"There are days of great grief in store for the Imperial," the doctor resumed, gently. "Your highness must think of those days without permitting yourself to be overcome by the grief of them.... The little prince will probably not recover, highness. Will you think of that ... and think of your parents, their poor majesties? There are days like these for a nation, or for a single family, in which grief seems to pile itself up. For does not this day, this night seem to mark the end of your race, my prince?... Lie still, lie still, don't move: let me talk on, like a garrulous old man.... Does your highness know that the emperor to-day, for the first time in his whole life, cried, sobbed? His younger son is dying. Between this boy and the father is a first-born son, who is very, very ill.... Is not all this the end?" "Yet, if God wills it so," whispered Othomar. "It is our duty to be resigned," said Barzia. "But does God will it so?" "Who can tell?..." "Ask yourself, but not now, highness: to-morrow, to-morrow.... After the saddest nights ... the mornings come again...." The professor rose and mixed a powder in a glass of water: "Drink this, highness...." Othomar drank. "And now lie quiet and close those wide eyes." "I shall not be able to sleep though...." "That is not necessary, only close those eyes...." Barzia stroked them with his hand; the prince kept them closed. His hand again lay in the hand of the professor. A hush descended upon the room. Outside, in the corridors and galleries, perplexed steps approached at times, from the distance, in futile haste; then they sounded away, far away, in despair. A world of sorrow seemed to fill the palace, there, outside that room, until it held every hall of it with its dark, tenebrous woe. But in this one room nothing stirred. The professor sat still and stared before him, absorbed in thought; the crown-prince had fallen asleep like a child. 7 Next morning the day rose upon an empire in mourning. Prince Berengar had passed away in the night. Othomar had slept long and woke late, as in a strange calm. When Professor Barzia told him of the young prince's end--the apathy of the last moments, after a raging fever--it seemed to him as if he already knew it. The great sorrow which he felt was singularly peaceful, without rebellion in his heart, and surprised himself. He remained lying calmly when the professor forbade him to get up. He pictured to himself without emotion the little prince, motionless, with his eyes closed, on his camp-bed. Mechanically he folded his hands and prayed for his brother's little soul.