“Did you ever hear of Abraham Lincoln, Oskar?” he asked:
“I—I have heard the name, Majesty,”, Oskar ventured cautiously.
“My grandfather thought he was a—great man.” His voice trailed off. “I—should—like—”
The excitements and sorrows of the day left him gently. He stretched his small limbs luxuriously, and half turned upon his face. Oskar, who hated disorder, drew the covering in stiff and geometrical exactness across his small figure, and tiptoed out of the room.
Sometime after midnight the Chancellor passed the guard and came into the room. There, standing by the bed, he prayed a soldier’s prayer, and into it went all his hopes for his country, his grief for his dead comrade and sovereign, his loyalty to his new King.
King Otto, who was, for all the digestive tablets, not sleeping well, roused and saw him there, and sat upright at once.
“Is it morning?” he asked, blinking.
“No, Majesty. Lie down and sleep again.”
“Would you mind sitting down for a little while? That is, if you are not sleepy.”
“I am not sleepy,” said the Chancellor, and drew up a great chair. “If I stay, will you try to sleep?”