he chanced upon Harry Bolingbroke,* Duke of Hereford, Lancaster's heir, and cousin to King Richard. The two were old confederates, and had been fast friends-as friendship is among princes. Both hated the King; each had a sufficient idea of his own importance, and was convinced that that importance was not appreciated at court. Norfolk, who was always ready to air his suspicions, began to talk about court affairs, and to insinuate that the King was hypocritical in his friendly professions. He sought to alarm Bolingbroke with doubt as to his safety. "We are on the point of being undone," said he. "Our fate will be like that of others before us. The King is going to annul the record of our pardons." Bolingbroke thought it would be marvellous if the King belied himself. "It is a marvellous and false world that we live in," was Norfolk's philosophical reply. "I know well, that had it not been for some persons, my Lord, your father Lancaster and yourself would have been killed when you went to Windsor after the parliament. Albemarle, Exeter, and I have pledged ourselves not to submit to the undoing of any lord. This malicious project belongs to Surrey and Salisbury, drawing to themselves Gloucester. [This was the King's cousin Edmund.] They have sworn to undo Lancaster, yourself, Albemarle, Exeter, and me." "God forbid!" cried Bolingbroke. "It will be a wonder if the King assents to such a design. He now gives me good cheer, and has promised to be my good lord. Indeed he has sworn this, by St. Edward the King, to me." "Aha," returns the Earl Marshal, "so hath he often sworn to me even by God's body; but I do not trust him the more for that. He is trying

* Bolingbroke was at first Earl of Derby, and was created Duke of Hereford by Richard.

to draw the Earl of March [the legitimate heir, grandson of Lionel of Clarence] into the scheme." "If that be so," says Harry, "we can never trust them." "Certainly not. If they do not destroy us now, they will some time in the future." Here the discourse ended, and Norfolk, never distrusting his companion, chuckled in the conviction of having excited Bolingbroke's wrath. Bolingbroke, however, treasured up the conversation in his memory, and when he arrived at court, detailed it to his cousin the King. Richard at once summoned a council at Haywood Palace, and commanded Bolingbroke to recount what had been said, in the presence of the State officers. This he did, on his allegiance, the King having already granted him a general pardon. He was then remanded to Parliament, and there, before the assembled lords, again produced his charge against Norfolk, in writing. The next morning he saw the King in private, and, falling on his knees before him, thus addressed him: "My liege lord, there have been riots, troubles, and evil deeds in your realm, to the offence of you and your royal estate; and in them I know I have taken a part-not, however, for an evil end, or to displease you, as I did not then know that I was doing wrong. But now, sire, I know it, and acknowledge my fault. Wherefore, sire, I cry your mercy, and beg your par don." This discourse was pleasing to his Majesty, who, with all his faults, had not a vindictive heart. He raised the Duke from the ground with assurances of full pardon.

While this storm was brewing against Norfolk, that nobleman kept studiously away from Parlia ment. After Bolingbroke's public avowal, he was arrested and brought before the King at Oswaldstre.

He bitterly protested against the charges against him, and denounced Bolingbroke in indignant terms. Falling on his knees at the foot of the throne, he exclaimed: "My dear lord, with your leave, if I may answer your cousin, I say that Henry of Lancaster is a liar; and in what he has said and would say of me, he lies like a false traitor as he is." Bolingbroke replied with words equally exciting. An affray in the presence of royalty would have been the result, had they not both been arrested. The quarrel had gone so far, that neither party, according to the chivalric notions of the day, could recall what had been said, without personal dishonor. It was therefore determined by King Richard and his counsellors that the affair should be referred to what was called, "a high court of chivalry." This court consisted of an assembly of the principal barons and military knights of the realm; who, having heard the circumstances, adjudged some contest of strength as a trial to the opponents. Richard summoned such an assembly to the castle of Windsor. From far and wide came the great barons and knights, gorgeously caparisoned and equipped, their emblazoned banners borne before them by gaudy heralds, and their trains winding far behind them over the rugged and tortuous roads. Assembled within the capacious walls of the castle, the two disputants, Bolingbroke and Nor folk, were brought before their peers, and the cause of discontent was announced. Bolingbroke distinctly and boldly reiterated his charge of treason, and the conversation which had taken place on the journey from Brentford to London. Norfolk once more gave the lie to his accuser, saying: "I did indeed speak with disrespect of certain lords, but in noth

ing did I reflect on the character of majesty." The judges, as was the custom of that time, referred the final decision to "the judgment of God": that is, they ordered wager of battle to be joined, and he that best thrust his lance upon his enemy's body, was to be deemed as having the just cause and the truth on his side. Norfolk, taking his gauntlet from his right hand, threw it at Bolingbroke's feet, and said: "Henry of Hereford, I present my glove, and shall prove, my body against yours, that you are a false and wicked traitor." Bolingbroke stepped back a few paces. After a short silence, advancing toward the throne, he threw his glove down also, and said: "Earl Marshal, say that thou art a false and wicked traitor which I will bodily prove on thee; and here is my glove."

I

The traveller who makes a pilgrimage to the decaying but still majestic ruin of Kenilworth, would find himself amply rewarded by extending his jaunt to the neighboring town of Coventry. He would there find not only an interesting specimen of modern English town life, but the remains of a civilization dating far into antiquity. The traditions of Coventry yield many rich memorials to the historian and romancer, who seek to depict the manners and events of the olden time. One of Tennyson's most touching pieces preserves the legend of that Lady Godiva, who did bitter violence to her modesty, that she might relieve her townspeople of a designed oppression. Coventry seems to have been a favorite spot for jousts and tournaments, for highway exploits, for valiant conflicts, for fairs and festivals, for royal pageants, for gorgeous marriages and baronial orgies. Chivalry there illustrated its most stately adornments, and the barbarities of which its concomitants almost compel

admiration. The quaint old chroniclers, and the novelists and poets of later days, seem to linger with delight around the name of Coventry. Many of the relics of the romantic ages still remain-curious habitations, crooked and unpaved streets, crumbling walls, and primitive chapels. One half expects to see the gay cavalcade of Elizabeth once more prancing into the town, the crowds of gaily-dressed peasantry filling the streets, the goodwives jostling each other at the narrow windows, the banners of crimson and gold floating above the host of plumes, the steel of helmet and lance glistening in the sun, bugle notes resounding along the highway, and, most exciting of all, the train of the auburn-haired Maiden Queen herself, riding in state among her people, Leicester bending toward her from his warrior steed, and the gay-hearted Raleigh, happy in the royal favor, ever at her side.

Coventry was the spot designated where trial should be had who, in God's judgment, was the real liar and traitor, Henry Bolingbroke or the Earl Marshal Norfolk. A combat between two princes of royal blood naturally caused great excitement throughout the country. The nobility and gentry summoned their retinues, took down from the baronial walls their helmets, cuirasses, and lances, donned their cloaks of velvet and gold, unfurled their emblazoned heraldic pennons, and galloped off with all haste to Coventry. The youths flocked together to witness what was becoming a rare sight-a tournament, the import of which was life or death. Even the fair damsels of that not delicate era longed to lend their inspiring presence to a scene which should recall the romantic exploits of the crusades, and in which manly valor, ever admirable in gentle eyes, was to achieve