And her face showed hollow in the fluttering candlelight. The little Prince turned from side to side, catching his breath in his throat. “Seigneur …” he gasped, “let me … mount the white horse … the great horse.…” He began to cough, and his small fingers pulled at the pillow; he stared straight at his father. “He does not see me,” whispered Edward; “he is blind.” “Why do you leave me alone?” complained the child; “but I … am … not … afraid–never … afraid.” The Prince caught his arm passionately, then turned in a slow horror, for he saw Jehanne and his brother sink to their knees. He looked over his shoulder. In the doorway stood three priests; the centre one held with upraised hands an object swathed in white silk. The Host. “_In nomine patris, filiis, et spiritus sanctus_,” he said, and drew aside the white silk, revealing the Eucharist glittering like a captured star. “No,” began Edward, “no—” He turned again to the bed; a light struggle shook the child’s limbs. He twisted his arm out of his father’s grasp and pressed his two hands together, pointed heavenwards. “Saint–George—” he breathed very faintly, then “England.” His hands fell apart and his mouth dropped into a circle; a faint quiver ran through his body, and his head sank on to his shoulder. The Host was borne round the bed, and no one moved. Then Edward rose, regardless of the Presence of God. “Too late,” he said in a terrible voice. “My son, my son!” And before the priest carrying the Eucharist the victor of Cressy sank like a felled sapling, and Jehanne caught his head on her knee, her heart motionless in her bosom. So died the youngest of the three royal Edwards of England, a few days before the sailing from Bordeaux, and soon after the other two were both at peace in Westminster and Richard was on the throne with Johan of Gaunt for his guardian and many troubles ahead. TWILIGHT LUCREZIA BORGIA, DUCHESS D’ESTE Three women stood before a marble-margined pool in the grounds of the Ducal palace at Ferrara; behind them three cypresses waved against a purple sky from which the sun was beginning to fade; at the base of these trees grew laurel, ilex, and rose bushes. Round the pool was a sweep of smooth green across which the light wind lifted and chased the red, white and pink rose leaves. Beyond the pool the gardens descended, terrace on terrace of opulent trees and flowers; behind the pool the square strength of the palace rose, with winding steps leading to balustraded balconies. Further still, beyond palace and garden, hung vineyard and cornfield in the last warm maze of heat. All was spacious, noble, silent; ambrosial scents rose from the heated earth–the scent of pine, lily, rose and grape. The centre woman of the three who stood by the pool was the Spanish Duchess, Lucrezia, daughter of the Borgia Pope. The other two held her up under the arms, for her limbs were weak beneath her.