"Your majesty is right; my letters contain most distressing intelligence."

"Ah!" murmured the king, as he turned from Rothenberg, "I fear I have not the strength to support this coming trial." After a pause, he continued: "Now, my friend, tell me, are my mother and sisters well?"

"Sire, the entire royal family are well."

"Your intelligence, then, relates to my friends. Two of them are ill—yes, two. How is Jordan? You do not answer—you weep. How is Jordan?"

"Sire, Jordan is dead."

"Dead!" cried the king, as he sank powerless upon his chair, and covered his face with his hands. "Dead! my best, my dearest friend is dead?"

"His death was as bright and peaceful as his life," said Rothenberg. "His last word was a farewell to your majesty, his last act was to write to his king. Here is the letter, sire."

The king silently received the letter from Rothenberg. Two great tears ran slowly down his checks, and, falling on the letter, obliterated some words of the address. "Jordan's hand wrote these words for the last time; this idle title 'his majesty'—and my tears have washed it away. Jordan! Jordan I am no longer a king, but a poor, weak man who mourns for his lost friend."

He pressed the paper passionately to his lips; then placed it in his bosom, and turned once more to Rothenberg.

"Tell me the rest, my friend; I am resigned to all things now."

"Did you not say, sire, that you had left two friends ill in Berlin?"

"Jordan and Kaiserling. You do not mean that Kaiserling also—oh, no, no! that is impossible! Jordan is dead, and I knew that he must die; but Kaiserling will recover—I feel, I know it."

"Your majesty," said Rothenberg, "if I were a pious priest, I would say Kaiserling has recovered, for his soul has returned to God."

"Kaiserling dead also! Rothenberg, how could you find the courage to tell me this? Two friends lost in a moment of time." The king said nothing more. His head sank upon his breast, and he wept bitterly. After a time he raised his head, and said, as if to himself: "My two friends! They were my family—now I am orphaned. Sorrow will make a desert of my heart, and men will call me cold and heartless. They will not know that my heart is a graveyard, wherein my friends lie buried."

The tears ran slowly down his cheeks as he uttered this death-wail. So deep was the grief depicted on the countenance of the king, that Rothenberg could no longer restrain himself. He rushed to the king, and, sinking on his knees beside him, seized his hands and covered them with tears and kisses.

"Oh, my king, my hero! cease to mourn, if you do not wish to see me die of grief."

The king smiled mournfully, as he replied: "If one could die of grief, I would not have survived this hour."

"What would the world think could they see this great conqueror forgetting his triumphs and indulging such grief?"

"Ah, my friend, you desire to console me with the remembrance of this victory! I rejoice that I have preserved my land from a cruel misfortune, and that my troops are crowned with glory. But my personal vanity finds no food in this victory. The welfare and the happiness of my people alone lie on my heart—I think not of my own fleeting fame."

"The fame of my king is not fleeting. It will live in future years," cried the general.

The king shrugged his shoulders almost contemptuously. "Only death stamps fame upon kings' lives. For the present, I am content to fulfil my duties to the best of my ability. To be a true king, a monarch must be willing to resign all personal happiness. As for me, Rothenberg, on this day, when I, as a king, am peculiarly fortunate, my heart is wrung by the loss of two dear friends. The man must pay for the happiness of the king. But," said the king, after a pause, "this is the dealing of the Almighty; I must submit silently. Would that my heart were silent! I will tell you something, my friend. I fear that I was unjust to Machiavelli. He was right—only a man with a heart of iron can be a king, for he alone could think entirely of his people."

"How suffering and full of grief must my king be to speak thus! You have lost two dear friends, sire. I also mourn their loss, but am suffering from a still deeper grief. I have lost the love of my king. I have lost faith in the friendship of my Frederick," said Rothenberg, sighing deeply.

"My Rothenberg," said the king, with his deep, tender voice, "look at me, and tell me what men call you, when they speak of you and me?"

"I hope they call me your majesty's most faithful servant."

"No, they call you my favorite, and what they say is true. Vox populi vox Dei. Come to my heart, my favorite."

"Ah! my king, my prince, my friend," cried Rothenberg, enthusiastically, as he threw himself into the arms of the king.

They stood long thus, heart pressed to heart; and who that had seen them, the king and the hero, the conquerors of the day, would have imagined that their tears were not the tears of happiness and triumph, but of suffering and love?

"And now," said Frederick, after a pause, "let me again be king. I must return to my duties."

He seated himself at the table, and Rothenberg, after taking from the dispatch-bag a number of documents bearing the state seal, handed the king a daintily perfumed, rose-colored note. The king would not receive it, although a light flush mounted to his brow and his eyes beamed more brightly.

