Still the Confederates pour through the intrenchment. Charles retreats, hoping to obtain a better position, but close upon him press the Freiburgers, Vögeli bearing their banner aloft in his left hand while with the right he wields his victorious sword. The English archers rally once more; but their ranks are thinning fast, and when their leader, the Duke of Somerset, is slain they break and give way. Only one band still holds its ground, the Swiss pikemen, who will not yield. Vögeli, loath to continue this unnatural warfare, promises them pardon, but they reject his offer and fight on more fiercely than before. Suddenly one of them, whom both he and Walter Irmy—who has never left his side—recognize as Heini Süssbacher, springs at Vögeli.
“Traitor!” he shouts, and with one blow brings Heinrich’s horse to the ground. Others now have recognized the Captain, and he and Walter are instantly surrounded and cut off from their comrades. Heini’s hand is already outstretched to seize the banner when Vögeli’s sword cleaves his helm and down he falls. Like a wounded boar, the Freiburger struggles to defend his standard, and Walter keeps stoutly at his side, while the Swiss strive to come to their rescue. Hacking and hewing madly, they cut their way through the throng that presses about the two heroes, and reach them just as Heinrich, mortally wounded, sinks beside his horse, still clutching firmly the banner of his native city, while the enemy turn and flee.
Hans Vögeli kneels beside his dying brother and, taking the hand that holds the banner, implores forgiveness for all the wrongs he has done him. Tightly clasping the other, young Irmy, speechless with grief, awaits the death of the man who for two years has been the best and kindest of friends to him.
“Hans,” says Heinrich faintly, “will you acknowledge now my right to citizenship?”
“Aye, truly, Heinrich,” his brother assures him, sobbing, and in hushed tones the Freiburgers standing by confirm the promise. With a sigh of content the dying man sinks back and soon expires, his pallid features lit with a smile of blissful peace.
Meanwhile the victorious Confederates had reached the shore of Lake Murten, where a singular spectacle met their eyes. The Burgundians, finding their retreat by the south shore cut off, were endeavoring by wading and swimming to reach the other side and join the Count de Romont’s force, which had been lying before the city of Murten, but was now skirting the shore of the lake in rapid retreat. It was a mad attempt. Already hundreds of the heavily armed soldiers were sticking fast in the oozy bed of the lake, while those who succeeded in reaching deep water soon sank or were slain by the arrows despatched at every head that showed above the surface. Even the trees afforded no safety. Many of the despairing Lombards had sought concealment among the dense foliage, but they were soon discovered.
“Ho, look at the crows,” shouted the pursuers, jocularly, “and yonder are some squirrels!” and the unfortunate fugitives were remorselessly shot down, despite their prayers for mercy.
That night the conquerors camped upon the field of battle, rejoicing over their easy and decisive victory, but much disappointed at the lack of plunder. The following morning the Freiburgers and all who had loved Captain Vögeli assembled about his bier. Supported by a band of his faithful followers, the body was borne in solemn procession to Freiburg, whither news of the event had already preceded them. Beside the bier rode Hans Vögeli and Walter Irmy. Tolling of bells greeted their approach to the city, at the gates of which the Mayor and Council awaited the return of the wanderer; and when some days later all that was mortal of Heinrich Vögeli was laid to rest in the family vault, the banner of Freiburg was draped about his coffin, while at the dead man’s head lay a certificate of citizenship placed there by order of the Council. Thus was Vögeli’s dearest wish accomplished, and in his beloved Fatherland he rested forever from the storms of life.
Duke René was pacing restlessly to and fro in the guest room of the inn of The Bears at Basle. “Nancy will surely hold out,” he murmured half aloud; “it must. The burghers know I am coming to their relief as soon as possible. In truth it has been no easy matter to induce the Swiss to repay the assistance I have lent them; but at last all is ready, and I must find some way of warning my good subjects of Nancy that relief is at hand. But neither Siffrein nor yet the youth from Basle shall risk his life in such an attempt.”
