Then he began to cry pitifully, and the only word that was heard was “Father!” It was like some recurrent wail in a piece of music, which warns one all through of a coming tragedy.
“Oh, dear! What is to be done? Sigmund! Was ist denn mit dir, mein Engel?” said the poor countess, greatly distressed.
“He is ill,” said I. “I think he has taken an illness. Does thy head ache, Sigmund?”
“Yes,” said he, “it does. Where is my own father? My head never ached when I was with my father.”
“Mein Gott! mein Gott!” said the countess in a low tone. “I thought he had forgotten his father.”
“Forgotten!” echoed I. “Frau Gräfin, he is one of yourselves. You do not seem to forget.”
“Herrgott!” she exclaimed, wringing her hands. “What can be the matter with him? What must I say to Bruno? Sigmund darling, what hast thou then! What ails thee?”
“I want my father!” he repeated. Nor would he utter any other word. The one idea, long dormant, had now taken full possession of him; in fever, half delirious, out of the fullness of his heart his mouth spake.
“Sigmund, Liebchen,” said the countess, “control thyself. Thy uncle must not hear thee say that word.”