His eyes turned wistfully to the fading day that died beyond the oriel window. Surely, he thought, I have drunk of the last drop of bitterness. I, Edward of Wales, to return to England a useless man, leaving defeat behind for a younger knight to redeem. The Duke of Lancaster stood watching him, with many thoughts in his heart, and presently Edward turned to him and spoke, in a voice earnest and feeble. “Johan, when the King dies I shall be in my grave.” The Princess broke his speech by a sharp, piteous intake of breath, and caught desperately at his slack hand. “Oh, Jehanne,” he said, “I have flattered your fears long enough. And now I must speak straightly.” He paused, for his breath failed him. “Speak,” answered Johan, “for I am ready to take any charge that you may give me—” “My son Edward will be King of England,” whispered the Prince; “and he is a young child. Stand you by him and by his mother in their difficulties.” “I will,” said the Duke gravely. “I entreat this of you now,” added Edward, “for it well may be that I shall never see you again. I think,” and the bitterness of his failure echoed in his voice, “that I shall die before we regain Acquitaine.” “Be of better cheer, brother,” answered the Duke, “for I have great hopes that you will recover in England.” “Nay, I am past mending,” said the Prince; “and were it not that I have some desire to draw my last breath in English air, I would die here and leave my bones where I have left my knighthood and my chivalry.” “You scarcely think of me,” said Jehanne of Kent, and her eyes reminded him how much he had loved her once; lately he had seemed to fall away from the close confines of her affection. He returned her gaze sadly. “Yea, I think of you,” he answered, “but men’s matters fill my mind. Yet be content. You are a sweet woman, Jehanne.” He caressed her cheek with languid fingers, and again his eyes sought the window and the pale sky beyond, and his face was moody, as if he saw passing in the windy spaces without all the pageants, battles, triumphs, achievements and glories that had gone to make his life–all the great world that was still full of feats of arms, of ambitions, of splendour, of laughter, whirling, receding, leaving him in this quiet chamber, useless, sick, and defeated. The Duke of Lancaster, who was in command of the troops who had escorted the Prince to Bordeaux and had a hundred matters on his mind, left the chamber. Jehanne sat silent, forgotten, unnoticed, beside the Prince, who, with his head sunk on his breast, was dreaming of the life that was past and the life he had hoped to live. Presently candles were brought in, but he made no movement nor did the Princess, stiff and cold on her stool. The wind, with a gentle persistence, shook the tall window-frame and lifted the arras on the wall; clouds were coming up from beyond the sea and blotting the tawny crimson streaks of the sunset.