from the earl's dark eyes,
betraying even to Marmaduke the secret of perhaps his earliest
alienation from Edward IV. Isabella pouted her rich lip, but said
nothing. "As for thee, Anne," continued the earl, "it is a pity that
monks cannot marry,--thou wouldst have suited some sober priest better
than a mailed knight. 'Fore George, I would not ask thee to buckle my
baldrick when the war-steeds were snorting, but I would trust Isabel
with the links of my hauberk."

"Nay, Father," said the low, timid voice of Anne, "if thou wert going to
danger, I could be brave in all that could guard thee!"

"Why, that's my girl! kiss me! Thou hast a look of thy mother now,--so
thou hast! and I will not chide thee the next time I hear thee muttering
soft treason in pity of Henry of Windsor."

"Is he not to be pitied?--Crown, wife, son, and Earl Warwick's stout arm
lost--lost!"

"No!" said Isabel, suddenly; "no, sweet sister Anne, and fie on thee for
the words! He lost all, because he had neither the hand of a knight nor
the heart of a man! For the rest--Margaret of Anjou, or her butchers,
beheaded our father's father."

"And may God and Saint George forget me, when I forget those gray and
gory hairs!" exclaimed the earl; and putting away the Lady Anne somewhat
roughly, he made a stride across the room, and stood by his hearth. "And
yet Edward, the son of Richard of York, who fell by my father's side--he
forgets, he forgives! And the minions of Rivers the Lancastrian tread
the heels of Richard of Warwick."

At this unexpected turn in the conversation, peculiarly unwelcome, as
it may be supposed, to the son of one who had fought on the Lancastrian
side in the very battle referred to, Marmaduke felt somewhat uneasy; and
turning to the Lady Anne, he said, with the gravity of wounded pride, "I
owe more to my lord, your father, than I even wist of,--how much he must
have overlooked to--"

"Not so!" interrupted Warwick, who overheard him,--"not so; thou
wrongest me! Thy father was shocked at those butcheries; thy father
recoiled from that accursed standard; thy father was of a stock
ancient and noble as my own! But, these Woodvilles!--tush! my passion
overmasters me. We will go to the king,--it is time."

Warwick here rang the hand-bell on his table, and on the entrance of his
attendant gentleman, bade him see that the barge was in readiness; then
beckoning to his kinsman, and with a nod to his daughters, he caught up
his plumed cap, a