Dark settled in the chamber and the candles winked, little points of light in a great gloom. Pleasant, cheerful noises of horses and men came from the courtyard where the lading and unlading was proceeding; the sounds of the mules and their drivers could be heard as a long procession of them laden with baggage started for the ships. At last the Prince spoke. “This is a homeward wind,” he said. As he raised his head to speak he saw the door open and the Spanish doctor enter. Jehanne turned, and, fearful of bad news, put her finger to her lips. But Edward got to his feet, caught her aside, and said in the voice of a strong man– “What news of my son?” The doctor answered steadily, without fear or hesitancy. “The Prince is worse, Seigneur, and it were well that you should come.” Edward of Wales bowed his head and followed the doctor into the next apartment. The candles were lit and the curtains drawn; a smell of herbs, of wax, of incense, was heavy in the air. A priest was kneeling at the foot of the bed; the full Latin words of his whispered prayer came clearly to the Prince’s ears. The little Edward lay on his back with his head flung upwards. An awful change had come over him since last his father had looked on him; an expression of pain had also given him an expression of maturity, the unnatural flush had faded, leaving him bluish-white, while under his bright eyes was a purple stain. The Prince staggered to the bed. “Limoges, Limoges,” he muttered. He cast himself on his knees and clutched the coverlet. “Dear Lord Jesus, what is this coming to me!” he whispered. Another doctor moved about; Jehanne stopped and spoke to him. He could tell her nothing save that, despite all the most approved remedies, the Prince had within the last hour become rapidly worse and finally lost consciousness. Jehanne turned desperately to the great bed where her child lay, breathing heavily, with glazed fixed eyes and dry lips. “Is it the plague?” she asked. They could not tell her. “Oh, dear, dear Lord and St. George,” prayed the Prince, “put not this loss on England; punish me not this way!” The child turned on his side and muttered a few words, all relating to arms and horses and war; his eyes closed jerkily and then fluttered open. Johan of Lancaster entered; he whispered to the doctors, then came lightly to the bed, walking as softly as a woman for all his great stature and bulk. He glanced at the child, he glanced at his brother, then touched the kneeling priest on the shoulder. “He will not die,” said the Prince; “in a little while he will wake and be well again.” The priest rose and left the room. A long swell of wind lifted the Eastern tapestry on the floor, fluttered the long curtains and stirred the aromatic scents and the clouds of incense that hung in the air. Jehanne of Kent stood rigid, staring down at the pillow; her yellow hair had slipped and hung loose in the silver caul.