Then it seemed to the Prince as if, in answer to his words, all the birds sang more sweetly than ever before.  And what they sang was a love-song to his lady.  And she, walking under the tender green of the May trees, looked upward, and listened to their sweet songs, while James watched her and loved her more and more.

    “And when she walked had a little while
    Under the sweet green boughs bent,
    Her fair fresh face as white as any snow,
    She turned has, and forth her ways went;
    But then began my sickness and torment
    To see her go, and follow I not might,
    Methought the day was turned into night.”

Then, indeed, the day was dark for the Prince.  The beautiful lady in going had left him more lonely than before.  Now he truly knew what it was to be a prisoner.  All day long he knelt at the window, watching, and longing, and not knowing by what means he might see his lady again.  At last night came, and worn out in heart and mind he leaned his head #against the cold rough stone and slept.

Chapter XXIX THE DEATH OF THE POET KING

AS Prince James slept he dreamed that a sudden great light shone into his prison, making bright all the room.  A voice cried, “I bring thee comfort and healing, be not afraid.”  Then the light passed as suddenly as it had come and the Prince went forth from his prison, no man saying him nay.

    “And hastily by both the arms twain
    I was araised up into the air,
    Caught in a cloud of crystal clear and fair.”

And so through “air and water and hot fire” he was carried, seeing and hearing many wonders, till he awoke to find himself still kneeling by his window.

Was it all a dream, Prince James asked himself, even the vision of the lovely lady in the garden?  At that thought his heart grew heavy.  Then, as if to comfort him, a dove flew in at his window carrying in her mouth a sprig of gilliflowers.  Upon the stalk in golden letters were written the words, “Awake!  Awake! lover, I bring thee glad news.”

And so the story had a happy ending, for Prince James knew that the lovely lady of the garden loved him.  “And if you think,” he says, “that I have written a great deal about a very little thing, I say this to you:—­

    “Who that from hell hath creeped once to heaven
    Would after one thank for joy not make six or seven,
    And every wight his own sweet or sore
    Has most in mind:  I can say you no more.”

Then, in an outburst of joy, he thanks and blesses everything that has led up to this happy day, which has brought him under “Love’s yoke which easy is and sure.”  Even his exile and his prison he thanks.

    “And thanked be the fair castle wall
    Whereas I whilcome looked forth and leant.”