Yet the dreadful news which met her at Cerne Abbey for one moment overwhelmed the eager and resolute spirit. King Henry was once more a captive, and Warwick—who united the strange characters of her worst enemy in private, and her sole reliable friend in public—could be neither enemy nor friend any more for ever. The bright head was bowed down, and tears, such as Marguerite was rarely seen to shed, came rushing from her eyes.
"Oh, let us give it up!" she cried. "Edward, let us go back to France, and give up the struggle!"
"I cry you mercy, Madame my mother!" was the ringing answer of the Prince. "Never, while another battle may retrieve all! Look, I pray you—have we not yet the Duke of Somerset"——
"Not to be trusted," said Marguerite, under her breath.
"And my Lord of Oxford"——
"Who fled from us at Barnet."
"And my Lord of Devon"——
"Well, yes—I think he may be."
The Prince dropped on one knee, and clasped his mother's hand in his.
"And, sweet Mother, have you not me?"