flies to this lonely
hearth,--flies to the death-bed of the powerless woman for refuge from
the foul usurper whom that foe placed upon the throne!"

"Spare me," muttered Warwick, in a low voice, and between his grinded
teeth. The room had been cleared, and Dr. Godard (the grave man who had
first accosted Marmaduke, and who was the priest summoned to the dying)
alone--save the scarce conscious Anne herself--witnessed the ghastly and
awful conference.

"Hush, daughter," said the man of peace, lifting the solemn
crucifix,--"calm thyself to holier thoughts."

The lady impatiently turned from the priest, and grasping the strong
right arm of Warwick with her shrivelled and trembling fingers, resumed
in a voice that struggled to repress the gasps which broke its breath,--

"But thou--oh, thou wilt bear this indignity! thou, the chief of
England's barons, wilt see no dishonour in the rank love of the vilest
of England's kings! Oh, yes, ye Yorkists have the hearts of varlets, not
of men and fathers!"

"By the symbol from which thou turnest, woman!" exclaimed the earl,
giving vent to the fury which the presence of death had before
suppressed, "by Him to whom, morning and night, I have knelt in grateful
blessing for the virtuous life of this beloved child, I will have such
revenge on the recreant whom I kinged, as shall live in the rolls of
England till the trump of the Judgment Angel!"

"Father," said Anne, startled by her father's vehemence from her
half-swoon, half-sleep--"Father, think no more of the past,--take me to
my mother! I want the clasp of my mother's arms!"

"Leave us,--leave the dying, Sir Earl and son," said Godard. "I too
am Lancastrian; I too would lay down my life for the holy Henry; but I
shudder, in the hour of death, to hear yon pale lips, that should pray
for pardon, preach to thee of revenge."

"Revenge!" shrieked out the dame of Longueville, as, sinking fast and
fast, she caught the word--"revenge! Thou hast sworn revenge on Edward
of York, Lord Warwick,--sworn it in the chamber of death, in the ear of
one who will carry that word to the hero-dead of a hundred battlefields!
Ha! the sun has risen! Priest--Godard--thine arms--support--raise--bear
me to the casement! Quick--quick! I would see my king once more!
Quick--quick! and then--then--I will hear thee pray!"

The priest, half chiding, yet half in pity, bore the dying woman to the
casement. She motioned to him to open it; he obeyed. The sun, j