“He does not see me,” whispered Edward; “he is blind.”
“Why do you leave me alone?” complained the child; “but I … am … not … afraid–never … afraid.”
The Prince caught his arm passionately, then turned in a slow horror, for he saw Jehanne and his brother sink to their knees. He looked over his shoulder.
In the doorway stood three priests; the centre one held with upraised hands an object swathed in white silk.
The Host.
“In nomine patris, filiis, et spiritus sanctus,” he said, and drew aside the white silk, revealing the Eucharist glittering like a captured star.
“No,” began Edward, “no—”
He turned again to the bed; a light struggle shook the child’s limbs. He twisted his arm out of his father’s grasp and pressed his two hands together, pointed heavenwards.
“Saint–George—” he breathed very faintly, then “England.”
His hands fell apart and his mouth dropped into a circle; a faint quiver ran through his body, and his head sank on to his shoulder.