A wind was rising from the sea, ruffling the waves, shaking the cordage of the anchored ships and lifting the little pennons of England that struggled at the main masts. This wind beat at the diamond-shaped leaded casements and scattered the leaves from the poplar tree without in a yellow shower like golden ducats dropped by a reluctant hand across the prospect of sea and town.
The Princess Jehanne came back to the bed with the doctor; he was a Spaniard, who had been in the service of Don Pedro and was renowned for his knowledge of Eastern medicine.
He spoke in French to the Prince, with a courteous humility.
“Fair Seigneur, permit me to look to the little Prince. And for yourself, it would be wiser that you should rest.”
Edward glanced up into his cool, composed face; then rose heavily and seated himself in the stiff chair against the wall.
The doctor bent over the child, delicately touched his brow, then called, in soft Spanish, one of the women, who came with a small horn beaker in her hand.
The little Prince was moaning. When he saw the draught he tried to push it away, and shut his lips obstinately.
“Ah, par dè!” cried the father, “what manner of knight will you become?”
The child sat up, shuddering, but meek, and swallowed the noisome liquid without a protest.
“Is he better?” whispered the Princess Jehanne, drawing the coverlet anxiously up over him as he lay down.