"Chrotechilde, I want my milk—my cake—I am hungry."
"Corbe," Sigebert whispered to him with his face bathed in tears and his lips palpitating; "brother—wake up. Alack, we are no longer in our palace at Chalon."
At these words, Corbe woke up completely, and answered with a sigh:
"I thought we were in our palace."
"We are not there any longer, brother; I am so sorry!"
"Why do you say that? Are we no longer the King's sons?"
"We are poor King's sons—we are here in prison. But grandmother, where is she? And where is our brother Childebert? Where can they be? Perhaps they also are prisoners."
"And whose fault is it? It is the fault of the army that betrayed us!" cried little Corbe angrily. "I heard everybody say so around us—the troops fled without striking a blow. I heard them say that Duke Warnachaire prepared the treason! Oh, the scoundrel!"
"Not so loud, Corbe, not so loud!" cautioned Sigebert with a smothered voice. "You will wake up Merovee—poor little fellow! I wish I could sleep like him. I would not then be thinking."
"You are always weeping, Sigebert; tell me why?"