single sound. For even his little lark was silent; and as for his
traveling-cloak, either he never thought about it, or else it had been
spirited away--for he made no use of it, nor attempted to do so.

A very strange existence it was, those five lonely days. He never
entirely forgot it. It threw him back upon himself, and into himself--in
a way that all of us have to learn when we grow up, and are the better
for it; but it is somewhat hard learning.

On the sixth day Prince Dolor had a strange composure in his look, but
he was very grave and thin and white. He had nearly come to the end of
his provisions--and what was to happen next? Get out of the tower he
could not: the ladder the deaf-mute used was always carried away again;
and if it had not been, how could the poor boy have used it? And even if
he slung or flung himself down, and by miraculous chance came alive to
the foot of the tower, how could he run away?

Fate had been very hard to him, or so it seemed.

He made up his mind to die. Not that he wished to die; on the contrary,
there was a great deal that he wished to live to do; but if he must die,
he must. Dying did not seem so very dreadful; not even to lie quiet like
his uncle, whom he had entirely forgiven now, and neither be miserable
nor naughty any more, and escape all those horrible things that he had
seen going on outside the palace, in that awful place which was called
"the world."

"It's a great deal nicer here," said the poor little Prince, and
collected all his pretty things round him: his favorite pictures, which
he thought he should like to have near him when he died; his books and