"Let me... hold him. Let me hold... our son." Her voice is weak, fading fast, and her breath comes in ragged gasps as she pleads with her husband.
"But you're not strong enough! You know that!" In his panic, the words come out more harshly than they are meant, and she flinches at the sound. Worse, the little creature in his arms is disturbed, too, by the roughness of his voice, and lets out a raw wail.
The man takes a deep breath, and – shifting the squalling infant into the crook of one arm – takes the hand that his wife is stretching out so desperately towards her child. "You must conserve your energy, meine Liebling," he says, far more gently, caressing the soft skin which beneath his fingers is fever-damp. He knows, though, that it's useless; there is nothing which can save her now, however fervently he might pray for it to be otherwise.
As if sensing this, the newborn begins to cry even harder, and will not be quietened by his father's clumsy attempts to rock him; if anything, the howls become yet more shrill.
"Gerhart, please..." Her voice has diminished to little more than a whisper, barely audible above the wails of her son, but she is no longer begging; frail as she is, there is absolute determination in her eyes. "I want to... see… our little Gilbert. Just once. Please… Give him… to me…"
Relenting at last – for he recognises that there is little sense in denying her this request – he places the precious bundle in her outstretched arms, planting a kiss on her burning brow as he does so. And immediately the crying ceases.
She smiles as she looks down at the baby – a strange child, pale-skinned and red-eyed and already sporting a shock of white hair.
The last thing she says is, "He's beautiful."