"Lay that on one side," he said, "I cannot read it; the notes of the Miserere are still sounding in my heart, and this operatic air would but create a discord. We will proceed to read the dispatches."



CHAPTER VIII.

A LETTER PREGNANT WITH FATE.

The king was not the only person, in the encampment at Sohr, to whom the courier brought letters from Berlin; the colonel of every regiment had received a securely-locked post-bag containing the letters for the officers and soldiers of his regiment, which it was his duty to deliver. To avoid errors in the distribution, every post-bag was accompanied by a list, sent from the war department, on which each person to whom a letter was addressed must write a receipt.

Colonel von Jaschinsky was therefore compelled to deliver to Lieutenant von Trenck both the letters which were addressed to him. The colonel looked at one of these letters with a most malicious expression; he was not at all curious concerning its contents, for he was well acquainted with them, and knew that as soon as Trenck received it, it would become a sword, whose deadly point would be directed to the breast of the young man.

He knew the letter, for he had seen it before, but he had not delivered it; he had fraudulently withheld it from Trenck, in order to send it to Berlin, to his friend Pollnitz, and to ask him if he did not think it well suited to accomplish their purpose of making Lieutenant von Trenck harmless, by bringing about his utter destruction. Pollnitz had not answered up to this time, but to-day Colonel von Jaschinsky had received a letter from him, in which he said: "It is now time to allow the letter of the pandour to work. I carried the letter to the post, and I imagine that I played the part of a Job's messenger to his impertinent young officer, who allows himself to believe that his colonel owes him two hundred ducats. If you have ever really been his debtor, he will certainly be yours from to-day, for to you he will owe free quarters in one of the Prussian forts, and I hope for no short time. When you inform the king of this letter from the pandour, you can also say that Lieutenant von Trenck received a second letter from Berlin, and that you believe it to be from a lady. Perhaps the king will demand this letter, which I am positive Trenck will receive, for I mailed it myself, and it is equally certain that he will not destroy it, for lovers do not destroy the letters of the beloved."

No, lovers never destroy the letters of the beloved. What would have induced Frederick von Trenck to destroy this paper, on which HER HAND had rested, her eyes had looked upon, her breath touched, and on which her love, her vows, her longing, and her faith, were depicted? No, he would not have exchanged it for all the treasures of the world—this holy, this precious paper, which said to him that the Princess Amelia had not forgotten him, that she was determined to wait with patience, and love, and faith, until her hero returned, covered with glory, with a laurel-wreath on his brow, which would be brighter and more beautiful than the crown of a king.

As Trenck read these lines he wept with shame and humiliation. Two battles had been already won, and his name had remained dark and unknown; two battles, and none of those heroic deeds which his beloved expected from him with such certainty, had come in his path. He had performed his duty as a brave soldier, but he had not accomplished such an heroic act as that of Krauel, in the past year, which had raised the common soldier to the title of Baron Krauel von Ziskaberg, and had given to the unknown peasant a name whose fame would extend over centuries. He had not astonished the whole world with a daring, unheard-of undertaking, such as that of Ziethen, who had passed with his hussars, unknown, through the Austrian camp. He had been nothing but a brave soldier—he had done nothing more than many thousands. He felt the strength and the courage to tear the very stars from heaven, that he might bind them as a diadem upon the brow of his beloved; to battle with the Titans, and plunge them into the abyss; to bear upon his shoulders the whole world, as Atlas did; he felt in himself the power, the daring, the will, and the ability of a hero. But the opportunity failed him.

The deeds which he longed to accomplish did not lie in his path. And thus, in spite of two victorious battles in which he had fought; in spite of the evident good-will of the king, he had remained what he was, the unknown, undistinguished Lieutenant von Trenck. With a trembling heart he demanded of himself that the Princess Amelia would continue to love him if he returned to her as he had departed; if her proud, pure heart could stand that severest of all tests, the discovery that she had bestowed her love upon an ordinary, undistinguished man.

"No, no!" he cried, "I have not the courage to return thus to her. If I cannot distinguish myself, I can die. In the next battle I will conquer fame or death. And if I fall, she will weep for me. That would be a far happier fate than living to be forgotten or despised by her."

He pressed Amelia's letter to his lips, then placed it in his bosom, and opened the second letter. Whilst he read, an expression of astonishment appeared on his features, and a smile, half gay, half scornful, played upon his full, fresh lips. Soon, however, his features grew earnest, and a dark shadow clouded his youthful brow.

