"Where is my son?" asked Morpheus.
The old woman was deaf, and only muttered, "Gone--all gone."
"Alas! and has my son also deserted his father?" cried Morpheus.
The old woman nodded, partly with the palsy, and partly because she knew
of nothing to say. Morpheus smote his forehead with a tragic gesture,
and allowed himself to fall--gently--upon the floor. When he had
remained in an apparent swoon long enough he was revived by some hot
porridge being poured down his throat, and his hair and hands sprinkled
with vinegar. Rousing himself as if with great effort, but really with
great ease, he stood up, and finding the kitchen warmer than his cell,
concluded to remain there; but the old woman was too stiff with
rheumatism to wait upon him, so he had to ladle out his own portion of
porridge, get his books and candle for himself, and finally bring in
some fagots for the fire.
When he sat down to study he found himself in a more cheerful mood than
he had been in for many a day, though he could not help wondering what
had become of Leo. As he went on thinking where the boy could be he was
inspired to write what he called a sonnet upon the subject. Here it is:
"My boy has fled his father's home,
No more he treads these halls;
In vain my voice invokes his name,
In vain my tears, my calls.
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