saw in Richard, not only a prince deprived of his own, and driven into exile, but a youth of royal lineage, exposed to the opprobium of nick-names and the accusation of imposture. The king of France acknowledged, but he had deserted him: the archduke had done the same: how could James prove that he would not follow in these steps? He levied the armies of his kingdom in his favour; he was to fight and conquer for him next spring. The intervening months were intolerable to the fervent spirit of the Stuart—something speedy, something now, he longed, he resolved to do; which, with a trumpet-note, should to all corners of the world declare, that he upheld Richard of York's right—that he was his defender, his champion. Once he penned a universal challenge, then another especially addressed to Henry Tudor; but his invasion were a better mode than this. Should he give him rank in Scotland?—that would ill beseem one who aspired to the English crown. Should he proclaim him Richard the Fourth in Edinburgh?—York strongly objected to this. Money?—it were a base gilding; besides, James was very poor, and had melted down his plate, and put his jewels to pawn, to furnish forth the intended expedition. Yet there was one way,—the idea was as lightning—James felt satisfied and proud; and then devoted all his sagacity, all his influence, all his ardent soul, to the accomplishment of a plan, which, while it insured young Richard's happiness, stamped him indelibly as being no vagabond impostor, but the honoured prince, the kinsman and ally of Scotland's royal house.
King James and the duke of York had ridden out to inspect a Lowland regiment, which the earl of Angus proudly displayed as the force of the Douglas. As they returned, James was melancholy and meditative. "It is strange and hard to endure," he said at last, fixing on his companion his eyes at once so full of fire and thought, "when two spirits contend within the little microcosm of man. I felt joy at sight of those bold followers of the Douglas, to think that your enemy could not resist them; but I do myself foolish service, when I place you on the English throne. You will leave us, my lord: you will learn in your bonny realm to despise our barren wilds: it will be irksome to you in prosperity, to think of your friends of the dark hour."
There was sincerity in these expressions, but exaggeration in the feelings that dictated them. Richard felt half-embarrassed, in spite of gratitude and friendship. The king, following the bent of his own thoughts, not those of others, suddenly continued: "Our cousin Kate at last, finds grace in your eyes; is she not good and beautiful, all cold and passionless as she is?"