"If I had enemies they could destroy me with this letter," he said, in a low voice. "It could, wild and silly as it is, be made to represent me as a traitor. Perhaps it is a pitfall which has been prepared for me. Is it possible that the authorities should have allowed this letter, coming evidently from inimical Austria, to pass unread through their hands? I will go immediately to my colonel, and show him this letter," said Trenck. "He can then inform the king of it if he think it necessary. Concealment might be more dangerous for me than an open acknowledgment."

And placing this second letter also in his bosom, Trenck proceeded to the tent of Colonel von Jaschinsky, who welcomed him with unusual warmth.

"Colonel," said Trenck, "do you remember the singular letter which I received six months since from my cousin, Baron von Trenck, colonel of the pandours?"

"Ah, you mean that letter in which he invites you to come to Austria, and promised, should you do so, to make you his sole heir?"

"Yes, that is the letter I mean. I informed you of it at the time and asked your advice."

"What advice did I give you?"

"That I should reply kindly and gratefully to my cousin; that I should not appear indifferent or ungrateful for a proposal by which I might become a millionnaire. You advised me to decline going to Austria, but only to decline so long as there was war between Prussia and Austria."

"Well, I think the advice was good, and that you may still follow it."

"You advised me also to write to my cousin to send me some of those beautiful Hungarian horses, and promised to forward my letter through Baron von Bossart, the Saxon ambassador; but on the condition that when I received the Hungarian horses, I should present one of them to you."

"That was only a jest—a jest which binds you to nothing, and of which you have no proofs."

"I!" asked Trenck, astonished; "what proof do I need that I promised you a Hungarian horse? What do I want with proofs?"

Count Jaschinsky looked embarrassed before the open, trusting expression of the young officer. His singular remark would have betrayed him to a more suspicious, a more worldly-wise man, who would have perceived from it the possibility of some danger, from which Jaschinsky was seeking to extricate himself.

"I did not mean," said the count, laughing, "that you needed a proof; I only wished to say that I had no proof that you had promised me a Hungarian horse, and that you need not feel obliged to give me one."

"Yes, colonel, your request and my promise occurred before witnesses. Lieutenant von Stadnitz and Ensign von Wagnitz were present; and if that had not been the case, I should consider my word binding. But at present I have no Hungarian horses, only an answer from my singular cousin, the contents of which I wish to impart to you."

"Ah, the colonel of the pandours has answered you?" asked Jaschinsky, with well-dissembled astonishment.

"Yes, he has answered me, and has written me the most singular letter that one can imagine. Only listen to it."

And Frederick von Trenck hastily pulled out the letter which he had put in his bosom. Entirely occupied with this subject, and thinking of nothing else, he opened the letter and read:

"From yours, dated Berlin, February 12th, I ascertain that you desire some Hungarian horses on which to meet my hussars and pandours. I learned with much pleasure, in the last campaign, that the Prussian Trenck was a brave soldier; as a proof of my consideration, I returned to you at that time the horses which my men had captured from you. If you desire to ride Hungarian horses, you must take mine from me on the field, or come to your cousin, who will receive you with open arms as his son and friend, and accord you every wish of your heart."

Had Trenck looked less attentively at his letter, while reading, he would have perceived that Jaschinsky was paying but slight attention (he was looking attentively on the floor); he quietly approached Trenck, and placed his foot upon something which he evidently wished to conceal. He then stood still, and as Trenck finished reading he broke into a loud laugh, in which the young officer joined him.

"Your cousin is a droll man," said the count, "and under the conditions which he offers you, I will still accept your Hungarian horse. Perhaps you will soon find an opportunity to give it to me, for I believe we are about to attack Hungary, and you can yourself procure the horses. But now, my young friend, excuse me; I must go to the king to give my report. You know he will endure no neglect of duty. After the war council I will see you again."

Trenck took leave, a little surprised at the sudden dismissal. The colonel did not accompany him, as usual. He remained standing in the middle of the tent until he was alone; then stooping down, he drew from under his foot the daintily folded letter that he had concealed while Trenck was present.

Count Jaschinsky had seen what had escaped Trenck. He saw that Trenck, in taking out the letter from his cousin, had let fall another paper, and while Trenck was, reading, he had managed to conceal it with his foot. Now he hastily seized this paper, and opened it. A most wicked expression of joy overspread his countenance whilst he read, and then he said, triumphantly: "Now he is lost. It is not necessary to tell the king that Trenck has received a letter from a lady; I will take him the letter itself, and that will condemn Trenck more surely than any conspiracy with his cousin. Away to the king!"