At that moment the door opened and Siffrein de Baschi, the Duke’s faithful steward, entered. He was dressed as for a journey, and his dark eyes gleamed triumphantly as he said to his master: “How does my new travelling costume please Your Highness? Truly, ’tis somewhat soiled; but a minstrel must not be too fine, and tarnished finery will attract the less suspicion.”
René gazed in astonishment at the transformation. Had not every feature of the handsome face with its winning smile been so familiar to him he would never have recognized the knight.
“In travelling dress! What means this, Siffrein? Surely you will not persist in your mad resolve to go to Nancy? Abandon it, I charge you. Think of the grief it would cause me were any harm to befall you!”
“Nay, gracious lord,” entreated Siffrein, “grant me leave to go. Even should they capture me I shall not lose my head upon the spot, and they will do well if they catch me, I promise you. Young Irmy waits without. Will you not hear his plan at least?”
Without waiting for an answer he flung open the door and beckoned to Walter to enter. The Duke’s eyes rested approvingly on the youth’s stalwart figure and honest German face. Extending his hand to him, he said kindly: “Methinks, sir, we are already acquainted. I saw you fight beside Heinrich Vögeli at Murten.”
“As I, too, saw Your Highness,” replied Walter; “and there is not a Switzer but would gladly serve you.”
“For those fair words I give you thanks,” said the Duke, “but this service you now would render me I cannot accept; ’tis a foolish and a useless risk.”
“Craving Your Highness’s pardon, I do not think it so,” answered the youth. “Old Gerard has agreed to get us safely into Nancy, and he may be depended on to keep his word. He is a smuggler by trade and has often fetched merchandise for my father through the enemy’s camp. The Burgundian mercenaries know him well, and he is quite safe among them.”
“If there is the slightest risk of danger I cannot consent to your going,” declared the Duke, “for it is not needful.”
“Nay,” interposed Siffrein, “surely it is most imperative that the citizens of Nancy be informed that relief is at hand; else they may surrender the town, and so through our fault be delivered over to the vengeance of Charles the Bold, who will not easily pardon them that the siege has already lasted well into the winter.” Walter also continued to urge the dependence that might be placed on old Gerard, till the Duke finally yielded and reluctantly gave them leave to depart.
Siffrein had donned the garb of a troubadour with a lute slung over his shoulder, deeming that the safest guise in which to make his way through the enemy’s camp; but Walter convinced him that it would be of little avail, since even a minstrel would scarcely be permitted to pass the outposts. Accordingly, when they set out on their errand an hour later, it was in ordinary travelling dress, but each was well armed. At Vandemont they met Gerard with some of his comrades, who for high pay had been engaged to smuggle powder into the besieged city, and were therefore accustomed to risking their lives. The two newcomers were also given a leather sack of powder to carry on their shoulders, and when night had fallen the little band set forth. Following silently one behind the other, they crept along sword in hand, ready to sell their lives dearly if need were, until they reached an abbey in the depths of the forest. Here Siffrein made himself known, and they were given a ready welcome by the monks, who offered refreshments to the adventurers to fortify them for the last stage of their perilous journey. Old Gerard vanished, to reappear half an hour later with the information that there were no sentries visible on that side of the camp, and there seemed a good chance of their reaching the town unobserved.
Preparations for departure were hastily completed, and the little band cautiously made their way to the camp. True enough, the sentries had all vanished, either because the bitter cold had driven them into their tents or because Gerard had won them over. The old man whistled softly three times, which may have been a prearranged signal. At all events the silent figures glided unmolested through the rows of tents. Not so much as a head was thrust forth into the cold air to spy on the nocturnal visitors, and they soon reached the outworks.
“Yonder is the spot,” whispered Gerard, pointing to a bulwark the dark outlines of which stood out against the walls of the city. Now the moat lay before them.
“Vive Lorraine!” shouted Siffrein, as Gerard carefully lowered himself to its icy surface.
