tyranny, sent word to the Earl of Richmond that, if he came to England, with a view to dethrone the usurper, he would find plenty of friends ready to assist him. The earl was soon here at the head of a large army, and met King Richard at Bosworth in Leicestershire, where the great battle was fought that put an end to the War of the Roses and to the life of Richard the Third.

You remember that when Edward the Fourth deprived the Cliffords of their lands and honours, the great manor of Skipton, with its fine old castle, was given to Sir William Stanley. This brave knight had remained faithful to King Edward, but he was amongst those who turned against Richard; and it was he who, when the fight was over and the victory won, took up the crown, which it appears, Richard had worn on the field, and placed it on Richmond’s head, calling out aloud, “Long live King Henry the Seventh!” And this cry passed from one to another till the air resounded with the shouts of the victors, who thus proclaimed the new sovereign on the battle plain. When this momentous event took place Henry de Clifford was about thirty years of age. He had now dwelt for sixteen years amongst the mountains of Cumberland, and one thing only had occurred to disturb the even tenor of his peaceful life.

A gentleman of noble family and good estate, Sir John Saint John, of Bletso, in Bedfordshire, came on a visit to Threlkeld with his daughter Anne, a fair girl in the bloom of youth and beauty. Henry, who had seen her riding out over the hills with her father and Sir Lancelot, thought he had never beheld so lovely a maiden; and he was right, for in all England there were few to compare with Anne of Bletso. She had seen him too, and had observed how far superior he was in appearance to other rustic swains, for the shepherd’s frock of homely grey could not conceal the graces of his person, which also attracted the notice of the worthy knight, her father, who, on one occasion, said to Sir Lancelot—

“That is a well-favoured youth of yours; I have seen a face like his before, but I cannot bethink me where or when, yet it is no common face either.”

“He is the son of my chief shepherd,” replied Sir Lancelot; “he was always a good-looking lad, and is an excellent servant.”

Then, anxious to divert Sir John’s attention from Henry, whose handsome features he feared might remind the knight of the late Lord Clifford, whom his son strongly resembled, he began to talk of other things. But Henry did not forget the sweet face of the young lady, or the beautiful eyes he had seen fixed intently upon him, 

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