"And what of my lord? Fled he too? He would never turn his back to the foes of his King."
"He did not, lady; had he been present, the result might have been different. He was not in the engagement."
"What mean you by 'not in the engagement'? Surely he, of all men, would not stand aloof on such an occasion?"
"Alas! lady, I fear to tell you why."
"Speak, man! is he dead? or why was he absent?"
"It is too true, lady, that he can no longer fight in defence of his King."
"Then he is dead!" cried Lady Clifford, in an agony of despair.
"He fell, my lady, on the eve of the battle, after a glorious act of valour, by a random shot. Heaven rest his soul!"
"Heaven help my poor children!" cried Lady Clifford, and fell to the floor in a swoon, the mother's instinctive love for her offspring prevailing over her grief for her own loss. And truly, she had reason to fear for them. Her husband, "Black-faced Clifford," as he was called, had an inveterate hatred for the House of York; he had murdered, in cold blood, the young Duke of Rutland, brother of Edward of York; had cut off the head of Richard, Duke of York; and had caused the Earl of Salisbury, father of Warwick, to be executed at Pontefract; and it was tolerably certain that York, the future King, and Warwick, his General, would seek to take vengeance on the children of him who had committed those atrocities.