heir bugles sounded their farewell notes, and their
banners fell upon the ground, one would have imagined that a fraction
of the people was breathing its last sigh. Even the conquerors were
moved to pity, and although those nearest to the sovereign prudently
dissembled their emotion, the tears coursed down the bronzed cheeks of
more than one rude soldier. Barbarossa alone was stern and pitiless,
and his remorseless glance, bent upon the vanquished foe, seemed to
indicate that he considered the punishment a feeble atonement for the
outrage offered to his Imperial majesty.

The plain was now covered with a dense crowd. An immense chariot, drawn
by five white oxen, advanced slowly, bearing the celebrated statue of
St. Ambrose, Milan's patron saint, and an immense pole from which
fluttered the city's flag and those of all the other towns of the
confederation. The chariot was hung with scarlet cloth, the drivers
were dressed in scarlet, and twelve warriors, with casques and corslets
of polished steel, covered with robes of purple, formed an escort of
honor.

This chariot, which had been built by the Archbishop Ariberti, played
an important part in times of war, and was looked upon almost as the
_Palladium_ of the City of Milan.

During battle its banner towered above the combatants, and served as a
rallying-point; and it was the duty of the citizens to defend it to the
death,--it was the symbol, the soul of the free City, the glory and
honor of Milan.

It halted in front of the throne, and the guards descended. A
death-like silence reigned, and glances of tearful anger were turned
towards Barbarossa. Suddenly an ominous crash was heard, the flag-staff
had broken, and its fall upset the car. The image of St. Ambrose, the
flags and banners, had rolled in the dust; and the deep bell of the
distant cathedral tolled out mournfully, as these symbols, once so
brilliant, lay stretched upon the ground, in striking analogy to the
fate which awaited Milan.

The people broke oat in groans of rage; some tore their hair in very
desperation, while others, yielding to the weight of their emotion,
were silent and bit their lips with grief and mortification. Still the
Emperor remained unmoved, although there were tears on the energetic
face of Henry the Lion, and his features told of his deep sympathy with
the humiliation of the illustrious city.

The Count of Biandrate, formerly an ally of the Milanese, but now a
stanch partisan of t