As he raised his head to speak he saw the door open and the Spanish doctor enter.
Jehanne turned, and, fearful of bad news, put her finger to her lips.
But Edward got to his feet, caught her aside, and said in the voice of a strong man–
“What news of my son?”
The doctor answered steadily, without fear or hesitancy.
“The Prince is worse, Seigneur, and it were well that you should come.”
Edward of Wales bowed his head and followed the doctor into the next apartment.
The candles were lit and the curtains drawn; a smell of herbs, of wax, of incense, was heavy in the air. A priest was kneeling at the foot of the bed; the full Latin words of his whispered prayer came clearly to the Prince’s ears.
The little Edward lay on his back with his head flung upwards.
An awful change had come over him since last his father had looked on him; an expression of pain had also given him an expression of maturity, the unnatural flush had faded, leaving him bluish-white, while under his bright eyes was a purple stain.