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.