and scarce closed his eyes that night, thinking of the coming
triumph for the prince he loyally loved. He was up and in the
saddle with the first glimmering light of day, and by the time that
the rosy glow of dawn was transforming the fair world of nature and
clothing it with an indescribable radiance of gossamer beauty, he
and the prince were already a mile from the Abbey, galloping along
in the fresh morning air with a glad exultation of spirit that
seemed in itself like a herald of coming triumph.

"The very heavens have put on the livery of the Red Rose!" cried
Edward gaily, as he pointed to the vivid red of the east; and Paul
smiled, and tried to banish from his mind the old adage learned at
his nurse's knee, to the effect that a red morn was the herald of a
dark and dreary day.

They had ridden a matter of some five miles forth in the direction
of the great road to London--as it was then considered, though we
should scarce call the rude tracks of those days roads--when the
quick eye of Paul caught sight of a little moving cloud of dust,
and he drew rein to shade his eyes with his hand.

Edward followed his example, and together they stood gazing, their
hearts beating with sympathetic excitement. How much might the next
few moments contain for them of triumph or of despair! for from the
haste with which these horsemen rode, it was plain they were the
bearers of tidings, and if of tidings, most likely those of some
battle, in which the King Maker and the king he had first made and
then driven away would stand for the first time in hostile ranks.
Together they had been victorious; what would be the result when
they met as foes?

Nearer and nearer came the riders, looming through the uncertain
morning mist, and emerging thence two jaded, weary figures, their
horses flecked with foam, nostrils wide, chests heaving, showing
every sign of distress; and Paul, recognizing in one of the riders
a follower of the Earl of Warwick, called upon him by name, and bid
him speak his tidings.

"Lost--lost--all lost!" cried the man, addressing himself to Paul,
unconscious of the identity of his companion; "the battle is fought
and lost. The armies met on Barnet Heath. The Earl of Warwick, the
great earl, was there slain. His Majesty King Henry is again a
prisoner in the hands of Edward of York. Today he makes his
triumphant entry into London, which will open its gates to him with
joy and receive him as king."

Paul sat rigid