But, as he had already withdrawn the curtain of his tent, he remained motionless, and appeared deep in thought. Then he allowed the curtain to fall, and returned within.

"I think I was on the point of committing a great folly. This letter would of course accomplish the destruction of my hated creditor, but I doubt exceedingly if I would escape unharmed if I handed this ominous writing to the king. He would never forgive me for having discovered this affair, which he, of course, wishes to conceal from the whole world. The knowledge of such a secret would be most dangerous, and I prefer to have nothing to do with it. How can I manage to let this letter reach the king, without allowing him to know that I am acquainted with the contents? Ah, I have it!" he cried, after a long pause, "the means are sure, and not at all dangerous for me."

With rapid steps he left his tent, and proceeded to that of the king from whom he prayed an audience.

"Ah! I wager that you come to complain of some one," said the king, as Jaschinsky entered. "There is a wicked light in your eye. Am I not right? one of your officers has committed some folly."

"I leave the decision entirely to your majesty," said Jaschinsky, humbly. "Your majesty commanded me to watch carefully over my officers, especially the Lieutenant von Trenck."

"Your complaint is again of Trenck, then?" asked the king, frowningly. "I will tell you before we begin, unless it is something important I do not wish to hear it; gossip is disagreeable to me. I am well pleased with Trenck; he is a brave and zealous officer, and I think he does not neglect his duties. Consider, therefore, colonel, unless it is a grave fault of which you have to complain, I advise you to remain silent."

"I hope your majesty will allow me to proceed."

"Speak," said the king, as he turned his back on the colonel, and appeared to occupy himself with the books on his table.

"Lieutenant von Trenck received a letter by the post to-day which points, in my opinion, to an utterly unlawful proceeding."

The king turned hastily, and looked so angrily at the colonel that he involuntarily withdrew a step. "It is fortunate that I did not hand him that letter," thought Jaschinsky; "in his anger the king would have destroyed me."

"From whom is this letter?" demanded the king.

"Sire, it is from Baron von Trenck, the colonel of the pandours."

The king appeared relieved, as he replied, with a smile: "This pandour is a cousin of our lieutenant."

"But he is in the enemy's camp; and I do not think it proper for a Prussian officer to request one in the Austrian service to send him a present of horses, or for the Austrian to invite the Prussian to join him."

"Is this in the letter?" asked the king in a threatening tone; and when Jaschinsky answered in the affirmative, he said: "Give me the letter; I must convince myself with my own eyes that this is so."

"I have not the letter, but if your majesty desire, I will demand it from Lieutenant von Trenck."

"And if he has burnt the letter?"

"Then I am willing to take an oath that what I have related was in the letter. I read it myself, for the lieutenant showed it to me."

"Bring me the letter."

Jaschinsky went, and the king remained alone and thoughtful in his tent. "If he were a traitor, he would surely not have shown the letter to Jaschinsky," said the king, softly; "no, his brow is as clear, his glance as open as formerly. Trenck is no traitor—no traitor to his country—I fear only a traitor to his own happiness. Well, perhaps he has come to his reason, I have warned him repeatedly, and perhaps he has at length understood me.—Where is the letter?" he asked, as Colonel Jaschinsky reentered.

"Sire, here it is. At least I think that is it. I did not take time to glance at the paper, in my haste to return to your majesty."

"Was he willing to give the letter?"

"He said nothing, but drew it instantly from his bosom, and I brought it to your majesty without glancing at it."

The king looked searchingly into the countenance of the colonel. Jaschinsky's repeated assurances that he had not looked at the letter surprised the king, and led him to suspect some hidden motive. He received the letter, and opened it slowly and carefully. He again turned his piercing glance upon the countenance of Jaschinsky; he now perceived the rose-colored letter, which lay in the folds of that one from Colonel Trenck, and he immediately understood the words of the count. This little letter was really the kernel of the whole matter, and Jaschinsky preferred to know nothing of it.

"Wait outside until I call you. I wish to read this letter carefully," said the king, with perfect composure; but when Jaschinsky had disappeared, he hastily unfolded the paper, and, throwing Trenck's letter on the table, he took the other, and looking carefully at it, he said softly, "It is her writing—yes, it is her writing, and all my trouble has been in vain. They WOULD not understand me. They are lost."

