"Do you here worship," she said, "the St. George of Burgundy, or the St. George of merry England, the flower of chivalry?"
"I serve," said Philipson, folding his hands humbly on his bosom, "the saint to whom this chapel is dedicated, and the Deity with whom I hope for his holy intercession, whether here or in my native country."
"Ay—you," said the female, "even you can forget—you, even you, who have been numbered among the mirror of knighthood—can forget that you have worshipped in the royal fane of Windsor—that you have there bent a gartered knee, where kings and princes kneeled around you—you can forget this, and make your orisons at a foreign shrine, with a heart undisturbed with the thoughts of what you have been,—praying, like some poor peasant, for bread and life during the day that passes over you."
"Lady," replied Philipson, "in my proudest hours, I was, before the Being to whom I preferred my prayers, but as a worm in the dust—In His eyes I am now neither less nor more, degraded as I may be in the opinion of my fellow-reptiles."
"How canst thou think thus?" said the devotee; "and yet it is well with thee that thou canst. But what have thy losses been, compared to mine!"
She put her hand to her brow, and seemed for a moment overpowered by agonising recollections.
Arthur pressed to his father's side, and inquired, in a tone of interest which could not be repressed, "Father, who is this lady?—Is it my mother?"
"No, my son," answered Philipson;—"peace, for the sake of all you hold dear or holy!"
The singular female, however, heard both the question and answer, though expressed in a whisper.
"Yes," she said, "young man—I am—I should say I was—your mother; the mother, the protectress, of all that was noble in England—I am Margaret of Anjou."