"Just eight weeks ago this night, for I remember I ordered a gown from the best tailor of Salamanca, and he promised it in a week, and it has not come yet, and it was the night of your accident, for I heard about it just as the tailor was leaving the palace, where he had come to take my order. Eight weeks, think of it, and that gown no nearer finished, I will warrant, than it was the day it was fitted! These Spanish tradesmen are the slowest people in this world." And the Lady Clotilde became very much excited about her wrongs. "Well, I think that your situation was better than mine during those eight weeks," said the jester, "but I dare say I was in no higher fever than you were throughout that time. I do not suppose I have missed anything by being ill, except, perhaps, several dozen bull-fights. I would I were back in Vienna again," he continued, with a sigh. "Vienna? I would not return there for the world," said the lady. "The climate of Spain is simply glorious." "I am not especially fond of climate by itself," said the fool. "I really do think you ought not to talk," said the Lady Clotilde. "I do wish you had not returned to consciousness while Sister Barbara is out." "You said that before," said the fool fretfully. "Why would it not be just as easy to wish that Sister Barbara had been in when I did return to consciousness?" "I see that you are inclined to be captious," returned the Lady Clotilde calmly. "They say Prince Juan is like an angel." "What has that to do with me?" asked Le Glorieux wearily. "He is not a near relative of mine." "I forgot that you were ignorant of the fact that his Highness is very, very ill." "Ill? His Highness ill?" "Yes, he also has the fever, the same that you have, but the leeches are confident that they can cure him." The fever had now spent itself, and Le Glorieux, being naturally of a strong constitution, made rapid progress toward recovery. Marguerite came no more, for every moment was spent beside the couch of the prince, who was making a brave fight for his life. But one morning the bells began to toll, and it seemed as if a pall had settled over the land, for the Prince of the Asturias, the hope of Spain, was no more! The heir to the throne of a great kingdom had bowed his young head meekly to the divine will, and gladly had exchanged the splendors of earth for the joys of Heaven. History says, "All the nations mourned, and the court, instead of being hung with white serge, was draped in sackcloth.... Brutus, a beautiful hound belonging to the prince, could not be induced to leave his body, but went to his tomb and died there."