And sighing deeply, the king turned again to the letter. "Poor, miserable children, why should I not make them happy? is it impossible to forget prejudice for once, and to allow these two beings to be happy in their own way? So strange a thing is the heart of a woman, that she prefers an orange-wreath to a crown! Why should I force this young girl to be a princess, when she only desires to be a woman? Shall I allow them to fly away into some wilderness, and there create a paradise? But how soon would the serpent creep into this paradise! how soon would satiety, and ennui, and repentance destroy their elysium! No, the daughters of the Hohenzollerns must not stoop for happiness; I cannot change it. Fate condemns them, not I. They are condemned, but the sword which is suspended above them must fall only upon his head. His is the guilt, for he is the man. His stake was immense, and he has lost all."

The king then took the letter of Colonel Trenck, and read it attentively. "This letter bears all-sufficient testimony against him; it is the iron mask which I will raise before his crime, that the world may not discover it. I would laugh at this letter were it not for the other, which condemns him. This will answer as an excuse for his punishment."

The king arose from his seat, and placing the letter of the princess in his bosom, and folding the other, he walked hastily to the opening of the tent and called Jaschinsky.

"Colonel," he said, and his countenance was troubled but determined, "you are right. Lieutenant von Trenck is a great criminal, for this letter contains undeniable proof of his traitorous connection with the enemy. If I ordered him before a court-martial, he would be condemned to death. As his crime may have grown out of carelessness and thoughtlessness, I will be merciful, and try if a few years' imprisonment will not work a cure. You can inform him of his punishment, when you return his cousin's letter to him. You did not open this letter when you brought it to me?"

The eye of the king rested with a threatening expression upon the colonel as he asked this question.

"No, your majesty,—I did not open it," replied the colonel.

"You did well," said the king, "for a wasp had crept within it, which might have given you a deadly wound. Go now, and take this letter to Trenck, and take his sword from him. He is under arrest, and must be sent at once to the fortress at Glatz."

"Must it be quietly done?" asked Jaschinsky, scarcely able to conceal his delight.

"No, on the contrary, I wish the whole army, the whole world to know why I have punished Trenck. You can say to every one that Trenck is a traitor, who has carried on an unlawful correspondence with his cousin in Austria, and has conspired with the enemy. His arrest must be public, and he must be sent to Glatz, guarded by fifty hussars. Go now and attend to this business.—He is lost," said the king, solemnly, when he was once more alone. "Trenck is condemned, and Amelia must struggle with her grief. Poor Amelia!"

The generals were waiting outside, among them the favorite of the king, General Rothenberg. They had been summoned to a council by the king, and were awaiting his orders to enter the tent.

But the king did not call them, perhaps he had forgotten them. He walked slowly up and down in his tent, apparently lost in thought. Suddenly he stood motionless and listened. He heard the tramp of many horses, and he knew what it meant. He approached the opening of the tent, and drew back the curtain sufficiently to see without being seen.

The noise of the horses' hoofs came nearer and nearer. The first hussars have passed the king's tent, and two more, and again two, and again, and again; and there in their midst, a pale young man, with a distracted countenance, with staring eyes, and colorless lips, which appear never to have known how to laugh, a young officer, without sword or epaulettes. Is this Trenck, the beautiful, the young, the light-hearted Trenck, the beloved of a princess, the darling of all the ladies, the envied favorite of the king? He has passed the tent of the king; behind him are his servants with his horses and his baggage; and then again hussars, who close the procession, the burial-procession of Trenck's happiness and freedom.

The king seemed deeply moved as he stepped back from the curtain. "Now," he said solemnly, "I have committed my first act of injustice; for I judged this man in my own conscience, without bringing him before a court-martial. Should the world condemn me for this, I can at least say that it is my only fault of the kind."



CHAPTER IX.

THE RETURN TO BERLIN.

Peace was proclaimed. This poor land, bleeding from a thousand wounds, might now rest, in order to gather strength for new victories. The husband of Maria Theresa had been crowned as emperor, and the conditions of peace had been signed at Dresden, by both Austrians and Prussians. The king and his army returned victorious to their native land. Berlin had assumed her most joyous appearance, to welcome her king; even Nature had done her utmost to enliven the scene. The freshly fallen snow, which covered the streets and roofs of the houses, glittered in the December sunshine as if strewn with diamonds. But none felt to-day that the air was cold or the wind piercing; happiness created summer in their hearts, and they felt not that it was winter. On every side the windows were open, and beautiful women were awaiting the appearance of their adored sovereign with as much curiosity and impatience as the common people in the streets, who were longing to greet their hero-king.

At length the happy hour came. At length the roar of cannon, the ringing of bells, the shouts of the crowd, which filled every avenue leading to the palace, announced that the king had returned to his capital, which, in the last few days, he had saved by a happy manoeuvre from being attacked by the Austrians and Saxons. The people greeted their king with shouts; the ladies in the windows waved their handkerchiefs, and threw fragrant flowers into the open carriage in which Frederick and his brothers sat.

