it my mother?"

"No, my son," answered Philipson; "peace, for the sake of all you hold
dear or holy!"

The singular female, however, heard both the question and answer,
though expressed in a whisper.

"Yes," she said, "young man--I am--I should say I was--your mother;
the mother, the protectress, of all that was noble in England--I am
Margaret of Anjou."

Arthur sank on his knees before the dauntless widow of Henry the
Sixth, who so long, and in such desperate circumstances, upheld, by
unyielding courage and deep policy, the sinking cause of her feeble
husband; and who, if she occasionally abused victory by cruelty and
revenge, had made some atonement by the indomitable resolution with
which she had supported the fiercest storms of adversity. Arthur had
been bred in devoted adherence to the now dethroned line of Lancaster,
of which his father was one of the most distinguished supporters; and
his earliest deeds of arms, which though unfortunate, were neither
obscure nor ignoble, had been done in their cause. With an enthusiasm
belonging to his age and education, he in the same instant flung his
bonnet on the pavement, and knelt at the feet of his ill-fated
sovereign.

Margaret threw back the veil which concealed those noble and majestic
features, which even yet--though rivers of tears had furrowed her
cheek--though care, disappointment, domestic grief, and humbled pride,
had quenched the fire of her eye, and wasted the smooth dignity of her