ame the battle.
Weak though he still was from his long illness, Bayard on that day was
seen, as ever, "shining above his fellow-men." He turned the tide of
victory; he tore two standards from the foe with his own hand; and he
was first in the pursuit.

Two months after, Bayard was at Pavia. The little troop with which he
was then serving had there sought refuge under Louis d'Ars. The armies
of the Swiss burst in upon them. Bayard, with a handful of soldiers in
the market-place, held, for two hours, their whole force at bay, while
his companions were retreating from the town across a bridge of boats.
As he himself was crossing, last of all, a shot struck him in the
shoulder, and stripped it to the bone. No surgeon was at hand. The
wound, roughly stanched with moss, brought on a fever, and for some time
he lay in danger of his life.

And now Bayard was to follow a new master. Louis XII. died; Francis I.
received the crown; and Bayard, with the young king, marched to Milan,
which the Swiss had seized and held.

On Thursday, September 13, 1515, King Francis pitched his camp at
Marignano, before the city of the spires. No danger of attack was
apprehended; the king sat calmly down to supper in his tent; when all at
once the Swiss, aroused to madness by the fiery eloquence of Cardinal de
Sion, broke like a tempest from the city, and fell upon the camp. The
French, by the red light of sunset, flew to arms, and fought with fury
till night fell. Both armies sat all night on horseback, waiting for the
dawn; and with the first streaks of morning, flew again to battle. It
was noon before the bitter contest ended, and the Swiss, still fighting
every inch of ground, drew slowly back toward the city. It had been,
indeed, as Trevulzio called it, a Battle of the Giants. And the greatest
of the giants had been Bayard and the king.

That evening Francis held, before his tent, the ceremony of creating
knights of valor. But before the ceremony began, a proclamation by the
heralds startled and delighted all the camp. Francis had determined to
receive the rank in his own person. Bayard was to knight the king!

In the days of the primeval chivalry, when even princes were compelled
to win their spurs, such a spectacle was not uncommon. But not for ages
had a king been knighted by a subject on a field of battle. Nor was any
splendor wanting that could make the spectacle impressive. Nowhere in
Ariosto is a picture of more gorgeous details tha