But the thoughtless cry aroused the sentries, who came running from all sides. Walter and the smugglers were already climbing up the wall and Siffrein had sprung upon the ice to follow them, when alas! it gave way. Down he sank to his shoulders in the water, and before help from Nancy could reach him the Burgundians had dragged him forth and borne him back to the camp shaking in an ague from his icy bath.
Gerard tried to reassure Walter as to the fate of his companion. “Have no fear,” he said soothingly; “he is a nobleman and Duke René’s steward. They will not dare to harm a hair of his head. Had it been one of us, now, they would have made short work of us.”
Great were the rejoicings in Nancy at the news of speedy relief, and at daybreak one of the cannoniers loaded his gun with some of the powder brought by the smugglers, muttering to himself: “It is long since I was able to feed this big fellow. Much good may it do the Burgundians,” he added, and thrusting a ball into the mouth of his cannon, took long and careful aim. “In God’s name,” he said, doffing his cap, while a gunner held the match to the touchhole. Crash! went the shot, and a cloud of dust and splinters rose as it struck one of the enemy’s batteries. The Burgundians were slow in responding, for they too were short of powder. Charles’s army had suffered greatly. The siege of Neuss, and the battles of Granson and Murten, together with the severity of the weather and the lack of proper provisions, had reduced the number of his troops to six thousand.
Toward evening a rumor spread through the city that Siffrein de Baschi had been hanged by order of Charles the Bold. It was scarcely credited, but the next morning brought melancholy proof. The Burgundians were induced with difficulty to deliver up the corpse of the faithful steward, which was drawn up the walls in a silken cloth amid the tolling of bells, and buried with solemn ceremonies. Great was the mourning of the people over his untimely end, for the favorite of their adored young Duke was universally beloved and had no enemies.
Night had fallen and silence brooded over the Burgundian camp, upon which the snow was falling in heavy flakes. In the forest near the abbey a man stood leaning against a tree striving to penetrate the thick snow clouds that filled the air. “Why does not Giacomo come?” he muttered to himself in Italian. “It is too cold in this cursed country to wait long.”
“You shall not have to,” replied a voice near him, “for I am here already and have brought with me as much as I could carry away from my canteen. It will soon be up with them over yonder,” he added, motioning toward the camp, “and methinks we shall do well to join the Swiss. Then at least there will be some hope of getting back to our own beautiful land.”
The first speaker wore the uniform of a cuirassier, and was no other than the former servant in the wine shop at Treves. “I wonder,” he said musingly, “how long our comrades will stand by the Duke. It is long since he gave us any pay. Our fare is wretched, and the cold unbearable to us all.”
Giacomo produced some food from his bundle, and the two men walked on through the forest, eating as they went. Suddenly they paused. Was that the trampling of horses’ hoofs they heard? The cuirassier laid his ear to the ground. Yes, there was no doubt a large body of horsemen was approaching.
“Can they be following us?” asked Giacomo anxiously.
“Surely not,” replied his companion, “but something must be afoot. It may be a night attack on the Swiss. In any case we shall do well to conceal ourselves behind these juniper bushes.”
Nearer and nearer came the horsemen, the hard-frozen ground reëchoing to the heavy tread of armored steeds. Deeper into the thicket shrank the two deserters, as the clang of arms resounded so close to them they almost feared to be trampled upon. But the troop passed on.
“Did you recognize any one?” asked Giacomo.
“No,” replied the other, “but it seemed to me I heard the voice of our commander, Campo Basso.”
“So I thought too,” said the sutler. “Can it be that they are deserting? It is said the Count has been mortally offended by the Duke of Burgundy, and it is possible they are going over to the Swiss.”
They said no more but followed the riders along the road to Saint Nicholas. On their arrival the next day they found the wildest excitement prevailing. The Confederates had occupied the town on the preceding day, and the Count of Campo Basso with one hundred and eighty lances had come early that morning to proffer his services to Duke René. The offer had been accepted, so Giacomo and his companion returned to the society of their comrades.
