laughing. “If you win as much renown as a soldier as you have done as a sculptor, Rome may be proud of you.”

“I will try,” said Cellini.

“Is this the famous Benvenuto Cellini?” inquired Marcelline, approaching them. “I knew him not.”

“Yes, this is he, who may vie with the greatest of the ancient sculptors,” said Renzo da Ceri.

“For the moment, I am a mere Roman soldier,” said Cellini. “I shall resume my profession as an artist when we have got rid of Bourbon. But who is she who inquires my name?”

“One you may be proud to know,” said Renzo. “This holy sister is Marcelline d'Herment, one of the Amazons who helped to defend Marseilles.”

“I have heard of her,” said Cellini. “I hope our Roman dames will follow her example. But hush!” he exclaimed, stepping towards the battlements, “I see two tall figures approaching the walls. They come nearer. Do you not distinguish them?”

“Perfectly,” replied Marcelline.

“Be silent, and we can hear what they say,” whispered Cellini. And after listening intently for a few moments, he added, “They have discovered the breach. It is here the assault will be made to-morrow morning.”

“How know you that?” demanded Renzo da Ceri. “I could hear nothing.”

“My ears never deceive me,” said Cellini. “Who are they, think you?”

“The tallest of the two is Bourbon,” replied Marcelline, in a whisper, “I recognise his voice and figure.”

“Bourbon!” exclaimed Cellini. “Then his hour is come.”

And kneeling down, he placed his arquebuss on the battlements and took deliberate aim at the duke. But just as he was about to fire, Marcelline caught hold of his hand and stopped him, and ere he could take fresh aim the two personages were gone.

“Maledizione! why did you interfere, sister?” cried Benvenuto, turning angrily upon her. “I should have killed him, and delivered Rome. I never miss my aim.”

“I would not have him die now,” she rejoined.

“Well, he shall not escape me,” said Cellini. “I heard him say he would be first to scale the walls.”

“And if he said so he will keep his word,” rejoined Marcelline.

“I will be ready for him. What says your excellency now?” he added to Renzo.

“I have little doubt that the assault will be made to-morrow morning, and at this point,” replied Renzo. “Since the breach cannot be repaired, I will send a sufficient force to defend it.”

“Be mine the privilege to fire the first shot,” said

Benvenuto.

“Agreed,” replied Renzo. “Not an arquebuss shall be discharged till you have fired.”

IX. THE FIRST SHOT FROM THE WALLS.

|Dawn was at hand--the dawn of the direst day that ever Rome beheld.

Already the entire host of Bourbon was under arms, and impatient for the assault. The captains were forming their men in masses before the long dark line of walls which they were about to scale.

Grim and menacing did those walls and bastions look now, as they were thronged with armed men, and bristled with cannon. But they inspired no terror on the bands gathered before them. Sullen and stern in the grey light of morning loomed the Castle of Saint Angelo, but the fierce host Had no dread of its guns.

As the shades of night disappeared, and daylight revealed to them the fierce bands gathered before the Aurelian Wall, and forming a long line, extending from the Janiculum Hill to the rear of the Basilica of Saint Peter's and the Vatican, those stationed on the ramparts and bastions, though valiant men, were seized with dread, the aspect of the host being truly formidable.

Scarcely had it become light when word was passed along the whole line that the assault was about to be made, and the manifestations of impatience, heretofore exhibited, were increased in a tenfold degree, the men becoming so fiercely excited that they could be scarcely restrained by their captains.

While they were all eagerly awaiting the signal, a movement was made in the centre of the line, and Bourbon appeared, fully accoutred, and wearing his emblazoned surcoat over his armour. He was attended by his standard-bearer, carrying his banner, which was of yellow taffety, embroidered with flaming swords, and bearing the motto, “Espérance, Espérance.”

Close behind came Pomperant, while in front ran several Spanish soldiers with a long scaling-ladder, which they reared against the wall at the appointed spot.

All this was accomplished with the utmost rapidity. A charge was then sounded loudly by the trumpeters, and Bourbon, sword in hand, mounted the ladder, shouting in a loud voice, “Follow me, my brave fellows! On! on!”

But he had not ascended many steps when the barrel of an arquebuss was protruded over the ramparts, and the next moment the discharge was heard.

The shot struck the duke below the gorget and traversed his right side. Feeling himself mortally wounded, he made an effort to descend, but, unable to retain his hold of the ladder, he fell to the ground.

As he dropped, Benvenuto Cellini, with his face lighted up by a fierce exulting smile, was seen looking down from above.

“Saints be praised! the first shot has told,” cried the sculptor. “I have killed him.”

As the words were uttered, a hundred bullets from the infuriated soldiers whistled about his ears, but not one hit its mark.

Pomperant, who was close behind, and had just set foot on the ladder when Bourbon fell, now rushed to his wounded leader's assistance.

“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?”

“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.”

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.

Taking down the banner, and giving it to one of the Spanish soldiers who had followed him, Pomperant, amid a shower of bullets directed against him from the Pontifical soldiers, who were still masters of a neighbouring bastion, hurried along the ramparts in search of some means of descending to the city.

Strange was it he should escape uninjured, for several of the soldiers with him were struck down, but, after stumbling over heaps of dead bodies, and plashing through pools of blood, he reached a tower, where a few gallant men were gathered to dispute his progress. But these brave fellows could not withstand the furious attack made upon them, and Pomperant and his men, having forcibly entered the tower, dashed down a winding staircase, and issued forth into a street in the Borgo.

