"I may well be not like myself in so strange a land," he answered bitterly. "But I know not scorn; nor hopeless trust, neither."
His mother watched him wondering, as he, who was usually so self-contained, strode impatiently about the chamber, as if its limits fretted him.
"A few cries of loyalty—a group of peasants kneeling—make a pretty showing—a tribute to bring her comfort—but it is the chaff before the wind, when danger cometh. And she hath never spoken of the many fiefs from which they came not—withheld by command of their jealous nobles. This peasantry hath no initiative—no aggressiveness. How wouldst thou that they should save her when danger cometh?"
"The ever-present danger from without and within," he answered despondently. "One knoweth not from whence the first blow shall come."
She was silent for a moment, seeking how she might pursue the theme without further irritating him.
"If the peasants are powerless," she said, "the burghers are strong. And they came in throngs to the coronation."
"Aye, Mother; they are our hope: I thank thee for thy word."
A silence fell again between them, and his face grew less anxious.
"The burden is heavy for thee," she said, as he came and stood near her low couch. "It will ease thee to speak of it, if thou mayest not dismiss it. It is not this last attempt of Carlotta that troubles thee? That hath been crushed?—without renewal?"