the army caught sight of the plain where the enemy might be encountered.  A small body of four hundred men-at-arms, led by Marshal de Chabannes, were the first to descend into it; and among them was Bayard.  “Marshal,” said he to Chabannes, “we are told that over the Po yonder is Sir Prosper Colonna, with two thousand horse, in a town called Villafranca, apprehending nought and thinking of nought but gaudies.  We must wake up his wits a little, and this moment get into the saddle with all our troops, that he be not warned by any.”  “Sir Bayard,” said the marshal, “it is right well said; but how shall we cross the River Po, which is so impetuous and broad?” “Sir,” said Bayard, “here is my Lord de Morette’s brother, who knows the ford; he shall cross first, and I after him.”  So they mounted their horses, crossed the Po, and “were soon there, where Sir Prosper Colonna was at table and was dining, as likewise were all his folk.”  Bayard, who marched first, found the archers on guard in front of the Italian leader’s quarters.  “Yield you and utter no sound,” cried he, “else you are dead men.”  Some set about defending themselves; the rest ran to warn Colonna, saying, “Up, sir; for, here are the French in a great troop already at this door.”  “Lads,” said Colonna to them, “keep this door a little till we get some armor on to defend ourselves.”  But whilst the fight was going on at the door Bayard had the windows scaled, and, entering first, cried out, “Where are you, Sir Prosper?  Yield you; else you are a dead man.”  “Sir Frenchman, who is your captain?” asked Colonna.  “I am, sir.”  “Your name, captain?” “Sir, I am one Bayard of France, and here are the Lord of La Palice, and the Lords d’Aubigny and d’Himbercourt, the flower of the captains of France.”  Colonna surrendered, cursing Fortune, “the mother of all sorrow and affliction, who had taken away his wits, and because he had not been warned of their coming, for he would at least have made his capture a dear one;” and he added, “It seems a thing divinely done; four noble knights at once, with their comrades at their backs, to take one Roman noble!”

Francis I. and the main body of his army had also arrived at the eastern foot of the Alps, and were advancing into the plains of the country of Saluzzo and Piedmont.  The Swiss, dumbfounded at so unexpected an apparition, fell back to Novara, the scene of that victory which two years previously had made them so proud.  A rumor spread that negotiation was possible, and that the question of Milaness might be settled without fighting.  The majority of the French captains repudiated the idea, but the king entertained it.  His first impulses were sympathetic and generous.  “I would not purchase,” said he to Marshal de Lautrec, “with the blood of my subjects, or even with that of my enemies, what I can pay for with money.”  Parleys were commenced; and an agreement was hit upon with conditions on which the Swiss would withdraw from Italy and resume