As they passed before the gymnasium, the scholars commenced a solemn song, which was at the same time a hymn, and a prayer for their king, their hero, and their father. "Vivat, vivat Fredericus! Rex vivat, Augustus, Magnus, Felix Pater Patriae!" sang the scholars. But suddenly rising above the voices of the singers, and the shouts of the people, a voice was heard, crying aloud, "Vivat Frederick the Great!"

The people who had listened silently to the Latin because they did not understand it, joined as with one impulse in this cry, the shout arose as from one throat, "Vivat Frederick the Great!" And this cry spread like wildfire through all the streets, over all the public squares; it resounded from every window, and even from the tops of the houses. To-day Berlin had rebaptized her king. She gave him now a new name, the name which he will bear through all ages, the name of Frederick the Great.

The king flushed deeply as he heard this cry. His heart, which had been sad and gloomy, seemed warmed as by a ray of sunlight. Ambition throbbed within his breast, and awakened him from his melancholy thoughts. No, Frederick had now no time to think of the dead; no time to mourn secretly over the loved, the faithful friends whom he would no longer find in Berlin. The king must overcome the feelings of the friend. His people are here to greet him, to welcome his return, to bestow upon him an immortal name. The king has no right to withdraw himself from their love; he must meet it with his whole soul, his whole heart.

Convincing himself that this was necessary, Frederick lifted his head, a bright color mounted to his chocks, and his eyes flashed as he bowed graciously to his people. Now he is truly Frederick the Great, for he has conquered his own heart, and he has poured upon the open wound of his private sorrows the balm of his people's love.

Now the carriage of the king has reached the palace gate. Frederick raises his hat once more, and bows smilingly to the people, whose cries of "Vivat Frederick the Great" still fill the air. When for a moment there is silence, a single, clear, commanding voice is heard, "Long live Frederick the Great!"

The king turns hastily; he has recognized the voice of his mother. She is standing on the threshold of the palace, surrounded by the princesses of the royal family. Her eyes are more brilliant than the diamonds which glitter in her hair, and more precious than the costly pearls upon her bosom are the drops which fall from her eyes, tears of pride and happiness, shed in this moment of triumph. Again she repeats the cry taught her by the people, "Long live Frederick the Great!"

The king knew the first tone of that dear voice, and, springing from the carriage, hurried forward and threw himself into his mother's extended arms, and laid his head upon her breast, as he had done when a child, and wept hot tears, which no one saw, which his mother alone felt upon her bosom.

Near them stood Elizabeth Christine, the consort of the king, and in the depths of her heart she repeated the cry of the people, and she gazed prayerfully toward heaven, as she petitioned for the long and happy life of her adored husband. But Frederick did not see her; he gave his arm to his mother, and they entered the palace, followed by his wife and his sisters and brothers.

"Frederick the Great!" This cry still resounds through the streets, and the windows of the palace tremble with the ringing of this proud name. The sound enters the saloons before him; it opens wide the doors of the White Saloon, and when the king enters, the pictures and statues of the Hohenzollerns appear to become animate, the dead eyes flash, the stiffened lips smile, and the motionless heads seem to bow, for Frederick's new name has called his ancestors from their graves—this name, which only one other Hohenzollern had borne before him—this name, which is as rare a blossom on the genealogical trees of the proudest royal families as the blossoms of the aloe. The king greets his ancestors with a happy smile, for he feels that he is no unworthy successor. He has forgotten his grief and his pain; he has overcome them. In this hour he is only the king and hero.

But as the shadows of night approach, and Berlin is brilliant with illuminations, Frederick lays aside his majesty, and becomes once more the loving man, the friend. He is sitting by the death-bed of his friend and preceptor, Duhan. The joyous shouts of the people are still heard without, but the king heeds them not; he hears only the heavy breathing of his friend, and speaks to him gentle words of love and consolation.

At length ho leaves his friend, and now a new light springs into his eyes. He is no longer a king, no longer a mourning friend, he is only a young man. He is going to spend an hour with his friend General Rothenberg, and forget his royalty for a while.

Rothenberg seems to have forgotten it also, for he does not come to welcome his kingly guest. He does not receive him on the threshold. No one receives him, but the hall and stairway are brilliantly lighted; and, as he ascends, a door opens, and a woman appears, beautiful as an angel, with eyes beaming like stars, with lips glowing as crimson roses. Is it an angel or a woman? Her voice is as the music of the spheres to the king, when she whispers her welcome to him, and he, at last, thinks he beholds an angel when he sees Barbarina.



