Behind the column which still commemorates “the great battle” of that day, stretches now a trilateral patch of pasture-land, which faces a small house. At that time this space was rough forest-ground, and where now, in the hedge, rise two small trees, types of the diminutive offspring of our niggard and ignoble civilization, rose then two huge oaks, coeval with the warriors of the Norman Conquest. They grew close together; yet, though their roots interlaced, though their branches mingled, one had not taken nourishment from the other. They stood, equal in height and grandeur, the twin giants of the wood. Before these trees, whose ample trunks protected them from the falchions in the rear, Warwick and Montagu took their last post. In front rose, literally, mounds of the slain, whether of foe or friend; for round the two brothers to the last had gathered the brunt of war, and they towered now, almost solitary in valour’s sublime despair, amidst the 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 has sweets; so they say, at least.”
“Not with power and glory gone.—We yield not, Sir Knight,” answered the marquis, in a calm tone.
“Then die, and make room for the new men whom ye so have scorned!” exclaimed a fierce voice; and Ratcliffe, who had neared the spot, dismounted and hallooed on his bloodhounds.
Seven points might the shadow have traversed on the dial, and, before Warwick’s axe and Montagu’s sword, seven souls had gone to judgment. In that brief crisis, amidst the general torpor and stupefaction and awe of the bystanders, round one little spot centred still a war.