At daybreak on the fifth of January, 1477, the Burgundians prepared for battle, for Duke René and the Swiss were close at hand. As Charles the Bold was arming himself, the golden lion of Burgundy fell from his helm into the dust. “It is a sign from Heaven,” he said gloomily; and so indeed it proved, for at the first onslaught of the enemy, panic seized the Burgundians and they fled in confusion, while the citizens of Nancy sallied forth to attack them in the rear.
Walter Irmy was one of the first outside the gates of the city and soon found ample opportunity to prove his valor; for the combined forces of the Swiss, with Duke René and the Alsatians, drove the whole of Charles’s fast diminishing army back upon Nancy. Most of the faithless mercenaries followed Count Campo Basso’s example; but the Burgundian nobles, who formed a large part of the army, still fought on with the courage of despair. Many a stroke did Walter parry and return ere the burghers of Nancy could gain any advantage; but at last the foe began to weaken. Smiting one of the Burgundian knights from his horse, Walter swung himself into the empty saddle from whence he could overlook the scene of conflict. The Swiss and Alsatians were now but a few hundred feet away, and the enemy took to flight, hotly pursued by the conquerors on horse and foot.
Suddenly the shout arose, “Yonder is the Duke! Stop him, stop him!” and on still faster pressed the pursuers. But Charles was better mounted than most of his foes, and soon but a handful of riders were left in pursuit of the flying Prince, whose followers had by this time dwindled to some thirty men.
“Can no one capture the Duke?” cried one of the Alsatian leaders in despair.
“I will try,” said Walter; “he must reckon with me for the death of Siffrein de Baschi,” and spurring to furious speed the superb animal he had just captured, he soon overtook the fugitives. Paying no heed to the others, he urged his steed close beside that of the Duke, and the next moment their swords had crossed. In the frantic flight no one thought of the Duke, and the two antagonists now found themselves on a meadow, the icy surface of which had been thawed out by the noonday sun, so that the horses’ feet sank deep into the ground at every step. Charles dealt one mighty blow at his assailant, but it was his last, for the next instant the Switzer’s blade had pierced his helm, and the great Duke sank lifeless to the ground. Walter had no time to rejoice over his victory, however; the Prince’s followers now attacked him, and after exchanging a few blows he too fell sorely wounded.
By this time others of the pursuers had come up and a hand-to-hand conflict began, in which fifteen more of the Burgundian nobles were slain. But no one heeded the fallen, and when the survivors again took to flight the conquerors raced after, still supposing the Duke to be among them.
After sundown it grew bitter cold. Walter tried to shield himself from it, but in vain. He was too weak even to loosen a cloak from the saddle of a horse that lay beside him. Between cold and hunger and the pain of his wounds he fell into a sort of stupor. Visions of the past floated through his mind. Now he seemed to see his own father lying with his brave comrades among the ruins of the hospital at Saint Jacob; again, he was a boy at home in his own warm bed, while the mother, whom he had followed to her grave seven years before, bent over her loved one to kiss him good-night. He could see her eyes shining down upon him—but no! it was not his mother’s warm breath he felt upon his cheek. He started up in terror, and the wolf whose eyes he had seen shining above him in the darkness slunk away scared. By good fortune Walter had his sword beside him.
The visions and phantasies that had haunted his brain were swept away by the frightful reality. He was lying wounded and alone amid a pile of corpses, upon which the wolves had already begun to appease their hunger. No longer conscious of pain or weakness, he sat upright and grasped the handle of his sword, firmly resolved to defend his life to the last against the horrible beasts. But the dead horses were sufficient prey for the wolves, and it was only now and then that one came to sniff at the wounds of some fallen knight. They held aloof from the young Swiss, and as the morning light dawned at last, they slunk away one after another to their lairs in the dark ravines of the mountains. Walter fell back senseless, and was still unconscious when some hours later he was lifted in strong arms and carried back within the walls of Nancy, whither he had come a few weeks previously to bring the glad tidings of relief.
It was long before the body of Charles the Bold was discovered. It had been so mutilated by the wolves that none but a page and the Duke’s own physician, who had been taken prisoner, could identify it. Enveloped in a white cloth, the corpse was borne to the city on a bier by some of the nobles of Lorraine. The following day all that remained of Charles the Bold was laid upon a black velvet bed of state, ornamented with a cross of white satin and six escutcheons. The dead man was wrapped in a white satin robe, the jewelled ducal coronet upon his head, over which a red cap had been drawn to conceal its disfigurement. The feet were encased in scarlet hose, with golden spurs. Between two heralds stood two magnificent stools, on which a consecrated cushion and a red cross were placed. Four other heralds stood with lighted torches at the corners of the bed of state. The room was hung with black, and two tapers burned on an altar before which the services for the dead were to be performed. Ranged about the walls were seats, also draped in black, for the use of René and the nobles of Alsace and Lorraine, who were to assist at the ceremonies.
Beside the bed, and bowed with grief, knelt Anton, a half-brother of Charles. Though reviled by the Duke as a bad and ungrateful kinsman, he now refused to be parted from the dead. His sobs, the outpouring of the grief of a brave soldier, penetrated the hearts of all who entered the room. Last came Duke René clad in deepest mourning, but wearing, in accordance with the old knightly custom, a long beard of spun gold, in token of victory over a princely foe who had fallen in battle. With deep emotion he grasped the hand of the dead, saying in a low voice: “God rest your soul, fair cousin! Much sorrow and trouble have you caused us, yet ’twas by no will of ours that you were brought to this.”
After sprinkling the corpse with holy water he knelt before the altar, where he remained in prayer while the knights and courtiers of Burgundy and Lorraine paid the last honors to Charles the Bold.
On the twelfth of January, 1477, the last Duke of Burgundy was laid to rest in St. George’s Church at Nancy, whence he was removed in 1550 by his mighty great-grandson the Emperor Charles the Fifth, who wished that the remains of his ancestor might be buried in his native town of Bruges.
Freed at last from their bitterest enemy, and crowned with victory, the Swiss returned to their homes and exchanged the implements of war for those of peace. With his youth and strength, Walter Irmy was soon restored to health and to the arms of his father, whose large business he conducted to the entire satisfaction of the worthy Councillor. Honored by his fellow-citizens and beloved by his people, he lived long and happily with his good wife, surrounded by a group of children who were the joy and delight of their grandfather.
Who knows? Perchance his spirit lingers yet about the good city of Basle, ready to prove to the enemies of his country that the victors of Granson and Murten have not perished, but still live on in the courage and valor of their descendants.
The following is a chronological statement of the principal events in the life of Charles the Bold during the period described in this volume:
[1]Basle, or Basel, is the largest city in Switzerland. It has a university, and is the commercial and financial centre of the country. It is also noted for its art and literary culture.[2]Aarau, the capital of the canton of Aargau, in Switzerland, is twenty-four miles southeast of Basle. Although a small town, it is of considerable manufacturing importance.[3]“Arme Gecken” is evidently a play upon the wordArmagnac. These Armagnacs were mercenaries from the county of Armagnac in France. Charles VII, wishing to get rid of them, sent them to aid Frederick III in enforcing his claims against the Swiss, at the time of this story.[4]Maximilian, son of Frederick III, was born in 1459 and died in 1519. He married Maria, daughter of Charles the Bold, in 1477, and was elected King of the Romans in 1486, and Emperor in 1493. In 1499 he waged an ineffectual war with the Swiss Confederation which resulted in its practical independence.[5]“Bärenhäuter, he of the bear’s hide, a nickname for a German private soldier.” Scott, “Anne of Geierstein.”[6]Albert, Elector of Brandenburg, third son of Frederick I, was born November 9, 1414, and died March 11, 1486. He was the author of the ordinance providing for the separation of Brandenburg and Ansbach-Baireuth, and establishing primogeniture in each, which, according to the historians, is the first instance of the legal establishment of the custom of primogeniture. He was surnamed Achilles, and Ulysses, because of his valor and sagacity.[7]Sundgau is a name given to the southern part of Alsace.[8]Granson is a village in the Canton of Vaud, Switzerland, on the Lake of Lucerne, not far from Lausanne.
