"And thou, then," said Margaret, in a voice where female tenderness combated strangely with her natural pride of rank, and with the calm, stoical indifference induced by the intensity of her personal misfortunes; "thou, fair youth, art the last scion of the noble stem, so many fair boughs of which have fallen in our hapless cause. Alas, alas! what can I do for thee? Margaret has not even a blessing to bestow. So wayward is her fate, that her benedictions are curses, and she has but to look on you and wish you well, to insure your speedy and utter ruin. I--I have been the fatal poison-tree, whose influence has blighted and destroyed all the fair plants that arose beside and around me, and brought death upon every one, yet am myself unable to find it!" "Noble and royal mistress," said the elder Englishman, "let not your princely courage, which has borne such extremities, be dismayed, now that they are passed over, and that a chance at least of happier times is approaching to you and to England." "To England, to _me_, noble Oxford!" said the forlorn and widowed Queen.--"If to-morrow's sun could place me once more on the throne of England, could it give back to me what I have lost? I speak not of wealth or power--they are as nothing in the balance--I speak not of the hosts of noble friends who have fallen in defence of me and mine--Somersets, Percys, Staffords, Cliffords--they have found their place in fame, in the annals of their country--I speak not of my husband, he has exchanged the state of a suffering saint upon earth for that of a glorified saint in heaven--But oh, Oxford! my son--my Edward!--Is it possible for me to look on this youth, and not remember that thy countess and I on the same night gave birth to two fair boys? How oft we endeavoured to prophesy their future fortunes, and to persuade ourselves that the same constellation which shone on their birth would influence their succeeding life, and hold a friendly and equal bias till they reached some destined goal of happiness and honour! Thy Arthur lives; but, alas! my Edward, born under the same auspices, fills a bloody grave!" She wrapped her head in her mantle, as if to stifle the complaints and groans which maternal affection poured forth at these cruel recollections. Philipson, or the exiled Earl of Oxford as we may now term him, distinguished in those changeful times by the steadiness with which he had always maintained his loyalty to the line of Lancaster, saw the imprudence of indulging his sovereign in her weakness. [Illustration: ARTHUR BEFORE THE QUEEN. Drawn and Etched by R. de los Rios.]