With her arm round his shoulder Jehanne supported him; she was very grave, like one who had no comfort to give.
“That I should lean on you, joli coeur!” he said, and rose unsteadily, holding to her arm. “Look well to this child, Jehanne,” he added in a sterner tone, “for meseems he will wear the crown sooner than I—”
“Hèlas!” she answered tenderly.“ This is not Edward who speaks so sadly—”
“Jehanne,” he said, “I shall never wear mail again.”
She shook her head, looking up at him, and tried to smile.
“I shall no more set lance in rest nor draw sword,” he continued. “I have been useless sick so long, and now I feel death in my bones.”
“Never,” said the gentle Jehanne, “have you come back to me in this ill humour–the air of England will restore you, seigneur.”
“The air of England will be no balm to my hurts,” he answered. “Take me to the child.”
She led him gently to the next chamber, her own, where Prince Edward had lain two days in an increasing fever.
It was a tall and glooming room, hung with cloths covered with stitching in bright wools.