a...."

Othomar silently made the sign of the Cross, as though he were entering
a church:

"May God and His Mother forgive me!" he murmured between his lips.

Then he entered the empress' room.

She was sitting alone in the large drawing-room, at one of the open
windows overlooking the park. She wore a very simple, smooth, dark
dress. It struck him how young she looked; and he reflected that she was
younger than the duchess. An aureole of delicate purity seemed to quiver
around her tall, slender form like an atmosphere of light and gave her a
distinction which other women did not possess. She smiled to him; and he
came up slowly and kissed her hand.

She had not yet seen him that day; she took his head between her cool,
slim hands and kissed him.

He sat down on a low chair by her side. Then she passed her hand over
his forehead:

"What's the matter?" she asked.

He looked at her and said there was nothing particular. She suspected
nothing further; this was not the first time he brought her a clouded
forehead. She stroked it once more:

"I promised papa to have a serious talk with you," she said.

He looked up at her.

"He thought it better that I should talk to you, because it was his idea
that I could do so more easily. For the rest, he is very pleased with
you, my boy, and rejoices to find that you have such a clear judgement,
sometimes, upon various political questions."

This opinion of his father's surprised him.

"And about what did you promise to talk to me?"

"About something very, very important," she said, with a gentle smile.
"About your marriage, Othomar."

"My marriage?..."

"Yes, my boy.... You will soon be twenty-two. Papa married much later in
life, but he had many brothers. They are dead. Uncle Xaverius is in his
monastery. And we--papa and I--are not ever likely to have any more
children, Othomar."

She put her arms about him and drew him to her. She whispered:

"We have no one but you, my boy, and our little Berengar. And ... papa
therefore thinks that you ought to marry. We want an hereditary prince,
a Count of Lycilia...."

His eyes became moist; he laid his head against her:

"Two to become emperor? Berengar, if I should be gone before him: is not
that enough, mamma?"

She smilingly shook her head in denial. No, that was not certainty
enough for the house of Czyrkiski-Xanantria.

"Mamma," he said, gently, "when sociologists speak of the social
question, they deplore t