gue of Redesdale. "But now, save thyself!"

"But what! is it not possible yet to strike the blow? Rather let us spur
to the north; rather let us hasten the hour of action, and raise the Red
Rose through the length and breadth of England!"

"Ah, lady, if without warrant from your lord; if without foreign
subsidies; if without having yet ripened the time; if without gold,
without arms, and without one great baron on our side, we forestall a
rising, all that we have gained is lost; and instead of war, you can
scarcely provoke a riot. But for this accursed alliance of Edward's
daughter with the brother of icy-hearted Louis, our triumph had been
secure. The French king's gold would have manned a camp, bribed the
discontented lords, and his support have sustained the hopes of the more
leal Lancastrians. But it is in vain to deny, that if Lord Warwick win
Louis--"

"He will not! he shall not!--Louis, mine own kinsman!" exclaimed
Margaret, in a voice in which the anguish pierced through the louder
tone of resentment and disdain.

"Let us hope that he will not," replied Hilyard, soothingly; "some
chance may yet break off these nuptials, and once more give us France
as our firm ally. But now we must be patient. Already Edward is fast
wearing away the gloss of his crown; already the great lords desert his
court; already, in the rural provinces, peasant and franklin complain of
the exactions of his minions; already the mighty House of Nevile frowns
sullen on the throne it built. Another year, and who knows but the Earl
of Warwick,--the beloved and the fearless, whose statesman-art alone
hath severed from you the arms and aid of France, at whose lifted
finger all England would bristle with armed men--may ride by the side of
Margaret through the gates of London?"

"Evil-omened consoler, never!" exclaimed the princess, starting to her
feet, with eyes that literally shot fire. "Thinkest thou that the spirit
of a queen lies in me so low and crushed, that I, the descendant of
Charlemagne, could forgive the wrongs endured from Warwick and his
father? But thou, though wise and loyal, art of the Commons; thou
knowest not how they feel through whose veins rolls the blood of kings!"

A dark and cold shade fell over the bold face of Robin of Redesdale at
these words.

"Ah, lady," he said, with bitterness, "if no misfortune can curb
thy pride, in vain would we rebuild thy throne. It is these Commons,
Margaret of Anjou--these English Com