“Yea, I think of you,” he answered, “but men’s matters fill my mind. Yet be content. You are a sweet woman, Jehanne.”
He caressed her cheek with languid fingers, and again his eyes sought the window and the pale sky beyond, and his face was moody, as if he saw passing in the windy spaces without all the pageants, battles, triumphs, achievements and glories that had gone to make his life–all the great world that was still full of feats of arms, of ambitions, of splendour, of laughter, whirling, receding, leaving him in this quiet chamber, useless, sick, and defeated.
The Duke of Lancaster, who was in command of the troops who had escorted the Prince to Bordeaux and had a hundred matters on his mind, left the chamber.
Jehanne sat silent, forgotten, unnoticed, beside the Prince, who, with his head sunk on his breast, was dreaming of the life that was past and the life he had hoped to live.
Presently candles were brought in, but he made no movement nor did the Princess, stiff and cold on her stool.
The wind, with a gentle persistence, shook the tall window-frame and lifted the arras on the wall; clouds were coming up from beyond the sea and blotting the tawny crimson streaks of the sunset.
Dark settled in the chamber and the candles winked, little points of light in a great gloom.
Pleasant, cheerful noises of horses and men came from the courtyard where the lading and unlading was proceeding; the sounds of the mules and their drivers could be heard as a long procession of them laden with baggage started for the ships.
At last the Prince spoke.
“This is a homeward wind,” he said.