The old king is clad in a robe of blue velvet, brought out of the Tower, set on horseback, and led to St. Paul’s amidst crowds of Londoners who shout “God save King Henry.” The poor old king knows full well that the proud noble who bears his train in the state procession is his and England’s master, and that he must do his bidding or return whence he came. Warwick has again triumphed, but his hold on power is far from secure. The Lancastrians have no desire for a puppet king whose strings are worked by their old enemy, and the Yorkists are busy preparing for the return of Edward. Next spring he appears in the Humber, and pushes on to London, where the gates are opened to him, and he secures the person of King Henry. Warwick is in battle-array to the north of Barnet, his forces “under a hedge-side.” Clarence, who has made peace with his brother, offers mediation; but Warwick, angry at his double faithlessness, contemptuously rejects his advances. “Last scene of all, to end this strange, eventful history.” Raw, cold, and dismal dawns the morning on Easter Sunday in the year 1471. A heavy mist, which many a soldier ascribes to magical arts, rolls over the field and hides the opposing armies from each other. The battle begins, and men fight as in a dream, striking wildly at each other, and scarce distinguishing friend from foe. Now Warwick thinks the day is his; now Edward believes victory to be in his grasp. Then comes a lift of the cloud, and both generals perceive that their hopes are vain. For three hours the desperate fight rages; the bombards roar, and sword and arrow do their deadly work. Now deluded by the mist, the two wings of Warwick’s army are busy fighting each other, and the fatal cry “Treason! treason!” is heard on the field. Warwick’s men give way, his brother is slain, and there is only safety for the great earl in flight. He leaps on horseback and gallops to a neighbouring wood, from which there is no egress. He is followed and surrounded, and though he plies his great battle-axe fiercely he is overborne by superior numbers and slain. The king-maker will never make or unmake kings again. “Now lies he there, And none so poor to do him reverence.” [Illustration: =DEATH OF WARWICK.= (_From the picture by T. A. Houston, R.S.A._)] [Illustration] THE LITTLE PRINCES IN THE TOWER. “_Let us sit upon the ground_ _And tell sad stories of the death of kings._”