"Thinkest thou that the spirit of a queen lies in me so low and crushed, that I, the descendant of Charlemagne, could forgive the wrongs endured from Warwick and his father?
But thou, though wise and loyal, art of the Commons; thou knowest not how they feel through whose veins rolls the blood of kings!" A dark and cold shade fell over the bold face of Robin of Redesdale at these words.
"Ah, lady," he said, with bitterness, "if no misfortune can curb thy pride, in vain would we rebuild thy throne.

It is these Commons, Margaret of Anjou--these English Commons--this Saxon People, that can alone secure to thee the holding of the realm which the right arm wins.
And, beshrew me, much as I love thy cause, much as thou hast with thy sorrows and thy princely beauty glamoured and spelled my heart and my hand,--ay, so that I, the son of a Lollard, forget the wrongs the Lollards sustained from the House of Lancaster; so that I, who have seen the glorious fruitage of a Republic, yet labour for thee, to overshadow the land with the throne of ONE--yet--yet, lady--yet, if I thought thou wert to be the same Margaret as of old, looking back to thy dead kings, and contemptuous of thy living people, I would not bid one mother's son lift lance or bill on thy behalf." So resolutely did Robin of Redesdale utter these words, that the queen's haughty eye fell abashed as he spoke; and her craft, or her intellect, which was keen and prompt where her passions did not deafen and blind her judgment, instantly returned to her.

Few women equalled this once idol of knight and minstrel, in the subduing fascination that she could exert in her happier moments.

Her affability was as gracious as her wrath was savage; and with a dignified and winning frankness, she extended her hand to her ally, as she answered, in a sweet, humble, womanly, and almost penitent voice,-- "O bravest and lealest of friends, forgive thy wretched queen.

Her troubles distract her brain,--chide her not if they sour her speech.
Saints above! will ye not pardon Margaret if at times her nature be turned from the mother's milk into streams of gall and bloody purpose, when ye see, from your homes serene, in what a world of strife and falsehood her very womanhood hath grown unsexed ?" She paused a moment, and her uplifted eyes shed tears fast and large.