Elizabeth could no longer restrain her tears as she related, that however weak Warwick might heretofore have seemed, he appeared a Plantagenet on his trial. He disdained the insulting formalities of law, where the bitter Lancastrian, Lord Oxford, was the interpreter of justice; he at once declared himself guilty of plotting to put the English crown on the head of his cousin, the duke of York. He was quickly interrupted, and condemned to be beheaded.
"Generous, unhappy Warwick. Ah! is not life a misery, when all of good, except ye two angelic creatures, die?"
The signal was now given that the interview must end. Elizabeth wept. Katherine, still voiceless, clung closer to her husband; while he nerved himself to support these gentle spirits with manly fortitude. One long, affectionate kiss he pressed on the mouth of Katherine; and as her roseate lips yet asked another, another and another followed; their lives mingled with their breath.
"We meet in Paradise, mine only one," whispered York: "through our Lord's mercy assuredly we meet there."
He unwound her arms; he placed her in those of Elizabeth, "Cherish, preserve her. Bless thee, my sister; thee, and thy children. They at least will, by my death, reign rightfully over this kingdom. Farewell."
He kissed her hand, and then again the lifeless hand of his wife, who stood a breathing statue. She had not spoken; no words could utter her despair. Another moment, and their fair forms were gone; the door of his cell was closed; and, but for the presence of the God he worshipped, Richard was left alone to solitude and night.
CHAPTER LVIII.
CONCLUSION.
Love is too young to know what conscience is,
Yet who knows not. Conscience is born of Love?
Then, gentle cheater, urge not my amiss,
Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove.
Time,[1] we are told by all philosophers, is the sole medicine for grief. Yet there are immortal regrets which must endure while
- ↑ I do not know how far these concluding pages may be deemed superfluous:
