oor made all look up, and they saw Father Bevis. All rose to their
feet in an instant, the Countess dropping on her knees, and entreating
the priest's blessing. He gave it, but as if his thoughts were far
away.

"Lady, my Lord hath sent me to you with tidings. May God grant they be
not the worst tidings for England that we have heard for many a day! A
messenger is come from the North, bringing news that the Lady Alianora
the Queen lieth dead in the marsh lands of Lincolnshire."

It was a worse loss to England than any there knew. Yet they knew
enough to draw a cry of horror and sorrow from the lips of all those
that heard the news. And a fortnight later, on the 17th of December,
they all stood at Charing Cross, to see the funeral procession wind down
from the north road, and set down the black bier for its last momentary
rest on the way to Westminster.

It is rather singular that the two items which alone the general reader
usually remembers of this good Queen's history should be two points
distinctly proved by research to be untrue. Leonor did not suck the
poison from her husband's arm--a statement never made until a hundred
and fifty years after her death, and virtually disproved by the
testimony of an eye-witness who makes no allusion to it, but who tells
us instead that she behaved like a very weak woman instead of a very
brave one, giving way to hysterical screams, and so distressing the
sufferer that he bade four of his knights to carry her out of the room.
Again, Edward's affectionate regret did not cause the erection of the
famous Eleanor Crosses wherever the bier rested on its journey. Leonor
herself desired their erection, and left money for it in her will.

The domestic peace of the royal house died with her who had stood at its
head for nineteen years. To her son, above all others, her loss was
simply irreparable. The father and son were men of very different
tastes and proclivities; and the former never understood the latter. In
fact, Edward the Second was a man who did not belong to his century; and
such men always have a hard lot. His love of quiet, and hatred of war,
were, in the eyes of his father, spiritless meanness; while his musical
tastes and his love of animals went beyond womanish weakness, and were
looked upon as absolute vices. But perhaps to the nobles the worst
features of his character were two which, in the nineteenth century,
would entitle him to respect. He was extremely