"You must, Berengar...."
"And ... and ... and I shan't, I shan't!" the boy screamed, in a sudden fury, stamping his foot.
The empress did nothing but look at him, very long, very long. Her reproachful glance crushed the boy. He sobbed aloud and seemed to forget that his little friends outside would be sure to hear his highness sobbing. He saw that there was nothing to be done, that he must do it. He must! His imperial highness Berengar Marquis of Thracyna, knight of St. Ladislas, must say he was sorry to a sentry and one moreover who denied him, his highness, his rights.
His medieval little childish soul was all upset by it. He understood nothing more. He only saw that he must do as he was told, because his mother looked at him with such a sad expression:
"Othomar!" he sobbed, in his despair. "Othomar! Will ... you ... go with me ... then? But how am I to do it, how am I to do it?"
Othomar smiled to him compassionately and held out his hand to him. The empress nodded to the princes to go.
"How am I to do it? O God, how am I to do it?" she still heard Berengar's voice sobbing desperately in the lobby.
Elizabeth had turned deadly pale. As soon as she was alone, she sank into a chair, with her head flung back. Hélène of Thesbia entered at this moment:
"Madam!" cried the young countess. "What is it?"
The empress put out her hand; Hélène felt that it was icy cold.