Here a terrible conflict still was going on, but though the Romans still disputed the advance of the assailants, they were evidently giving way before them. The ear was deafened with the clash of arms, the shouts of the combatants, the groans of the wounded, the bray of trumpets, the roar of ordnance, and the sharp rattle of musketry. The terrified inhabitants were running in all directions, uttering piercing cries.

Pomperant's object was to reach Saint Peter's, and, after engaging in several conflicts, he made his way in the direction of the Basilica. As he went on, many a frightful scene of massacre met his gaze, which he would have prevented if he had had the power.

The Spanish soldiers, having now learnt that Bourbon had fallen, gave no quarter, but slew all they encountered without pity--priests, old men, women, and children--shouting, “Carne! came!--sangre! sierra! Bourbon! Bourbon!”

Fearfully was Bourbon avenged, and if his spirit hovered over Rome at that dread hour, it must have bewailed these frightful excesses.

The noble colonnades, which now form so grand an approach to Saint Peter's, were then unbuilt, but there was a large piazza in front of the sacred edifice, and here the last stand was made by the Pontifical troops. But they were charged by the Prince of Orange, and being dispersed and unable to rally, were all cut down.

As Pomperant entered the piazza the Papal troops were flying in all directions, but none of them were allowed to escape. Leaving the Prince of Orange to pursue his victory, Pomperant hurried towards the glorious Basilica, and mounted its wide steps, which were covered with dead and defiled with gore.

While the conflict was going on in the piazza, the Pope had been hearing high mass at the altar, but warned by the shouts of the fugitives, who rushed into the sacred edifice in the vain hope of finding it a sanctuary, he escaped, with several of the cardinals who were with him at the time, by a secret passage to the Vatican, and thence by a covered way to the Castle of Saint Angelo, where, for the time at least, he was secure. He was just hurrying from the altar as Pomperant entered the church, and had he not been protected by his Swiss guard, he must have been captured.

Frightful was the scene that ensued. The brave Swiss were quickly overcome and massacred by the bands of unlicensed soldiers who had burst into the church, and numbers of prelates and priests shared their fate. The work of pillage then commenced, and the altars were quickly stripped of all their ornaments by the rapacious soldiery.

Great silver crucifixes, the Pope's splendid cross, magnificent censers, golden and silver images, superb altar coverings, and rich priestly vestments, great chalices, cups and plate, were all piled together in an immense heap, to be divided anon among the soldiery.

But while the work of pillage was going on, numbers of the Lutheran soldiers were engaged in demolishing all they regarded as idolatrous ana superstitious, and no statue or picture escaped destruction or mutilation by these ferocious zealots. The whole interior of the glorious building presented an indescribable scene of horror and confusion. Instead of resounding with the solemn notes of the organ, and the exquisite voices of the choir, the roof now echoed with the shouts and imprecations of the infuriated soldiery, and with the shrieks of their victims. The pavement was slippery with blood. Hell and its legions seemed let loose in the holy of holies.

Horror-stricken by the scene, Pomperant was hurrying away, when his ear was assailed by the cries of a female in distress. So piercing were these cries that they were distinctly heard above the dreadful hubbub that prevailed. But heartrending as they were, they seemed to excite no attention. All were too busily occupied to heed them.,

Looking in the direction whence these cries proceeded, Pomperant perceived a nun struggling with three or four Spanish soldiers, one of whom had seized her in his arms and was carrying her off, despite her cries and resistance. What was Pomperant's horror and distress on discovering that this unfortunate nun was Marcelline. He instantly flew to her assistance, and fiercely commanded the soldier to release her, but as the ruffian refused to relinquish his prize, he unhesitatingly cut him down, and bore her off, hoping to find some safe asylum for her. But there was no place of refuge to be found in Saint Peter's on that terrible day. While he was gazing around in fearful anxiety, trying to soothe her, the Spanish soldier, whom he had wounded, approached them unawares, and plunged his poniard in her breast, exclaiming as he struck the vengeful blow, “If she cannot be mine, she shall not be yours.”

Having consummated this atrocious act, the wretch fell on the pavement.

Half maddened, and scarcely knowing what he did, covered with the blood of her for whom he would have shed his own heart's blood, Pomperant hurried with her to a side-chapel, which, having been pillaged and stripped, was now deserted. He saw that the wound she had received was mortal, and that she had not many minutes to live, and sitting down on a marble bench, held her in his arms.

“Marcelline!” he exclaimed, in tones of deepest anguish. “Speak to me--one word!”

She opened her eyes, and gazed tenderly at him.

“Farewell, dear Pomperant,” she said. “At this moment I may confess that I have ever loved you; but as we must have been separated on earth, my death need not afflict you.”

“Our parting will be brief,” said Pomperant. “I shall soon join you in heaven. I shall know no more earthly happiness.”

“If we are to meet again in regions of bliss, Pomperant,” she said, “you must win Heaven's forgiveness for your share in this dreadful day by years of penitence. Think of my words, Pomperant--neglect them not!”

As he pressed her distractedly to his breast, a tremor passed through her frame, and she was gone.

So acute was his anguish, that he could scarcely refrain from plunging his sword into his own breast, and dying beside her.

We must drop a veil over the horrors of the sack of Rome, which endured without interruption for two months. Never in the history of the world was a city abandoned to such frightful licence--never were such atrocities committed.

Bourbon found a place of sepulture in the chapel of the Castle of Gaeta, where a magnificent monument was reared over him by his soldiers.

THE END.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Constable De Bourbon, by William Ainsworth