niforms, the emperor's
included, have lost something of their smartness and hang in tired
creases from their shoulders, like clothes worn a long time. The
emperor, still young, broad and sturdy and only just turning grey, walks
with a firm step; he embraces his son, his nephew, brusquely, hastily.
The imperial party disappear into the waiting-room; Ducardi and one of
the Gothlandic officers follow them. The interview, however, is a short
one: in ten minutes they reappear on the platform; brief words and
handshakes are exchanged; the emperor steps back into his compartment,
the crown-prince into his. The prince's train waits until his father's
passes it--a last wave of the hand--then it too steams away....

Care lies like a cloud upon Othomar's forehead. He remembers his
father's words: in a desperate condition, our fine old city. The
Therezia Dyke may be giving way; so little energy in the municipal
council; thousands of people without a roof to cover them, fleeing,
spending the night in churches, in public buildings. And his last word:

"Send some of them to St. Ladislas...."

Othomar reflects; all are silent about him, depressed by the after-sound
of the emperor's words, which have painted the disaster anew, brought it
afresh before their eyes: the eyes of Ducardi, who knows himself to be
more ready with sword in war than with sympathy in cases of inundation;
the eyes of Dutri, still filled with the mundane glamour of the
incomparable capital. Some part of their self-concentration falls
silent; a thought of what they are about to see crosses their minds.

And Othomar reflects. What shall he do, what can he do? Is it not too
much that is asked of him? Can he, _can_ he combat the stress of the
waters?

"Oh, this rain, this rain!" he mutters, secretly clenching his fist.

Five hours' more travelling. The towers of the city, the crenulated
outline and Titanic plateaus of St. Ladislas, with its bastions, shoot
up on the horizon, shift to one side when approached. The train stops,
in the open country, at a little halting-place; the princes know that
the Central Station is flooded; the whole railway-management has been
transferred to this halt. And suddenly they stand in the presence of the
smooth, green, watery expanse of the Zanthos, which has spread itself
into one sea of water, broad and even, hardly rippled, like a wrath
appeased. A punt is waiting and carries them through ruins of houses,
through floating househo