"
"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
agonizing 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."
Arthur sank on his knees before the dauntless widow of Henry the
Sixth, who so long, and in such desperate circumstances, upheld, by
unyielding courage and deep policy, the sinking cause of her feeble
husband; and who, if she occasionally abused victory by cruelty and
revenge, had made some atonement by the indomitable resolution with
which she had supported the fiercest storms of adversity.
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