of
Xara dismounted, smiled, gave her his hand; she kissed it, curtseying,
ardently; her tears fell down upon it. The chamberlain approached,
assured Othomar, in the name of all the duke's servants, of their
heartfelt gratitude that the Duke of Xara had been spared, by the grace
of God and the succour of St. Ladislas.

Ducardi had not been able to telegraph from anywhere before, but he now
sent in all haste to Vaza with a message for the emperor, mentioning at
the same time that the prince had calmly resumed the expedition
immediately after the attempt upon his life. Dinner took place amid a
babel of voices; the duchess was greatly excited, asked for the smallest
details and almost embraced Von Fest. The crown-prince drank to his
preserver and every one paid him tribute.

Afterwards Ducardi advised the crown-prince, in an aside, to retire
early to rest. The general spoke in a gentle voice; it seemed as though
the thought that he might have lost his crown-prince had made him fonder
of him. Herman too pressed Othomar to go to bed.

He himself had grown calm, but a vague feeling of lassitude had come
over all his being: he had even drunk Von Fest's health in a strangely
weary voice. He now took their advice, withdrew, undressed himself; his
soiled uniform, which he had changed before dinner, still hung over a
chair; he shuddered to think that he had worn it the whole afternoon:

"Those things!" he said to Andro, who was still quite confused and,
nervously weeping, was tidying up. "Burn them, or throw them away, throw
them away."

Othomar flung himself in his dressing-gown on a couch in the room
adjoining his bedroom. This was also an historical apartment, with
tapestry on the walls representing scenes from the history of Lipara:
the Emperor Berengar I., triumphantly riding into Jerusalem, with his
crusaders holding aloft their white banners; the Empress Xaveria, seated
on horseback in her golden armour before the walls of Altara, falling
backwards, struck dead by a Turkish arrow....

The prince lay staring at them. A deadly calm seemed to make him feel
nothing, care about nothing. In his own mind he reviewed the whole
historical period from Berengar to Xaveria. He knew the dates; the
scenes passed cloudily before his eyes as though tapestries were being
unrolled, kaleidoscopically, with the faded colours of old artwork. He
saw himself again, a small boy, in the Imperial, in an austere room,
diligently learning his le