with so much steadiness at the same time, as
not to distress the slowest horse of his party.

[At length, father and son reach Strasburg, where they deliver their
mission to Charles the Bold; and with vol. iii. commences quite a
different cast of characters.

In the cathedral at Strasburg, Philipson and his son meet with
Margaret of Anjou, and the interview between the exiled Queen, and as
we should now call Philipson, the Earl of Oxford, and his son, is one
of the most interesting scenes in the whole work; for there is a tinge
of melancholy in fallen royalty which is always extremely touching:]

There was a pause. Four lamps, lighted before the shrine of St.
George, cast a dim radiance on his armour and steed, represented as he
was in the act of transfixing with his lance the prostrate dragon,
whose outstretched wings and writhing neck were in part touched by
their beams. The rest of the chapel was dimly illuminated by the
autumnal sun, which could scarce find its way through the stained
panes of the small lanceolated window, which was its only aperture to
the open air. The light fell doubtful and gloomy, tinged with the
various hues through which it passed, upon the stately, yet somewhat
broken and dejected form of the female, and on those of the melancholy
and anxious father, and his son, who, with all the eager interest of
youth, suspected and anticipated extraordinary consequences from so
singular an interview.

At length the female approached to the same side of the shrine with
Arthur and his father, as if to be more distinctly heard, without
being obliged to raise the solemn voice in which she had spoken.

"Do you here worship," she said, "the St. George of Burgundy, or the
St. George of merry England, the flower of chivalry?"

"I serve," said Philipson, folding his hands humbly on his bosom, "the
saint to whom this chapel is dedicated, and the deity with whom I hope
for his holy intercession, whether here or in my native country."

"Ay--you," said the female, "even you can forget--you, even you, who
have been numbered among the mirror of knighthood--can forget that you
have worshipped in the royal fane of Windsor--that you have there bent
a _gartered_ knee, where kings and princes kneeled around you--you can
forget this, and make your orisons at a foreign shrine, with a heart
undisturbed with the thoughts of what you have been--praying, like
some poor peasant, for bread and life during the day that passes