and hardly ate what Andro brought him. Then he went to lie down on his
couch, took up a book to read, but put it down again and raised himself
up, as though with a sudden impulse:

"Why not now?" he thought. "Why keep on postponing it?..."

Night fell, but the upper corridors of the palace were not yet lighted;
dragging his fatigue through this dusky shadow, Othomar went to the
emperor's anterooms. The chamberlain announced him.

Oscar sat at his writing-table, pen in hand.

"Am I disturbing you, papa? Or can I speak to you?"

"No, you're not disturbing me.... Have you been to see mamma?"

"Yes, this afternoon; she was pretty well, but Berengar's temperature
was higher."

The emperor glanced up at him:

"Worse than this morning?"

"I don't know: he was rather feverish."

The emperor rose:

"Do you want to talk to me?"

"Yes, papa."

"Wait a moment, then. I've not been to Berengar yet to-day."

He went out, leaving the door ajar.

Othomar remained alone. He sat down. He looked round the great
work-room, which he knew so well from their morning consultations with
the chancellor. Lately, however, he had not attended these. He thought
over what he should say; meanwhile his eyes wandered around; they fell
upon the great mirror with its gilt arabesques; something seemed strange
to him. Then he rose and walked up to the glass:

"I was under the impression there was a flaw near the top of it," he
thought. "I can't well be mistaken. Has it been renewed?"

He was still standing by the looking-glass, when Oscar returned:

"Berengar is not at all well; the fever is increasing," he said; and the
tone of his voice hesitated. "Mamma is with him...."

Absorbed as he was in his own meditations, it did not strike Othomar
that the little prince must have become worse for the empress, who was
herself ill, to go to him.

"And about what did you want to speak to me?" asked the emperor, as the
prince remained silent.

"About Berengar, papa."

"About Berengar?"

"About Berengar and myself. I have been contrasting myself with him,
papa. We are brothers, we are both your sons. Which of us, do you think,
takes most after you ... and ... our ancestors?"

"What are you driving at, Othomar?"

"At what is right, papa: right and just. Nature is sometimes unjust and
blind; she ought to have let Berengar be born first and me next ... or
even left me out altogether."

"Once more, what are you driving at, Othomar?"

"C