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Various
As she spoke, she sunk down as one who needs rest,
on a stone-seat placed on the very verge of the balcony,
regardless of the storm, which now began to rise with
dreadful gusts of wind, the course of which being
intermitted and altered by the crags round which they
howled, it seemed as if in very deed Boreas, and Eurus,
and Caurus, unchaining the winds from every quarter
of heaven, were contending for mastery around the
convent of our Lady of Victory. Amid this tumult,
and amid billows of mist which concealed the bottom
of the precipice, and masses of clouds which racked
tearfully over their heads, the roar of the descending
waters rather resembled the fall of cataracts than
the rushing of torrents of rain. The seat on which
Margaret had placed herself was in a considerable
degree sheltered from the storm, but its eddies, varying
in every direction, often tossed aloft her dishevelled
hair; and we cannot describe the appearance of her
noble and beautiful, yet ghastly and wasted features,
agitated strongly by anxious hesitation, and conflicting
thoughts, unless to those of our readers who have
had the advantage of having seen our inimitable Siddons
in such a character as this.
* * * *
*
As Margaret spoke, she tore from her hair the sable
feather and rose, which the tempest had detached from
the circlet in which they were placed, and tossed
them from the battlement with a gesture of wild energy.
They were instantly whirled off in a bickering eddy
of the agitated clouds, which swept the feather far
distant into empty space, through which the eye could
not pursue it. But while that of Arthur involuntarily
strove to follow its course, a contrary gust of wind
caught the red rose, and drove it back against his
breast, so that it was easy for him to catch hold
of and retain it.
“Joy, joy, and good fortune, royal mistress!”
he said, returning to her the emblematic flower; “the
tempest brings back the badge of Lancaster to its
proper owner.”
“I accept the omen,” said Margaret; “but
it concerns yourself, noble youth and not me.
The feather, which is borne away to waste and desolation,
is Margaret’s emblem. My eyes will never
see the restoration of the line of Lancaster.
But you will live to behold it, and to aid to achieve
it, and to dye our red rose deeper yet in the blood
of tyrants and traitors. My thoughts are so strangely
poised, that a feather or a flower may turn the scale.
But my head is still giddy, and my heart sick—To-morrow
you shall see another Margaret, and till then adieu.”
[Oxford attempts to win over Charles the Bold to the
Lancastrian cause, and proposes an invasion of England,
while Edward, with his army, is in France. Charles
acquiesces; but capriciously breaks off the treaty,
and rashly commences an attack on the Swiss Cantons.
In his first attempt at Granson, his vanguard is cut
off, and he is compelled to retreat into Burgundy.
He, however, resolves to wipe out the disgrace of
his defeat, raises a powerful army, and fights the
memorable battle of Morat. His army is utterly
ruined by the stern valour of the Swiss; he is compelled
to fight for Lorraine, before Nancy; the treachery
of an Italian leader of Condittierri, gives the enemy
access to his camp; and his army is surprised, and
routed:]