[1]Basle, or Basel, is the largest city in Switzerland. It has a university, and is the commercial and financial centre of the country. It is also noted for its art and literary culture.
[2]Aarau, the capital of the canton of Aargau, in Switzerland, is twenty-four miles southeast of Basle. Although a small town, it is of considerable manufacturing importance.
[3]“Arme Gecken” is evidently a play upon the wordArmagnac. These Armagnacs were mercenaries from the county of Armagnac in France. Charles VII, wishing to get rid of them, sent them to aid Frederick III in enforcing his claims against the Swiss, at the time of this story.
[4]Maximilian, son of Frederick III, was born in 1459 and died in 1519. He married Maria, daughter of Charles the Bold, in 1477, and was elected King of the Romans in 1486, and Emperor in 1493. In 1499 he waged an ineffectual war with the Swiss Confederation which resulted in its practical independence.
[5]“Bärenhäuter, he of the bear’s hide, a nickname for a German private soldier.” Scott, “Anne of Geierstein.”
[6]Albert, Elector of Brandenburg, third son of Frederick I, was born November 9, 1414, and died March 11, 1486. He was the author of the ordinance providing for the separation of Brandenburg and Ansbach-Baireuth, and establishing primogeniture in each, which, according to the historians, is the first instance of the legal establishment of the custom of primogeniture. He was surnamed Achilles, and Ulysses, because of his valor and sagacity.
[7]Sundgau is a name given to the southern part of Alsace.
[8]Granson is a village in the Canton of Vaud, Switzerland, on the Lake of Lucerne, not far from Lausanne.
BIOGRAPHICAL ROMANCESTRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN BYGEORGE P. UPTON
A new, interesting, and very useful series that will be found especially suitable for school libraries and for supplementary reading
The books in this series are translated from the German, because in that country a specialty is made of really desirable reading for the young. Sixteen titles are now ready and more will follow.
Their simplicity and accuracy make them very useful for every school library in the grades.
For parents who feel disposed to give their children books that provide a mild element of historical information, as well as first-class entertainment, the little books will prove a veritable find.
The “life-stories” retain the story form throughout, and embody in each chapter a stirring event in the life of the hero or the action of the time. The dramatis personæ are actual characters, and the facts in the main are historically correct. They are therefore both entertaining and instructive, and present biography in its most attractive form for the young.
A FULL LIST OF THE TITLES IS GIVEN ON THE NEXT PAGE
The work of translation has been done by Mr. George P. Upton, whose “Memories” and Lives of Beethoven, Haydn, and Liszt, from the German of Max Müller and Dr. Nohl, have been so successful.
Each is a small square 16mo in uniform binding, with from one to four illustrations. Each 60 cents net.
“These narratives have been well calculated for youthful minds past infancy, and Mr. Upton’s version is easy and idiomatic.”—The Nation.
“He is a delightful writer, clearness, strength, and sincerity marking everything to which he puts his hand. He has translated these little histories from the German in a way that the reader knows has conserved all the strength of the original.”—Chicago Evening Post.
“They are written in simple, graphic style, handsomely illustrated, and will be read with delight by the young people for whose benefit they have been prepared.”—Chicago Tribune.
“The work of translation seems to have been well done, and these little biographies are very well fitted for the use of young people.... The volumes are compact and neat, and are illustrated sufficiently but not too elaborately.”—Springfield Republican.
“These books are most entertaining and vastly more wholesome than the story books with which the appetites of young readers are for the most part satisfied.”—Indianapolis Journal.
OF ALL BOOKSELLERS OR OF THE PUBLISHERS
A. C. McCLURG & CO., CHICAGO