e upon our memory."

"Your Majesty has had often such plans agitated in your Council," said
Buckingham.

"True, George," said the King. "I can safely say it is not my fault. I
have thought of it for years."

"It cannot be too well considered," said Buckingham; "besides, every
year makes the task of relief easier."

"True," said the Duke of Ormond, "by diminishing the number of
sufferers. Here is poor old Coleby will no longer be a burden to the
Crown."

"You are too severe, my Lord of Ormond," said the King, "and should
respect the feelings you trespass on. You cannot suppose that we would
have permitted this poor man to hold such a situation, had we known of
the circumstances?"

"For God's sake, then, sire," said the Duke of Ormond, "turn your
eyes, which have just rested on the corpse of one old friend, upon the
distresses of others. Here is the valiant old Sir Geoffrey Peveril of
the Peak, who fought through the whole war, wherever blows were
going, and was the last man, I believe, in England, who laid down his
arms--Here is his son, of whom I have the highest accounts, as a gallant
of spirit, accomplishments, and courage--Here is the unfortunate House
of Derby--for pity's sake, interfere in behalf of these victims, whom
the folds of this hydra-plot have entangled, in order to crush them to
death--rebuke the fiends that are seeking to devour their lives, and
disappoint the harpies that are gaping for their property. This very day
seven-night the unfortunate family, father and son, are to be brought
upon trial for crimes of which they are as guiltless, I boldly
pronounce, as any who stand in this presence. For God's sake, sire, let
us hope that, should the prejudices of the people condemn them, as it
has done others, you will at last step in between the blood-hunters and
their prey."

The King looked, as he really was, exceedingly perplexed.

Buckingham, between whom and Ormond there existed a constant and almost
mortal quarrel, interfered to effect a diversion in Charles's favour.
"Your Majesty's royal benevolence," he said, "needs never want exercise,
while the Duke of Ormond is near your person. He has his sleeve cut
in the old and ample fashion, that he may always have store of ruined
cavaliers stowed in it to produce at demand, rare old raw-boned boys,
with Malmsey noses, bald heads, spindle shanks, and merciless histories
of Edgehill and Naseby."

"My sleeve is, I dare say, of an antique cut," said O