The Prince staggered to the bed.
“Limoges, Limoges,” he muttered.
He cast himself on his knees and clutched the coverlet.
“Dear Lord Jesus, what is this coming to me!” he whispered.
Another doctor moved about; Jehanne stopped and spoke to him. He could tell her nothing save that, despite all the most approved remedies, the Prince had within the last hour become rapidly worse and finally lost consciousness.
Jehanne turned desperately to the great bed where her child lay, breathing heavily, with glazed fixed eyes and dry lips.
“Is it the plague?” she asked.
They could not tell her.
“Oh, dear, dear Lord and St. George,” prayed the Prince, “put not this loss on England; punish me not this way!”
The child turned on his side and muttered a few words, all relating to arms and horses and war; his eyes closed jerkily and then fluttered open.