restrain his anger,—he only thundered:

“Strike off their heads, each man of them shall die; I will have it so!”

Then gentle Philippa stepped forth and knelt at the feet of her royal husband:

“My loving lord and husband,” she cried, “I have crossed the stormy sea with great peril to come to you—I have been faithful to you all our wedded life—do not deny my request, but, as a proof of your love to me, grant me the lives of these six men!”

The king looked at her in silence, “Lady, I would you had not been here,” he cried at last, “I cannot refuse you, do as you please with them.”

Then Philippa joyously arose, took the men, fed them, clothed them, and sent them back to their wives, friends, and children.

Soon after Philippa and Edward returned to England. The same year a terrible disease called the Black Death broke out in England, and Philippa’s second daughter, a girl of fifteen, died of it. She was just going to marry the Infant Pedro of Spain, and had crossed to France, where he was to meet her, when she was taken very ill with the plague, and died in a few hours. And on the very day appointed for her wedding the little princess was buried.

In 1357, the Black Prince returned to England after his victories of Crecy and Poitiers, and proudly presented his royal prisoner King John to his mother, as well as John’s little son, a boy of fourteen, who had fought to the end by his father’s side, and had been at last captured terribly wounded. The first day, when at dinner with the king and queen and his captive father, the boy started up, and boxed the servant’s ears for serving Edward, King of England, before his father John, King of France.

Philippa, instead of being angry, only smiled at the boy’s spirit, and she treated him as one of her own sons as long as he remained with her.

The following year Philippa, her husband, and four sons went to France, leaving Thomas, a child of five, guardian of the kingdom. There she saw her eldest son married.

She did not live to see the sad change which made the last years of her son’s life so unhappy; she did not live to see her husband, with a mind once so mighty, sink into helpless old age, but she died in 1369, at Windsor.

When she was dying, she called the king: “We have, my husband, enjoyed our long union in peace and happiness, but before we are for ever parted in this world, I entreat you will grant me three requests.”

“Lady, name them,” answered Edward, “they shall be granted.”

“My lord,” she whispered, “I beg you will pay all the merchants I have engaged for their wares; I beseech you to fulfil any gifts or legacies I have made to churches and my servants; and when it shall please God to call you hence, that you will lie by my side in the cloisters of Westminster Abbey.”

She ceased speaking. The king was in tears. “Lady,” he said, “all this shall be done.” And Philippa the queen died.

MARGARET OF ANJOU (1429-1480).

Margaret had a difficult part to play in the history of England; married to a weak king, who preferred founding colleges to governing a kingdom, she had to take the reins of government into her own hands. With the interest of her only son at heart, she refused to stand by and see the kingdom snatched from her husband and son; wrath roused her to energy. So far she may have been right, but she was led on to hard-hearted cruelty; love for her son made her bloodthirsty; and when both her husband and son were slain, the woman, once beautiful and strong, was left to go back friendless to her native land, ruined, miserable.

Margaret of Anjou was born in one of the grandest castles in Lorraine in 1429. Her father, René of Anjou, was taken prisoner fighting for his country, when Margaret, the youngest of his four little children, was but a baby.

“Alas!” cried the mother, clasping her little golden-haired Margaret to her bosom, “Where is René, my lord? He is taken—he is slain!”

The four children of the captive prince were very beautiful, and the bards loved to sing of them, and follow them in crowds, and scatter flowers in their path.

When Margaret was but six, it was arranged that she should marry Henry VI., the young King of England, in order to make peace between the two countries.

When her father, René, was released, Margaret went to live in Italy with her father and mother; she inherited her father’s taste for learning and love of art. “There was no princess in Christendom more accomplished than my lady Margaret of Anjou,” said a writer of these times.

The news of her charms, beauty, talent and courage reached Henry’s ears in England, and he sent for a portrait of the princess. The picture delighted him, and it ended in a truce being signed between the two countries, and Margaret starting for England to marry King Henry. The parting with her uncle, Charles VII. of France, was very affecting; sobs stifled his voice; the young queen could only reply by a torrent of tears, as they parted, never to meet again. It was harder still to part with her father, for “never was a princess more deeply loved in the bosom of her own family.” Neither father nor daughter could speak, but each turned their different ways, with full hearts.

The people pressed in crowds to look at Margaret when she was married, for “England had never seen a queen more worthy of a throne than Margaret of Anjou.”

Now King Henry shrank from the toils and cares of governing the kingdom; he gave himself up to the learning of the country, and all branches of study; so that Margaret found the government of England left almost entirely in her hands. She tried to make the people turn their attention to manufactures and trade, but England was not in a state for peace; the men who had fought at Agincourt thirty years before, and the future soldiers of St. Albans, were not willing to till the soil or weave their clothes. A rebellion led by Jack Cade excited them more, and in 1455 all were ready to take up arms and fight.

Now the cause of war was this: Margaret had no children, and the question was, who should succeed when Henry died. The Earl of Somerset said he was the heir, but the Duke of York thought he had a better right to the throne. This was the beginning of the “Wars of the Roses,” as they were called, for the friends of York wore a white rose, the friends of Somerset a red rose.

Now while they were still debating who should be the future king, a little son was born to Margaret. King Henry had been very ill with a sort of madness, and did not know about the birth of his son, till one day Queen Margaret came to him, bringing the baby with her. The king was delighted.

“What is his name?” he cried.

“Edward,” answered the queen. Then Henry “lifted up his hands and thanked God.”

Still the Duke of York was not satisfied; for he was very jealous of Somerset, who ruled the kingdom when the king was ill. In 1455 Somerset was killed at the battle of St. Albans, and York became very powerful, and still went on fighting, because he wanted to be king.

At last the poor king himself was taken prisoner, and led bareheaded into London, while Queen Margaret and her infant boy fled to a Welsh castle. The next news the queen heard was, that it had been decided, when Henry died, his little son Edward should not succeed him, but the Duke of York should reign.

When Margaret the queen heard this, she was roused to energy. Why should not her son reign when his father,