fell with a bullet through his head.

The King swayed in the saddle and lost the reins. "Save yourself,"
he whispered to the Duke, "I am done for." The Duke put his arm
around him to support him, but the cuirassiers surged against them
and tore them apart. The King's horse was shot in the neck and threw
its rider. Awhile he hung by the stirrup and was dragged over the
trampled field. Then the horse shook itself free and ran through the
lines, spreading the tidings of the King's fall afar.

A German page, Leubelfing, a lad of eighteen, was alone with the
King. He sprang from his horse and tried to help him into the saddle
but had not the strength to do it. Gustav Adolf was stout and very
heavy. While he was trying to lift him some Croats rode up and
demanded the name of the wounded man. The page held his tongue, and
they ran him through. Gustav Adolf, to save him, said that he was
the King.[1] At that they shot him through the head, and showered
blows upon him. When the body was found in the night it was naked.
They had robbed and stripped him.

[Footnote 1: This is the story as the page told it. He lived two
days.]

The King was dead. Through the Swedish ranks Duke Bernhard shouted
the tidings. "Who now cares to live? Forward, to avenge his death!"
With the blind fury of the Berserkers of old the Swedes cleared the
ditches, stormed the breastworks, and drove the foe in a panic
before them. The Duke's arm was broken by a bullet. He hardly knew
it. With his regiment he rode down the crew of one of the enemy's
batteries and swept on. In the midst of it all a cry resounded over
the plain that made the runaways halt and turn back.

"Pappenheim! Pappenheim is here!"

He had come with his Walloons in answer to the general's summons.
"Where is the King?" he asked, and they pointed to the Finnish
brigade. With a mighty crash the two hosts that had met so often
before came together. Wallenstein mustered his scattered forces and
the King's army was attacked from three sides at once. The yellow
brigade fell where it stood almost to the last man. The blue fared
little better. Slowly the Swedish infantry gave back. The battle
seemed lost.

But the tide turned once more. In the hottest fight Pappenheim
fell, pierced by three bullets. The "man of a hundred scars" died,
exulting that the King whom he hated had gone before. With his death
the Emperor's men lost heart. The Swedes charged again and again
with unabated fury. Night