The conversation was soon turned to other subjects, and the Duchess was in the act of giving her son an account, in a jesting tone, of some visits which she had made that morning to several of the religious institutions of the town, when a page entered hastily, bearing a packet in his hand. Approaching direct to the Count of Charolois, he presented it on his knee, saying, "From my lord the Duke. The messenger sought you at the castle, sir, in haste, and then came hither." The Prince took it with an eager and anxious look, tore off the silk and seal without stopping to cut the cord that bound it, and then read the contents, with a countenance which expressed rather preconceived apprehension, perhaps, than emotion caused by the intelligence which the despatch contained. The Duchess of Burgundy remained seated, but gazed upon her son's face with a look more sad than alarmed; and it seemed to Richard of Woodville that, internally, she was meditating on the future course of that fair and noble youth, amidst all the many perils, cares, and griefs, which surrounded, in those days, the paths of princes, rather than even on the present dangers which might affect her husband. There is a tender timidity in the love of woman for her offspring, which is generated by none of the other relations of life. The husband, or the brother, or the father, is her stay and support--he is there to protect and to defend; and though she may tremble at his danger, or weep for his misfortune, there may be, and often is, some shade of selfish feeling in the dread and in the sorrow. Such is not the case with the child: it is for him she fears, not for herself,--for him entirely, with emotions unmixed, with devotion unalloyed. To save any other dear one, she might readily sacrifice life--from duty, from enthusiasm, from love. But it would still be a sacrifice, in any other case than that of her child: to save him, it would be an impulse. The Duchess gazed upon the young Count's face then with calm but sad consideration; and perhaps her own memories supplied somewhat too abundantly the materials for fancy to raise up, without aid, a sad model of the future. She knew that honour, or goodness, or even courage, cannot bring security; that innocence cannot escape malice; that virtue cannot insure peace; that wealth, and power, and a high name, are but as butts whereon to hang the targets at which the arrows of the world are aimed; and she feared for her son, seeing, with prophetic eye, the life of turmoil and contention and peril that lay before him.