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 Commons--this Saxon People, that can
alone secure to thee the holding of the realm which the right arm
wins. And, beshrew me, much as I love thy cause, much as thou hast
with thy sorrows and thy princely beauty glamoured and spelled my
heart and my hand,--ay, so that I, the son of a Lollard, forget the
wrongs the Lollards sustained from the House of Lancaster; so that I,
who have seen the glorious fruitage of a Republic, yet labour for
thee, to overshadow the land with the throne of ONE--yet--yet, lady--
yet, if I thought thou wert to be the same Margaret as of old, looking
back to thy dead kings, and contemptuous of thy living people, I would
not bid one mother's son lift lance or bill on thy behalf."

So resolutely did Robin of Redesdale utter these words, that the
queen's haughty eye fell abashed as he spoke; and her craft, or her
intellect, which was keen and prompt where her passions did not deafen
and blind her judgment, instantly returned to her. Few women equalled
this once idol of knight and minstrel, in the subduing fascination
that she could exert in her happier moments. Her affability was as
gracious as her wrath was savage; and with a dignified and winning
frankness, she extended her hand to her ally, as she answered, in a
sweet, humble, womanly, and almost penitent voice,--

"O bravest and lealest of friends, forgive thy wretched queen. Her