hey
could help him to no better--that he came back of his own will to his old
palace-prison of the Savoy, and there died.

There was a Sovereign of Castile at that time, called PEDRO THE CRUEL,
who deserved the name remarkably well: having committed, among other
cruelties, a variety of murders. This amiable monarch being driven from
his throne for his crimes, went to the province of Bordeaux, where the
Black Prince--now married to his cousin JOAN, a pretty widow--was
residing, and besought his help. The Prince, who took to him much more
kindly than a prince of such fame ought to have taken to such a ruffian,
readily listened to his fair promises, and agreeing to help him, sent
secret orders to some troublesome disbanded soldiers of his and his
father's, who called themselves the Free Companions, and who had been a
pest to the French people, for some time, to aid this Pedro. The Prince,
himself, going into Spain to head the army of relief, soon set Pedro on
his throne again--where he no sooner found himself, than, of course, he
behaved like the villain he was, broke his word without the least shame,
and abandoned all the promises he had made to the Black Prince.

Now, it had cost the Prince a good deal of money to pay soldiers to
support this murderous King; and finding himself, when he came back
disgusted to Bordeaux, not only in bad health, but deeply in debt, he
began to tax his French subjects to pay his creditors. They appealed to
the French King, CHARLES; war again broke out; and the French town of
Limoges, which the Prince had greatly benefited, went over to the French
King. Upon this he ravaged the province of which it was the capital;
burnt, and plundered, and killed in the old sickening way; and refused
mercy to the prisoners, men, women, and children taken in the offending
town, though he was so ill and so much in need of pity himself from
Heaven, that he was carried in a litter. He lived to come home and make
himself popular with the people and Parliament, and he died on Trinity
Sunday, the eighth of June, one thousand three hundred and seventy-six,
at forty-six years old.

The whole nation mourned for him as one of the most renowned and beloved
princes it had ever had; and he was buried with great lamentations in
Canterbury Cathedral. Near to the tomb of Edward the Confessor, his
monument, with his figure, carved in stone, and represented in the old
black armour, lying on its back, may be seen at th