r verily, lady mine, thy will is my
sweetest law. But now, if thy heart misgives thee--"

"It does, it does!" exclaimed the duchess, bursting into tears.

"If thy heart misgives thee," continued Clarence, who with all his
weakness had much of the duplicity of his brothers, "why, let it pass.
Slavery to scornful Margaret, vassalage to thy sister's spouse, triumph
to the House which both thou and I were taught from childhood to deem
accursed,--why, welcome all! so that Isabel does not weep, and our boy
reproach us not in the days to come!"

For all answer, Isabel, who had seized the letter, let it drop on the
table, pushed it, with averted face, towards the duke, and turned back
to the cradle of her child, whom she woke with her sobs, and who wailed
its shrill reply in infant petulance and terror, snatched from its
slumber to the arms of the remorseful mother.

A smile of half contemptuous joy passed over the thin lips of the
she-Judas, and, without speaking, she took her way to Clarence. He had
sealed and bound his letter, first adding these words, "My lady and
duchess, whatever her kin, has seen this letter, and approves it,
for she is more a friend to York than to the earl, now he has turned
Lancastrian;" and placed it in a small iron coffer.

He gave the coffer, curiously clasped and locked, to the gentlewoman,
with a significant glance--"Be quick, or she repents! The courier waits,
his steed saddled! The instant you give it, he departs,--he hath his
permit to pass the gates."

"All is prepared; ere the clock strike, he is on his way." The confidant
vanished; the duke sank in his chair, and rubbed his hands.

"Oho, father-in-law, thou deemest me too dull for a crown! I am not dull
enough for thy tool. I have had the wit, at least, to deceive thee,
and to hide resentment beneath a smiling brow! Dullard, thou to believe
aught less than the sovereignty of England could have bribed Clarence to
thy cause!" He turned to the table and complacently drained his goblet.

Suddenly, haggard and pale as a spectre, Isabel stood before him.

"I was mad--mad, George! The letter! the letter--it must not go!"

At that moment the clock struck.

"Bel enfant," said the duke, "it is too late!"

BOOK X. THE RETURN OF THE KING-MAKER.

CHAPTER I. THE MAID'S HOPE, THE COURTIER'S LOVE, AND THE SAGE'S COMFORT.

Fair are thy fields, O England; fair the rural farm and the orchards in
which the blossoms have ripened into