“As I so greatly loved this goodly town of London,” said Jehanne, “ye, living here, shall think of me, even at the time of the jousts and the great feasts, Easter, Christmas and the Holy Trinity, and remember I ever loved you the alder-beste of all in the world.” And Sir Paon was sore discomfited that she should talk of death, and she came down from the dais. “Truly,” she said, “this world is nothing and love is a great deal, and it matters not at all if we be dead or alive if we love–one another.” Then fair and softly she bent a little towards him and held out her hand, and he took it as if it had been God His robe and pressed his tears upon it, but she the while was smiling. And so they parted, and he went his way and Jehanne kissed me on the brow and said prayers before the candles, and then to bed silently. And I had great ruth of all I had seen that night and for the dolorous sorrows of these two, and I wished that two that so loved might have been mated. So I lay awake listening to the bells and the throstle that now and again moved in the orchard boughs as it came to the dawning. And presently I heard sweet words that came from the chamber of Jehanne Plantagenet. “Lady Blaunche, Lady Blaunche, have you come for me?” Then I advised with myself well and was very afraid and sat up in bed, but could by no means speak. For a long while it was silent, and I rose at last and went into the inner chamber, and it was cool with an Eastern light. And Jehanne Plantagenet was lying out with the chequered curtains of blue and white withdrawn from her visage and the clothes of the bed straight over her and no breath at all in her body. Round her were burning the candles of fair and pure wax, and she was surely dead. And because I felt there were Heavenly Spirits in the room I kneeled me down, and these two princesses, Jehanne Plantagenet and Blaunche of France, went hand in hand across the orchards to Paradise. * * * * * She was carried through the city she loved with her visage open and her head on a white cushion and buried in a painted tomb behind the High Altar of St. Paul’s Church, and Don Pedro was slain by Don Enrique not long after, and I kept my peace. Now Sir Paon de Brambre went to Almaine and died fighting.… THE MACEDONIAN GROOM THE EMPEROR MICHAEL III How shall I care that I am blind when I have seen enough colour in my days to fill the rest of meagre time? Here in the Monastery in Armenia I have a little boy to read to me–sometimes Photias, sometimes John Damascenus the Syrian, sometimes the Fathers of the Church. This I buy with the much money saved when I was in the train of the Emperor Michael now wailing in Hell.