She made no reply; feebly she drooped against him, not knowing how to console and cheer him, and softly and plaintively began to sob. It was as though her soul was being flooded with anguish, slowly but persistently, until it brimmed over. She reproached herself with it all. He was her child: the future Emperor of Liparia had derived this weakness from her. And the manifestation of this agonizing mystery of heredity before her despairing eyes deprived her of all her strength, of all her courage, of all her power of acquiescence and resignation. "Mamma," he repeated. She sobbed on. "Don't be so disconsolate.... Berengar will be better than I.... You'll tell papa, won't you?... Or no, never mind, if it costs you too great an effort: I'll tell him myself...." She started up nervously from her despair: "O my God, no! Othomar, no! Don't talk to him about it: he is so passionate, he would ... he would murder you! Promise me that you will not talk to him about it! _I_ will tell him--O my God!--_I_ will tell him...." But a tremor of hope revived within her. "But, Othomar, I ask you, why do you do this? You are ill now, but you will get better and then ... then you will think differently!" He gazed out before him: his presentiment quivered through him; he saw his dream again: the streets of Lipara filled with crape, right up to the sky, where it veiled the sunlight. And over his features there passed again that new air of hardness, of dogged obstinacy which made him unrecognizable; he shook his head slowly from side to side, from side to side: "No, mamma, I shall never think differently. Believe me, it will be better so." When she saw him like that, her new hope collapsed again and she sobbed once more. Sobbing, she rose; amid her sorrow yawned a void; she was losing something: her son. "Are you going?" he asked. She nodded yes, sobbing. "Do you forgive me?" She nodded yes again. Then she gave him a smile, a smile full of despair; lacking the strength to kiss him, she went out, still sobbing. He remained alone and rose from his couch. He stood in the middle of the room; his eyes stared at the collie: "Why need I give her pain!" he thought. Everything in his soul hurt him. "Why did I go on that voyage with Herman?" he asked himself again. "It was in those first days of rest that I began to think so much. And yet Professor Barzia says, 'Rest!' ... What does he know about me? What does one person know about another?... Djalo!" he cried. The collie ran up, wriggling, joyfully. "Djalo, what is right? How ought the world to be? Must there be kings and emperors, Djalo, or had we better all disappear?" The dog looked at him, wagging its tail violently; suddenly it jumped up and licked his face. "And why, Djalo, need one man always make the other unhappy? Why need princes make their people unhappy? Will life always remain the same, for ages and ages?..."