The Last Of The Barons, Volume 7.

s squires; while yet was heard the laugh of the tymbesteres, and yet

just arrived from the North. The Lords St. John, River

he

eat counci

cution, June 13, 1483] in the White Tower, in which the visitor, on entrance,

n activity and strength. Before him, on the long table, lay two or three open letters, beside the dagger with which Edward had cut the silk that bound them. Around him gravely sat Lord Rivers, Anthony Woodville, Lord St. John, Raoul de Fulke, the young and valiant D'Eyncourt,

e burgonet and buckle-to the brand,-a revolt that requires a king's arm to quell. In Yorkshire fifteen thousand men are in arms, under a leader they call Robin of Redesdale,-the pretext, a thrave of corn demanded by the Hospital of St. Leonard's, the true design that of treason to our realm. At the same time, we hear

s indeed, sire," sa

ings! War is the chase

t thou so broodin

hat had Earl Warwick b

en where his face may shine? The rebels shall need no foe, my realm no regent, while I, the heir of the P

gravely, "on what forces do you co

nd, Lord o

uld speak out, and plainly. It seems that these insurgents clamour not against yourself, but against the queen's rela

on the king. For you the commons have been pillaged; for you the daughters of peers have been forced into monstrous marriages, at war with birth and with nature herself; for you, the princely Warwick, near to the throne in blood, and front and pillar of our time-honoured order of

t from two of the supporters on whom he principally counted, had the prudence to suppress his resentment, and rem

ppy fortune of a soldier's sword. It may be" (and here the artful favourite, the most beloved of the whole court, inclined himself meekly)-"it may be that I have not borne those honours so mildly as to disarm blame. In the war to be, let me atone. My liege, hear your servant: give me no command,-let me be a simple soldier, fighting by your side. My example who will not follow?-proud to ride but as a man of arms along the track which the sword of his

gh the Woodvilles, father and son, saw in it much to gall their pride, and half believed it a snare for their hu

ave spoken well. Be i

the field. Hasten, then, I beseech you, one and all, to raise your vassals, and joi

onference, and dismissing even the Woo

a tiger's fire) "the mouthing of those mock-pieces of the lords at Runnymede. I am no John, to

, sire. If he did so, farewell forev

ught to check it. But come what may, his must be a bold lance that shivers against a king's mail. And now o