wrecks of battle and against the irresistible march of fate. As side
by side they had gained this spot, and the vulgar assailants drew
back, leaving the bodies of the dead their last defence from death,
they turned their visors to each other, as for one latest farewell on
earth.

"Forgive me, Richard," said Montagu,--"forgive me thy death; had I not
so blindly believed in Clarence's fatal order, the savage Edward had
never passed alive through the pass of Pontefract."

"Blame not thyself," replied Warwick. "We are but the instruments of
a wiser Will. God assoil thee, brother mine. We leave this world to
tyranny and vice. Christ receive our souls!"

For a moment their hands clasped, and then all was grim silence.

Wide and far, behind and before, in the gleam of the sun, stretched
the victorious armament, and that breathing-pause sufficed to show the
grandeur of their resistance,--the grandest of all spectacles, even in
its hopeless extremity,--the defiance of brave hearts to the brute
force of the many. Where they stood they were visible to thousands,
but not a man stirred against them. The memory of Warwick's past
achievements, the consciousness of his feats that day, all the
splendour of his fortunes and his name, made the mean fear to strike,
and the brave ashamed to murder! The gallant D'Eyncourt sprang from
his steed, and advanced to the spot. His followers did the same.

"Yield, my lords, yield! Ye have done all that men could do!"

"Yield, Montagu," whispered Warwick. "Edward can harm not thee. Life