“I had no time, sire; and London is well-nigh palsied with dismay. Had I waited to collect troops, I might have found a king’s head blackening over those gates.”
“Well,” returned Edward, carelessly, “few or many, one gentleman is more worth than a hundred varlets. ‘We are eno’ for glory,’ as Henry said at Agincourt.”
“No, sire; you are too skilful and too wise to believe your boast. These men we cannot conquer,—we must disperse them.”
“By what spell?”
“By their king’s word to redress their complaints.”
“And banish my queen?”
“Heaven forbid that man should part those whom God has joined,” returned Warwick. “Not my lady, your queen, but my lady’s kindred.”
“Rivers is dead, and gallant John,” said Edward, sadly; “is not that enough for revenge?”
“It is not revenge that we require, but pledges for the land’s safety,” answered Warwick. “And to be plain, without such a promise these walls may be your tomb.”
Edward walked apart, strongly debating within himself. In his character were great contrasts: no man was more frank in common, no man more false when it suited; no man had more levity in wanton love, or more firm affection for those he once thoroughly took to his heart. He was the reverse of grateful for service yielded, yet he was warm in protecting those on whom service was conferred. He was resolved not to give up the Woodvilles, and after a short self-commune, he equally determined not to risk his crown and life by persevering in resistance to the demand for their downfall. Inly obstinate, outwardly yielding, he concealed his falsehood with his usual soldierly grace.