And now that feeling culminated; he felt like one very old, looking back on a long life, or as if he beheld the incidents of his career painted in little bright pictures on a long roll of vellum. It was an unfinished life, a broken, defeated life, perhaps men might hereafter call it a tarnished life. The Prince knew this, and the sense of failure was like a black cloud on his heart. But his little son, sleeping beneath the leopard-strewn coverlet, would redeem his own unfulfilled promise. “Ah, dear Lord Christ, and St. George,” he prayed, “let this be so–let him be a very perfect knight and a great King.” Hearing a little movement, he lifted his head. The child was awake; the sparkling blue of his eyes was brilliant in his flushed face. “Seigneur!” he whispered, seeing his father; he smiled. “Shall we be going to England soon?” “Even now they load the boats,” answered the Prince. “You wish to return to England?” “_Certès_,” said the child wistfully. “Is the war over?” he added. “What should you know of that?” asked the Prince, startled. “I did hear the knights all talking of the war.” “It is not over,” answered Edward sombrely. “Your Uncle Lancaster will finish that business.” “_Hèlas!_ I would I were a big knight, Seigneur,” murmured the child. “There is time for that,” said the Prince. His son stared at him for a moment’s silence, then said– “When the knights showed us feats with the lance in the courtyard, Richard was afraid.” “Nay,” replied Edward angrily, “not _afraid_!” The child nodded. “Richard has a new silk cote hardie which pleases him mightily; but when I am well I shall have a shirt of mail, shall I not?” “Ay!” answered the Prince, “if the armourer can make one so small.” The child closed his eyes. “Why am I sick, Seigneur?” he muttered. “Did I do wrong?” Edward shivered. “You are not sorely sick?” he demanded hoarsely. His son put out a hot hand, which the Prince clasped tightly. “I feel so tired,” he whispered, still with his eyes closed; “but when I sleep the dragons come and crawl over the bed—” Jehanne had crept round to the other side of the pillow. “Let him sleep, Edward,” she whispered anxiously. “He can sleep while I hold his hand,” answered the Prince, never lifting his eyes from his son’s face. “Nay, but you should rest,” she insisted. “Have you not come a long journey, and are you not sick?” “I rested at Lormont,” answered Edward. The Princess lifted her red kirtle from her feet and crossed to the doctor, who stood between the two women on the hearth, and whispered to him, her pretty face quivering with agitation.