"It means," said the Duke of Gloucester, angrily, "that you are both traitors. You have stolen away the king's affections and his confidence from those who are better able to take care of him, and who have the better right also; and you are leading him on to ruin. But this shall go on no longer; for you are my prisoners now; and I am master."

These were not the exact words spoken; but something like this was undoubtedly said, enough to make Earl Rivers bitterly repent having reposed such illplaced confidence in the wicked and dishonourable Duke. This repentance was too late now, however; for he and Lord Grey were helplessly in the power of their enemy.

And this enemy's plans were all cleverly arranged, so that very little time was needed for further deliberation. Leaving the two distinguished prisoners in the hands of a sufficient guard, Richard boldly rode forward, with the rest of his troops, the Duke of Buckingham being still by his side, and made their way to the king's presence.

And now there was another scene of dissimulation. Dismounting from their horses, they knelt before the poor boy, who was wondering where his better-loved and more worthily-trusted uncle could be, or when he would return, and saluted him with a great deal of pretended respect as their sovereign. In reply to his hasty and earnest inquiries for his uncle Rivers, he was told with much reverence, by his uncle Gloucester, that Rivers was a bad, designing man, not fit to be his dear nephew's protector and adviser. He had, therefore, (as Gloucester went on to say,)

been under the necessity of placing him under arrest, together with Lord Grey; and that he himself would now have the honour of conducting his royal nephew in safety through the rest of the journey.

The king was not only very much afflicted, he was also very angry at this intelligence. But what could he do? He was already in the dark duke's power; for even while they were speaking together, the two officers of the king's two thousand guards, were arrested by Gloucester's orders, and were sent out of the town to join the other noble captives.

And now, for a little time, no doubt, all was confusion in the town of Stoney-Stratford. There were two large bodies of armed men, perhaps about equal in number, who were ready enough to fight with each other, if they had been so commanded. But the king's troops had lost their leader, and their three principal officers; and there was no one of sufficient importance to take the command; while, on the other hand, the Duke of Gloucester, in all the confidence of superior power, was what may be called, master of the situation. The truth is, he had not proceeded thus far without having planned what further to do. As soon as he left the king's presence, he called together the wondering and hesitating soldiers of Earl Rivers, and told them that his royal nephew was now under his protection; and that they were no longer needed. They might, therefore, if they pleased, return by the way they came; or if they preferred to serve under him, they might join his soldiers.

This speech produced the intended effect, namely, some of the troops went back either to their homes,

or to Ludlow, where they had been comfortably quartered; while others united themselves to the duke's troops, and thus increased his power.

As to the young king, he does not seem to have been consulted in the matter. Indeed, from this time, he was his uncle Gloucester's prisoner, though he was treated with all the outward respect due to him as the king of England.

He never saw his uncle Rivers again; for that same day, without being permitted to take leave of his nephew, the earl, with his companions and fellowprisoners, was sent off, well guarded, to Pontefract Castle, in Yorkshire, a hundred miles distant from Stratford. What happened to him there will be told at the end of this story.

16

CHAPTER II.

THE SANCTUARY AT WESTMINSTER.

WE must, for a little while, leave the young King

Edward a captive in the hands of his uncle of Gloucester, at Stoney-Stratford, to see what was happening in London.

Our young readers will remember that God's ancient people, the Israelites, had a certain number of cities, in different parts of their country, called Cities of Refuge. These cities, they will recollect, were intended for the safety of any unhappy Israelites who had accidentally committed manslaughter. If, after this misadventure, the manslayer fled from pursuit, and could enter into one of these Cities of Refuge, he was safe.

Something like this benevolent provision, was copied by the church of Rome in its early days, and was continued at least up to the time of which we are writing. All holy places, or such as were considered holy, were looked upon as being, in some degree, places of refuge, or sanctuaries, from the pursuit of enemies; and there were some which especially exercised the right of sanctuary; and abused it so much, that often the vilest characters were sheltered by them from law and justice. Nevertheless, in such times of violence and injustice as were formerly known in England, it seems to have

been a good thing that there were places of refuge which were guarded by superstitious reverence.

One of these places of refuge was part of, or near to, Westminster Abbey; and we have now to tell what happened in this Sanctuary on the 24th of April, 1483.

Very early that morning, soon after midnight, indeed, the keepers of the Sanctuary were roused by a violent knocking at the gates, showing that some person was in haste to enter. And, on opening them to learn the cause of the commotion, they saw by the light of torches carried by servants, standing without, a poor distressed lady, with five younger women or girls rather, and leading a boy of eleven or twelve years old by the hand. The woman was weeping; but she plainly enough made the keepers to understand that she demanded refuge for herself and her children in the Sanctuary.

"You know who I am," said she.

Yes, the keepers knew who she was; for in some former time of adversity and danger that same lady had found refuge and safety in the Westminster Sanctuary. There was no need for an answer; and we imagine that, without further words, the keepers bowed reverently, threw wide open the gates to admit the refugees, and then carefully closed them when the guests had entered.

There wanted yet some hours to day; and before daylight there was another summons at the gates, which were again opened, but with greater caution than before.

This time it was a priestly-looking man who stood

C