“Is my father reconciled to Edward?”
“No,—nor Edward to him.”
“Good! The king has no soldiers of his own amidst yon armed train?”
“Save a few of Anthony Woodville’s recruits, none. Raoul de Fulke and St. John have retired to their towers in sullen dudgeon. But have you no softer questions for my return, bella mia?”
“Pardon me, many—my king.”
“King!”
“What other name should the successor of Edward IV. bear?”
“Isabel,” said Clarence, in great emotion, “what is it you would tempt me to? Edward IV. spares the life of Henry VI., and shall Edward IV.‘s brother conspire against his own?”
“Saints forefend!” exclaimed Isabel; “can you so wrong my honest meaning? O George! can you conceive that your wife—Warwick’s daughter—harbours the thought of murder? No! surely the career before you seems plain and spotless! Can Edward reign? Deserted by the barons, and wearing away even my father’s long-credulous love; odious! except in luxurious and unwarlike London, to all the commons—how reign? What other choice left? none,—save Henry of Lancaster or George of York.”
“Were it so!” said the weak duke; and yet be added falteringly, “believe me, Warwick meditates no such changes in my favour.”