ving the
bodies of the dead their last defence from death, they turned their
visors to each other, as for one latest farewell on earth.

"Forgive me, Richard," said Montagu,--"forgive me thy death; had I not
so blindly believed in Clarence's fatal order, the savage Edward had
never passed alive through the pass of Pontefract."

"Blame not thyself," replied Warwick. "We are but the instruments of
a wiser Will. God assoil thee, brother mine. We leave this world to
tyranny and vice. Christ receive our souls!"

For a moment their hands clasped, and then all was grim silence.

Wide and far, behind and before, in the gleam of the sun, stretched
the victorious armament, and that breathing-pause sufficed to show the
grandeur of their resistance,--the grandest of all spectacles, even in
its hopeless extremity,--the defiance of brave hearts to the brute force
of the many. Where they stood they were visible to thousands, but not a
man stirred against them. The memory of Warwick's past achievements, the
consciousness of his feats that day, all the splendour of his fortunes
and his name, made the mean fear to strike, and the brave ashamed to
murder! The gallant D'Eyncourt sprang from his steed, and advanced to
the spot. His followers did the same.

"Yield, my lords, yield! Ye have done all that men could do!"

"Yield, Montagu," whispered Warwick. "Edward can harm not thee. Life has
sweets; so they say, at least."

"Not with power and glory gone.--We yield not, Sir Knight," answered the
marquis, in a calm tone.

"Then die, and make room for the new men whom ye so have scorned!"
exclaimed a fierce voice; and Ratcliffe, who had neared the spot,
dismounted and hallooed on his bloodhounds.

Seven points might the shadow have traversed on the dial, and, before
Warwick's axe and Montagu's sword, seven souls had gone to judgment. In
that brief crisis, amidst the general torpor and stupefaction and awe of
the bystanders, round one little spot centred still a war.

But numbers rushed on numbers, as the fury of conflict urged on the
lukewarm. Montagu was beaten to his knee, Warwick covered him with his
body; a hundred axes resounded on the earl's stooping casque, a hundred
blades gleamed round the joints of his harness. A simultaneous cry was
heard; over the mounds of the slain, through the press into the shadow
of the oaks, dashed Gloucester's charger. The conflict had ceased, the
executioners stood mute in a half-circle. Side by s