“No distance breaks the tie of blood; Brothers are brothers evermore; Nor wrong, nor wrath of deadliest mood, That magic may o’erpower.”—_Christian Year_. IT was nearly dark when the Prince and the Page landed on the island, and found the tents already set up in their due order and rank, according to the discipline that no one durst transgress where Edward was the commander. Richard attended him to his pavilion, and being there dismissed until supper-time, crossed the square space which was always left around the royal banner, to the tent at the southern corner, which was regularly appropriated to the pages’ use. On lifting its curtain he was, however, dismayed to see a kirtle there, and imagining that he must have fallen upon the ladies’ quarters, he was retreating with an apology; when the sharp voice of Dame Idonea called out, “Oh yes, Master Page! ’tis you that are at home here. I was merely tarrying till ’twas the will of one of you to come in and look to the poor child.” And little John of Dunster called from a couch of mantles, “Richard, oh! is it he at last?” “It is I,” said Richard, advancing into the light of a brass lamp, hung by chains from the top of the tent. “This is kind indeed, Lady! But is he indeed so ill at ease?” “How should he be otherwise, with none of you idle-pated pages casting a thought to him?” “I was grieved to leave him—but the Prince summoned me,” began Richard. “Beshrew thee! Tell me not of princes, as though there were no one whom thou couldst bid to have a care of the little lad!” “I did bid Piers—,” Richard made another attempt. “Piers, quotha? Why didst not bid the Jackanapes that sits on the luggage? A proper warder for a sick babe!” “I am no babe!” here burst out John; “I am twelve years old come Martinmas, and I need no tendance but Richard’s.” “Ha, ha! So those are all the thanks we ladies get, when we are not young and fair!” laughed Dame Idonea, rather amused. “I want no women, young or old,” petulantly repeated John; “I want Richard.—Lift me up, Richard; take away this cloak.” “For his life, no!” returned the Dame; “he has the heats and the chills on him, and to let him take cold would be mere slaughter.” “Alas!” said Richard, “I hoped nothing ailed him but the sea, and that landing would make all well.” “As if the sea ever made a child shiver and burn by turns! Nay, ’tis the trick of the sun in these parts. Strange that the sun himself should be a mere ally of the Infidel! I tell thee, if the child is ever to see Dunster again, thou must watch him well, keep him from the sun by day and the chill by night; or he’ll be like the poor creatures in the French camp out there, whom, I suppose, you found in fine case.” “Alack yes, Lady!” “I’ve seen it many a time; and all their disorders will be creeping into our camp next. Tell me, is it even as they told us, one king dead and the other dying?”