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 closed in with Wallenstein’s centre still unbroken; but he had lost all his guns.  Under cover of the darkness he made his escape.  The King’s army camped upon the battle-field.  The carnage had been fearful; nine thousand were slain.  It was Wallenstein’s last fight.  With the remnants of his army he retreated to Bohemia, sick and sore, and spent his last days there plotting against his master.  He died by an assassin’s hand.

The cathedrals of Vienna, Brussels, and Madrid rang with joyful Te Deums at the news of the King’s death.  The Spanish capital celebrated the “triumph” with twelve days of bull-fighting.  Emperor Ferdinand was better than his day; he wept at the sight of the King’s blood-stained jacket.  The Protestant world trembled; its hope and strength were gone.  But the Swedish people, wiping away their tears, resolved stoutly to carry on Gustav Adolf’s work.  The men he had trained led his armies to victory on yet many a stricken field.  Peace came at length to Europe; the last religious war had been fought and won.  Freedom of worship, liberty of conscience, were bought at the cost of the kingliest head that ever wore a crown.  The great ruler’s life-work was done.