CHAPTER X.

JOB'S POST.

Berlin shouted, huzzaed, sang, danced, declaimed, illuminated for three entire days in honor of the conquered peace, and the return of her great king. Every one but the young Princess Amelia seemed contented, happy, joyous. She took no part in the glad triumph of her family, and the loud hosarmas of the people found no echo in her breast. With heavy heart and misty eyes she walked slowly backward and forward in her boudoir. For three days she had borne this terrible torture, this anguish of uncertainty. Her soul was moved with fearful anticipations, but she was forced to appear gay.

For three days, with trembling heart and lips, she had been compelled to appear at the theatre, the masquerades, the balls, and ceremonious dinners of the court. She felt that the stern eye of the king was ever searchingly and angrily fixed upon her. Several times, completely overcome and exhausted by her efforts to seem gay and careless, she sought to withdraw unobserved to her room, but her ever-watchful brother intercepted her, and led her back to her place by her royal mother. He chatted and jested merrily, but his expression was dark and threatening. Once she had not the power to respond with smiles. She fixed her pleading, tearful eyes upon the king. He bowed down to her, and said harshly: "I command you to appear gay. A princess has not the right to weep when her people are happy."

To-day the court festivities closed. At last Amelia dared hope for some hours of solitude and undisturbed thought. To-day she could weep and allow her pale lips to express the wild grief of her heart. In her loneliness she dared give utterance to the cry of anguish rending her bosom.

Where was he? where was Trenck? Why had he not returned? Why had she no news, no love-token, no message from him? She had carefully examined the list of killed and wounded. He had not fallen in battle. He was not fatally wounded. He had not returned with the army, or she would have seen him. Where was he, then? Was he ill, or had he forgotten her, or did he blush to return without his laurels? Had he been taken by the Austrians? Was her beloved suffering in a loathsome prison, while she was laughing, jesting, and adorning herself in costly array? While she thus thought and spoke, burning tears blinded her eyes, and sighs and sobs choked her utterance.

"If he is dead," said she, firmly, "then I will also die. If he is in prison, I will set him at liberty. If he does not come because he has not been promoted and fears I no longer love him, I will seek him out, I will swear that I love him, that I desire only his love, that I will fly with him to some lonely, quiet valley. I will lay aside my rank, my royalty, forget my birth, abandon all joyously, that I may belong to him, be his fond and dear-loved wife."

And now a light sound was heard at the door, and she recognized the voice of her maid asking admittance.

"Ah!" said Amelia, "if the good Marwitz were here, I should not have to endure this torture, but my brother has unconsciously robbed me of this consolation. He has sent my friend and confidante home, and forced upon me a strange and stupid woman whom I hate."

And now a gentle voice plead more earnestly for admittance.

"I must indeed open the door," said the princess, unwillingly drawing back the bolt. "Enter, Mademoiselle von Haak," said Amelia, turning her back in order to conceal her red and swollen eyes.

Mademoiselle von Haak gave a soft, sad glance at the young princess, and in a low voice asked for pardon for her unwelcome appearance.

"Without doubt your reason for coming will justify you," said the princess. "I pray you, therefore, to make it known quickly. I wish to be alone."

"Alas! your royal highness is harsh with me," whispered the young girl. "I was forced upon you. I know it; you hate me because I have taken the place of Mademoiselle von Marwitz. I assure you I was not to blame in this. It was only after the written and peremptory command of his majesty the king that my mother consented to my appearance at court."

"Have you come, mademoiselle, simply to tell me this?"

"No, your royal highness; I come to say that I love you. Even since I had the honor of knowing you, I have loved you. In the loneliness which surrounds me here, my heart gives itself up wholly to you. Oh, do not spurn me from you! Tell me why you are sad; let me bear a part of your sorrow. Princess, I offer you the heart of a true friend, of a sister—will you cast me off?"

The young girl threw herself upon her knees before the princess, and her cheeks were bathed in tears. Amelia raised and embraced her.

"Oh!" said she, "I see that God has not utterly forsaken me. He sends me aid and comfort in my necessity. Will you be, indeed, my friend?"

"Yes, a friend in whom you can trust fully, to whom you can speak freely," said Mademoiselle von Haak.

"Who knows but that may be more dangerous for you than for me?" sighed Amelia. "There are fearful secrets, the mere knowledge of which brings destruction."

"But if I already know the secret of your royal highness?—if I understand the reason of your grief during these last few days?"

