rcely drew their daggers and killed him on the spot.

The unhappy queen having no one to care for, gave up the contest, and
went to end her days in France, and for thirteen years afterwards there
was no more open warfare in England; but there were still two parties,
so that the White and the Red Rose were badges of enmity as before, for
it was natural enough that all who, like the De Cliffords, had suffered
from the success of the Yorkists, should wish to see the line of
Lancaster restored. The existing heir of that family was Henry, Earl of
Richmond, who was an exile in France, when Edward the Fourth died,
leaving two sons, the eldest only eleven years of age. These were the
two little princes that were sent to the Tower by their cruel, ambitious
uncle, Richard the Third, who contrived that they should both die there,
that he might wear the crown himself; but he had reigned very little
more than two years when some of the great nobles, disgusted by his
tyranny, sent word to the Earl of Richmond that, if he came to England,
with a view to dethrone the usurper, he would find plenty of friends
ready to assist him. The earl was soon here at the head of a large
army, and met King Richard at Bosworth in Leicestershire, where the
great battle was fought that put an end to the War of the Roses and to
the life of Richard the Third.

You remember that when Edward the Fourth deprived the Cliffords of their
lands and honours, the great manor of Skipton, with its fine old castle,
was given to Sir William Stanley. This brave knight had remained
faithful to King Edward, but he was amongst those who turned against
Richard; and it was he who, when the fight was over and the victory won,
took up the crown, which it appears, Richard had worn on the field, and
placed it on Richmond's head, calling out aloud, "Long live King Henry
the Seventh!" And this cry passed from one to another till the air
resounded with the shouts of the victors, who thus proclaimed the new
sovereign on the battle plain. When this momentous event took place
Henry de Clifford was about thirty years of age. He had now dwelt for
sixteen years amongst the mountains of Cumberland, and one thing only
had occurred to disturb the even tenor of his peaceful life.

A gentleman of noble family and good estate, Sir John Saint John, of
Bletso, in Bedfordshire, came on a visit to Threlkeld with his daughter
Anne, a fair girl in the bloom of youth and beauty. Henry, who