The crown-prince passed through the anteroom: one of the doctors stood dipping poultices into a basin of ice; a valet was bringing in a pail of fresh ice. The door of the bedroom was open and Othomar remained standing at the door. The little prince lay on his camp-bed, talking in a low, sing-song tone; the empress, pale, suffering, bearing up in spite of everything, sat beside him with Princess Thera. The emperor exchanged brief words with the two other doctors, whose features were overcast with a stark hopelessness; a mordant anguish distorted Oscar's face, which became furrowed with deep wrinkles: "My God, he doesn't know me, he doesn't know me!" Othomar heard the emperor complain. "Nor me," murmured the empress. "What can it be? What, what, what can it be?" sang the little prince; and his usually shrill little voice sounded soft as a bird's melody: it was as though he were playing by himself. "I'm to have a present from my brother, from my brother, something nice!" he sang on. The empress could distinguish his words, but she did not understand; and when he went on to sing the name of the crown-prince, with his title: "Othomar, O Othomar of Xara, of Xara!..." she turned to the door and gently implored: "Othomar, he's calling your name; come, perhaps he will know you!" Othomar approached; he went past the emperor and knelt down by the bed; a smile lit up Berengar's little face. "He is becoming calmer," said the kind doctor, whose tears were running down his cheeks, to Oscar. "Does your majesty see? The prince recognizes his highness the duke...." A note of gladness sounded in his voice. But a violent jealousy distorted the emperor's features: "No, no," he said. "Certainly, sir, only look," the doctor insisted, his hope reviving. "O Othomar, O Othomar of Xara!" sang the little prince: he had recognized his brother, but did not see him in the flesh, saw him only in his waking dream, through the mist of his fever. "What do you bring me that's nice? Smaller than a horse, but heavier? Heavier? Oh, how heavy it is, how heavy, heavy, heavy!..." His little voice came as though with an effort, as though he were lifting something; his convulsive, small, broad hands made a gesture of laborious lifting. "Berengar," said the crown-prince; and his voice broke, his heart sank within him.... "Othomar," replied the child. A cry of anguish escaped the emperor. "Yes, you're always so good to me," continued the little prince in his sing-song. "You always give me such nice things. You know, those lovely guns on my last birthday? And that pistol? But mamma's afraid of that!... Are you dying, Othomar? Look, there's blood on your ear.... But when people bleed they die! Are you dying, Othomar? Look, blood on your coat...." The empress remained sitting straight upright; she glared from Berengar at the bleeding wound of her eldest son....