A GREAT noble now rides by on a magnificent coal-black steed. At once your eye is attracted by him, and you feel that here is a Paladin worthy of the pen of poet and romancer. Mark his great stature; his vast width and depth of chest; his high forehead; his black, curling hair fretted from the temples by the friction of his helmet; his handsome oval face; his bold features; and his massive jaw, which speaks only too plainly of his masterful nature and inflexible determination. You can readily believe that he is the idol of thousands of his countrymen, and “a setter up and plucker down” of kings. Who is this remarkable man? He is none other than Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, the richest and most powerful noble in England. Thirty thousand men eat his bread daily at the tables of his various great castles; his retainers alone constitute an army, all clad in scarlet coats with the “ragged staff” worked on back and front. His boundless wealth, his profuse hospitality, his great family connections raise him head and shoulders above his peers. He is the premier noble of England, the arbiter of her destinies, and the “last of the barons.” He lives in an age of battle, murder, and sudden death. His land is torn by the long and fierce quarrels of two great families which are selfishly and ruthlessly fighting for the crown. Henry the Sixth, a mild, merciful, long-suffering, pious man, weak of health and weak of purpose, a hater of strife and bloodshed and a lover of religion and learning, sits insecurely on the throne, bolstered thereon by his strong-willed, indomitable queen, Margaret of Anjou. He is the grandson of that Lancastrian king who thrust from the throne the grandson of Edward the Third. His hereditary right to the crown is inferior to that of Richard, Duke of York; but his family has now been in possession of the throne for more than half a century, and the brilliant victories of his father have made men proud of the Lancastrian lineage. But feeble son has succeeded valiant sire. France has been lost; there is no child to succeed him; and he is surrounded by ambitious, quarrelsome nobles, who make him a pawn in their selfish game. Already the great houses of the realm have taken sides, and are sporting either the red or the white rose. The citizens of London, the wealthy traders and craftsmen now rising into a powerful caste, throw in their lot with York, and the yeomen of the South and Midlands are for him too. And now, in the year 1453, the poor king goes mad, and York is made Protector of the realm. He quite expects to be king when Henry passes away.