Winningly, jestingly he took her hand and kissed it. She took his book from his fingers, read the treasonable title: "Are you reading again, Othomar?... You know you mustn't read so much. And why all these strange books?..." On the table lay Lassalle, Marx, works by Russian nihilists, a pamphlet by Bakounine, pamphlets by Zanti.... The little work which he was reading was by a well-known Liparian anarchist and entitled, _Injustice by the Grace of God;_ it overthrew everything: religion and the state; it addressed itself directly to the crowned tyrants in power; it addressed itself directly to Oscar. "Is it to get back your health, Othomar, that you read this sort of thing?" she asked, in a tone of pained reproach. "But, mamma, I must see what it is that they want...." "And what do they want?" He looked pensively before him: "I don't know what they want, I can't understand them. They employ very long sentences, the same sentences over and over again, with the same words over and over again. I can just make out that they disapprove of everything that exists and want something different. But yet sometimes...." "Sometimes what?" "Sometimes they say terrible things, terrible because they sound so true, mamma. When they speak of God and prove that He does not exist, when they describe our whole system of government as a monstrosity and reject all authority, including our own.... They sometimes speak like children who have suddenly learnt to talk and to judge; and then sometimes they suddenly speak clearly; and then very primitive thoughts arise in me: if God exists, why is there any injustice and misery; and our authority: on what right is that founded? O God, mamma, what right have we to reign over others, over millions? Tell me--but argue from the beginning: don't argue backwards; don't begin with us: begin with our first rulers, our usurpers--what right had they? And does ours merely spring from theirs? Oh, these problems, these simple problems: who can solve them, my God, who can solve them?..." Elizabeth suddenly turned pale. She stared at him as though he had gone mad: "Who gives you these books?" she asked, harshly, hoarsely, anxiously. "Dutri, Leoni; Andro has also fetched me some." "They're mad!" exclaimed the empress, rising. "Why do you ask for them?" "I want to know, mamma...." "Othomar," she cried, "will you do what I ask?" "Yes, mamma," he replied, gently, "but sit down again and ... and don't be angry. And ... and don't say 'Othomar.' And ... and go and change your dress: oh, I can't see you in that dress; you are so far from me; your voice doesn't reach me and I daren't kiss you: you are not my mother, you are the empress! Mamma, O mamma!..." His voice appealed to her. A powerful emotion awoke in her. "O my boy!" she cried, with a half-sob breaking in her throat. "Yes, yes, call me that.... Mamma, let's be quick and find each other again, let us not lose each other. What is your request?"