upon the now faint and decaying embers, speedily succeeded in extinguishing it. The last spark, however, had scarcely been trodden out before the bell tolled the hour of midnight.

"Heaven be praised!" said Hume; "the accursed deed has been prevented. Had yonder spark retained a gleam of light for an instant longer, the spirit of good King Henry had passed away for ever."

"Peace, double traitor!" said the Duke of York, "good King Henry is doubtless indebted to thee for his life; but he has to thank not thy loyalty but thy malignity and avarice. Both however shall be gratified, agreeably to the promise which I made thee. The woman, Duchess though she be, who insulted thee, shall be brought to a terrible expiation of her crimes, and the reward which she promised thee for aiding and concealing her damnable practices shall be more than doubled for having revealed them."

Eleanor gazed in sullen silence on the scene which had terminated all her hopes, and would probably terminate her life. She saw herself too completely in the hands of her enemies for any effort at resistance or escape to be availing, and was too proud to expose the bitterness and humiliation of her feelings by tears or idle upbraidings. One scornful and malignant smile, which she glanced at Hume, was the only expression of her sentiments in which she indulged, and then she left the apartment with her arms bound to those of Bolingbroke and the Witch of Eye, in the custody of Buckingham and the soldiers.

The events which followed are too well known to require more than a brief recapitulation. The Duchess of Gloucester, Hume, the Witch of Eye, and Bolingbroke, were tried and condemned for the crimes of conspiring the death of the King, and practising the arts of magic and witchcraft. The witch was burned in Smithfield, Bolingbroke was hanged at Tyburn, and the Duchess sentenced to do open penance in four public places within the city of London, and afterwards to be imprisoned for life in the Isle of Man. Hume was not only pardoned, but liberally rewarded. This man did not appear really to have possessed any knowledge

of the occult sciences, but to have imposed on the credulity of the Duchess. That Margaret Jourdmain and Roger Bolingbroke were really magicians and wizards, was religiously believed by all; and the fact that the King, at the very moment that the magical fire was extinguished in the house of the Duke of Gloucester, recovered his full and perfect health at his palace at Westminster, gave support and confirmation to such a belief, however irrational it may now appear.

The Duke of Gloucester, whatever might be his feelings at the disgrace and punishment of his Duchess, did not attempt any exercise of his authority for their prevention; but, to use the language of an old chronicler,* "toke all these things paciently and saied litle."

* Hall.

The Prophecy.

Suffolk. Drones suck not eagles' blood, but rob bee-hives;
It is impossible that I should die

By such a lowly vassal as thyself;

Thy words move rage and not remorse in me.
I go of message from the Queen to France;

I charge thee, waft me safely cross the Channel.
Second Part of HENRY VI.

TH

HE Prophecy was spoken on a morning of May, in the year 1540. The day was gloomy, and the dull grey light which streamed through the window of a little square apartment in the Tower of London, only served to make the place of confinement, on which it shone, more irksome to its inhabitant, by rendering visible its narrow dimensions, the grating through which this melancholy light peered upon it, and the massive iron door which divided the captive from the world. A stone table, on which were placed some writing materials, and a large oaken chair, formed the only furniture of this desolate chamber. The grey hairs and furrowed features of the prisoner seemed to indicate a man who had passed the period of middle life. Suffering or age, or perhaps both, appeared to have worn down and depressed, but not humiliated him. Pride and haughtiness flashed forth even in the melancholy glance of his eye, and every sigh which burst from his heart was followed by a firmer step, as he paced across his dungeon, as if, like Cassius, "he scorned his spirit that could be moved to sigh at any thing." He wore even in his dungeon a richly embroidered robe, lined with velvet; from his neck depended the

order of St. George, and the Garter encircled his leg, on which gorgeous but unprotecting symbols of his rank, he seemed to gaze with a sort of gloomy satisfaction.

"And as these robes and this garter," he said, "are wrapped round the person of William de la Pole even in his dungeon; so is his spirit clothed, even in the hour of his captivity, with high and undaunted resolution, with unshaken allegiance to his sovereign, and with hatred and scorn, as unshaken, for those false friends and treacherous foes to whom he is indebted for his lodging in the Tower."

William de la Pole, Duke of Suffolk, had long enjoyed the highest place in the favour of King Henry the Sixth, and of his Queen, Margaret of Anjou, of the union between whom he had been the main instrument. In the same proportion, however, as he enjoyed the favour of the sovereign, was he detested by the nobles and the populace. The blackest crimes were laid to his charge he was accused of a guilty intercourse with the Queen; of treason, in having sold the provinces of Anjou and Maine to the French; and of having been an accomplice in the murder of Humphrey Duke of Gloucester. Of the truth of these accusations it is difficult to judge at this distance from the period to which they refer; certainly nothing like evidence sufficient to support them has come down to our times. The public voice, however, was expressed so loudly against the Duke of Suffolk, that the King and Queen were constrained, however reluctantly, to obey it, and to commit the Duke a prisoner to the Tower.

The Duke of Suffolk had found himself ill at ease during his confinement. He knew the power and malignity of his enemies, the weakness and irresolution of the King, and the slender scruples which would be felt as to the mode and manner of his destruction by those who had the inclination, and would very probably soon acquire the power, to put an end to his existence. He was ruminating deeply and painfully on these circumstances, when he heard the bars of his dungeon slowly withdrawn, and shortly afterwards a person, with whose features he was well acquainted, entered the apartment. The visitor was a tall, thin old man,

clothed in a robe of black flowing drapery, and holding a white staff in his hand. His hair and his beard were white as silver, and the latter flowed down to his waist. His small grey eyes sparkled with a peculiar, and, a stranger would perhaps think, with a preternatural brightness. His forehead was high and pale, and his features, though deeply furrowed with age, were still remarkably handsome and even majestic, and wore an expression of uncommon intelligence and sagacity. The Duke started as he entered his prison chamber; and then taking his hand, gazed wistfully, but in silence, on his face, as if anxious to receive some information concerning which he could not summon resolution enough to inquire.

"Peace be with you, my son !" said the old man ;" and may the heavenly bodies shower their most benign influences on your head!"

"Thanks, reverend Bracy," said the Duke; "but what say the stars? Do the heavenly bodies smile upon me now?"

"Their language is dubious and mysterious. Thy native planet, Saturn, rose last night enveloped in dark clouds. The influences of Mars and Jupiter were adverse to it; while Venus, which when last I drew thy horoscope, was in conjunction with it, was no longer visible."

"And what, good Father, may these signs portend?" asked Suffolk tremblingly.

"That the King and the Barons," answered Bracy, are hostile to you, and that the influence of the Queen is no longer able to protect you."

"Ha!" said the Duke, "sayest thou so? then De la Pole is indeed lost!"

"Nay, nay," said Bracy; "I know not that yet; if I read aright the prophetic language of the stars, there is yet a hope that you may escape the impending evil.”

"Tell me what hope there is, good Father."

"You will be safe, my son, if you escape the dangers of the Tower."

"If," said Suffolk despondingly; and his features, which