The boy had always been next his heart; Richard, his second son, was not of so kindly a nature. His father did not see in him promise of his own qualities, but his eldest born was his own copy, beautiful, brave, at six a perfect little knight. Jehanne glanced timidly up at his bitter, stern face. “You must not grieve,” she whispered; “he will be well in a little while. Is he not strong, and will he not be running beside you in a few short days?” Still Edward the Black Prince did not answer; he disengaged himself from her fond support and walked heavily to his son’s pillow, then sank on his knees on the bedstep and clasped his thin hands against the coverlet. The little face so near to his was calm and proud, the flower of English beauty, gold and rose in tint, blunt featured, strongly made, yet delicate. Save that he was deeply flushed and his hair damp beneath the tumble of silken curls, he might have been in perfect health. The weary, sick, disappointed, and defeated knight, with that dark day of Limoges on his soul, stared with a piteous eagerness at the child’s gracious innocency. The child who would be King of England soon, surely; it was mere chance who would live the longer, the old King languishing at Westminster in tarnished glory at Alice Perrer’s side, or his famous son who had just resigned his commands and was coming home to die. Edward himself never thought that he would be King; he felt the sands of life running out too swiftly. That day when he had been carried through the slaughter round the church of St. Etienne at Limoges he had known that it was the last time he would look on war. And Edward the King could not live long now. So soon the fair child would be Lord of England and possessor of all the perilous honours and glories of his father. The Prince’s proud head sank low; the hot tears welled up and blinded him, then dripped down his cheeks as he considered his smirched chivalry. And the Princess Jehanne saw this, but did not dare to stir from her place, for she knew that, as a shield once dented by a heavy sword can never be made smooth again, so a knight’s honour once stained can never more be cleaned, even by the bitterest repentance. For her husband to have fallen from this lofty code, which was the only code that held among those of gentle blood, was a more awful thing than the lapse of a poor obscure knight, for he had blazed so brightly in his chivalry and brought such renown to England that the whole world had echoed with his fame. The Prince rested his cheek against the arms of England on the coverlet; he felt the lassitude of a man who sees that life is done, and that never more in this world will he perform feats of arms or guide great policies or strive with men or shine before them. The loss of his strength had had the effect of drawing a veil between him and the world; seeing as a spectator those events in which he had once played a leading part, he had come to estimate things differently.