At first his sleep was profound, but by and by the associations of blows and wounds carried him back to the field of Evesham. The wild _mêlée_ was renewed, he heard the voice of his father, but always in that strange distressing manner peculiar to dreams of the departed, always far away, and just beyond his reach, ever just about to give him the succour he needed, but ever withheld. The thunderstorm that broke over the contending armies roared again in his ears; and then again recurred the calm still night, when he had lain helpless on the battle-field; even the caress of Leonillo, and his low growl, were vividly repeated; but as the dog moved, it was to Richard as if the form of his father rose up in its armour from the dark field, and said in a deep hollow voice, “Well fought, my son; I will give thee knighthood.” Then Richard thought he was kneeling before his father, and hearing that same voice saying, “My son, be true and loyal. In the name of God and St. James. I dub thee knight of death!” and looking up, he beheld under the helmet, not Simon de Montfort’s face but the Prince’s. He awoke with a start of disappointment—and there stood Edward himself, leaning against the tent-pole, looking down at him! He sprang on his feet, scarcely knowing whether he slept or woke; but Edward said, in that voice that at times was so ineffably sweet, “Be still, Richard; I fear me thou hast suffered a wrong, and I am come to repair it, as far as I can! Lay thee down again.” And the Prince seated himself on the oaken chest; while Richard, after a few words, sat down on his couch. “Is this the letter about which there has been such a coil?” said Edward, giving him the scroll in its sepia ink. “It is!” replied Richard in amazement and dismay. “The only letter thou didst write?” “The only one,” repeated Richard. “And,” added Edward, “it concerns thy brother Henry.” Richard turned even paler than before, and could not suppress a gasp of dismay. “My Lord, make me not forsworn!”