Excitement, uncertainty, and suspense seemed in the very air, and even before the silent little troop reached the courtyard of the Abbey eager forms were seen hurrying out, and the tall and stately figure of the royal Margaret stood outlined in the doorway.  Perhaps something in the very silence and confused looks of the little group told a tale of disaster, for the queen came hurrying down the steps with whitening face, and her son sprang from his saddle and put his arm about her, as if to support her in the shock which could not but fall upon her now.

“Tell me all,” she whispered hoarsely.  “Do not keep me in suspense.  Speak, I command you, my son.”

“A battle has been fought—­and lost,” answered Edward, speaking mechanically.  “Our ally and friend the Earl of Warwick was killed in desperate fight.  My father is a prisoner in the enemy’s hands.  Edward of York is even now making his triumphant entry into London, which will receive him with open arms.”

Edward said no more; he had indeed told all his tale, and it had been enough for the unhappy woman, who had landed on English soil so confident of victory.  She gave one short, low cry, a convulsive shudder passed through her limbs, and she fell senseless to the ground.  That cry found its echo upon the pale lips of another—­one who had closely followed the queen to learn the tidings of the travellers; and Edward turned to catch his bride in his arms, whilst her tears rained down fast as she heard how her noble father lay dead upon the fatal field that had lost her lord his crown, and had dashed to the ground the warmest hopes of the Red Rose.

“Let us to ship again,” said Margaret, as she recovered from her long swoon.  “The cause is lost without hope.  Warwick is slain.  Whom have we now to trust to?  Let us back to France, and hide our dishonoured heads there.  My father’s court will receive us yet, and perchance we may in time learn to forget that we were ever princes and sovereigns.”

Strange words, indeed, from the haughty and warlike Margaret; but at that moment her proud spirit seemed crushed and broken, and it was young Edward who answered her with words of hope and courage.

“Nay, mother,” he said, “let it not be said of the House of Plantagenet that they turned their backs upon the foe, and fled disgracefully, leaving their followers to butchery and ruin.  It might have been well for us never to have disturbed again the peace of this realm; but having summoned to our banner the loyal adherents of the Red Rose, it is not for us to fly to safety, and leave them to the wrath and cruelty of Edward.  No; one battle—­one defeat—­does not lose us our cause.  My father lives; shall we leave him to linger out his days in hopeless captivity?  I live; have I not the right to strike a blow for the crown to which I was born?

“Courage, sweet mother.  You are a king’s daughter.  You have led men to victory before.  Say not—­think not—­that all is lost.  Let us win the crown of England by the power of the name and of the righteous cause we own, and henceforth shall no man say that a subject crowns and dethrones England’s monarch at his will.”