CHAPTER II.-PRINCE ARTHUR.

KILLED ABOUT 1203.

Hast thou burst thy prison bands,

Twined round thee by coward hands;

Hast thou fled to other lands,

Where thou must-thou wilt be free ?-Anonymous.

AM now going to tell you the sad story of poor Prince Arthur. He

was not the son of a king or queen, but of the Duke of Brittany, who was brother to King Richard the First. The Duke died when his son was very young, and Richard had promised that, after his own death, his nephew should succeed to the throne of England, to which he was heir, by virtue of his father's birthright. But Arthur had another uncle, named John, a very wicked man, who

induced the English Barons to swear, that instead of Arthur, they would place himself upon the throne after Richard's death; and at last he even persuaded his brother, the King, to name him as his heir.

It was very wrong of Richard to break the promise he had made respecting Arthur, which he should for ever have held sacred; but still worse was it of John to deprive his nephew of his rights, for his own interest and selfish gratification.

There was no settled law in England at that time, to decide the claims of succession, or such an unjust act could not have been committed. Hence you see how necessary are laws for preserving the peace and welfare of a nation.

The French seem to have had a better notion of what was just, in regard to this matter, than the English; for when Philip, King of France, heard of what John had done, he came forward in Arthur's cause, and was very kind to the young Prince, and sent him to Paris, to be

taught and brought up with his own son, Louis the Dauphin; there Arthur spent his days very happily.

Soon, however, Constance, the mother of Arthur, began to doubt King Philip's sincerity, and to imagine that he only pretended to be friendly to her son, whilst, in reality, he was trying to obtain the lands in Brittany for himself. Under this impression, she, one night, secretly quitted Paris with her son, and repaired to London, where she, most imprudently, placed the Prince under the protection of John, to whom she made a promise that Arthur should acknowledge his uncle's claims to the throne.

Poor Constance! in after days how bitterly did she repent and deplore her hasty conduct!

Arthur was at that time a very young child, unable to act for himself; but when he grew older, he resolved to yield no longer to his uncle. He sought his early friend, Philip, and entreated his aid against John, who had then become King of England;-a request with

which Philip was quite willing to comply, as he himself had also a quarrel with that King.

So Philip and Arthur fought together against John; but after several battles, the army of the latter proved victorious, and poor Arthur, being taken prisoner, was confined in a lonely castle.

When Constance heard this sad news, she gave way to an agony of grief, and no one could comfort her.

'Do not talk to me of consolation,' she bitterly cried; 'do not bid me cease to weep; for have I not lost my precious boy, my only joy, my only hope on earth?' and she wrung her hands, and tore her hair, in the violence of her misery.

King Philip was standing by at the time, and felt very sorry for the poor mother. mother. He, too, had much cause for sadness; for he had been vanquished in battle, and many a dear friend and brave subject had been killed, fighting by his side for him; but he almost forgot his own sorrow on beholding the wretchedness

of Constance, and he tried to soothe her anguish; he told her that he trusted she might soon see her son again.

'No; never again shall I behold him on earth!' she exclaimed.

They will murder

him; they will spill the blood of my innocent lamb; or if they spare his life, he will pine away and die in that cold, dismal prison.

Oh

my own pretty Arthur! I shall never see thy loved face again! never more hear the sound of thy sweet voice! How can thy poor mother live without thee?' and her sobs redoubled, so that she would not listen to Philip.

We can well imagine the bitter grief which filled the bosom of Constance; for there is no love on earth so strong as that of a mother for her child, and she had lost her son-her only son-the son of all her love!

On the other hand, behold the poor young Prince! his prison was indeed a lonely dwelling! How wearily passed the hours! no friend to talk to him! no joy to cheer him! How he longed to burst open the door of his dismal