The room was gone. The paintings were gone. There was only the single thought, the certainty, the single recognition. The young man praying was her son. What she knew about him, impossible. His future. A king. The significance of herself vanished. Her own future was ful- filled, then. Her actions had not been ill considered. Her son was the reason. This knowledge. How had it come to her? From her heart, she thanked whatever kindness had put the thought in her mind. If she had brought into the world a worthwhile man, a man of character, then all troubles of her past ceased to have meaning. Whatever she might now remember of them, they had not won. The destruction of her own destiny was a small price. It did not extend forever. To perform her task well had been Margrethe's guiding principle, and guarding the heritage of Osulf had been the task she was given to perform. The destruction of Ludvigal, then, had not undone her work. Her own confusion and feeling of weakness were only feelings, not the outcome. Her prayers had been answered. Osulf had retained his heritage, and more.