"Well, then, tell me what you know."

The maiden bowed down low to the ear of her mistress. "Your eyes seek in vain for him whom you love. You suffer, for you know not where he is."

"Yes, you are right," cried Amelia. "I suffer the anguish of uncertainty. If I do not soon learn where he is, I shall die in despair."

"Shall I tell you, princess?"

Amelia turned pale and trembled. "You will not say that he is in his grave?" said she, breathlessly.

"No, your highness, he lives and is well."

"He lives, is well, and comes not?"

"He cannot come—he is a prisoner."

"A prisoner! God be thanked it is no worse! The king will obtain his liberation. My brother cares for his young officers—he will not leave him in the hands of the Austrians. Oh! I thank you—I thank you. You are indeed a messenger of glad tidings. And now the king will be pleased with me. I can be merry and laugh, and jest with him."

Mademoiselle von Haak bowed her head sadly, and sighed. "He is not in an Austrian prison," she said, in low tones.

"Not in an Austrian prison?" repeated Amelia, astonished, "where is he, then? My God! why do you not speak? Where is Trenck? Who has captured him? Speak! I die with impatience and anxiety."

"In God's name, princess, listen to me calmly, and above all things, speak softly. I am sure you are surrounded by spies. If we are heard, we are lost!"

"Do you wish me to die?" murmured the princess, sinking exhausted upon the divan. "Where is Trenck?"

"He is in the fortress of Glatz," whispered Von Haak.

"Ah! in a Prussian fortress; sent there by the king? He has committed some small fault in discipline, as once before, and as this is the second offence, the king punishes him more severely. That is all! I thank you; you have restored my peace of mind."

"I fear, princess, that you are mistaken. It is said that Baron von Trenck has been arrested for high treason."

The princess became deadly pale, and almost fainted. She overcame this weakness, however, quickly, and said smilingly: "He will then soon be free, for all must know that he is innocent."

"God grant that it may be proved!" said Mademoiselle von Haak. "This is no time to shrink or be silent. You have a great, strong heart, and you love him. You must know all! Listen, therefore, princess. I also love; I also look to the future with hope! My love is calm, for it is without danger; it has my mother's consent and blessing. Our only hope is, that my lover may be promoted, and that the king will give his consent to our marriage. We are both poor, and rely only upon the favor of the king. He is now lieutenant, and is on duty in the garrison of Glatz."

"In Glatz! and you say that Trenck is a prisoner in Glatz?"

"Yes, I received letters yesterday from Schnell. He belongs to the officers who have guard over Trenck. He writes that he feels the profoundest pity for this young man, and that he will joyfully aid him in every way. He asks me if I know no one who has the courage to plead with the king in behalf of this unhappy youth."

"My God! my God! give me strength to hear all, and yet control myself!" murmured Amelia. "Do you know the nature of his punishment?" said she, quietly.

"No one knows positively the duration of his punishment; but the commandant of the fort told the officers that Trenck would be a prisoner for many years."

The princess uttered one wild cry, then pressed both hands upon her lips and forced herself to silence.

"What is the charge against him?" she said, after a long pause.

"High treason. A treasonable correspondence has been discovered between him and his cousin the pandour."

The princess shrugged her shoulders contemptuously. "He will soon justify himself, in view of this pitiful charge! His judges will acknowledge his innocence, and set him at liberty. But why is he not already free? Why has he been condemned? Who were his judges? Did you not say to me that he was condemned?"

"My lover wrote me that Baron Trenck had written to the king and asked for a court-martial and trial."

"This proves his innocence; he does not fear a trial! What was the king's answer?"

"He ordered the commandant to place Trenck in closer confinement, and to forward no more letters from him. And now, princess, you must act promptly; use all your power and influence, if you would save him!"

"I have no influence, I have no power!" cried Amelia, with streaming eyes. "Oh! you do not know my brother; his heart is of stone. No one can move him—neither his, mother, his sisters, nor his wife; his purpose is unchangeable, and what he says is fixed. But I will show him that I am his sister; that the hot blood of the Hohenzollerns flows also in my veins. I will seek him boldly; I will avow that I love Trenck; I will demand that he give Trenck liberty, or give me death! I will demand—"

The door was hastily opened, and a servant said, breathlessly, "The king is coming!"

"No, he is already here," said the king, who now stood upon the threshold of the door. "He comes to beg his little sister to accompany him to the court-yard and see the reindeer and the Laplanders, sent to us by the crown princess of Sweden."

The king advanced to his sister, and held out both his hands. But Amelia did not appear to see this. She made a profound and ceremonious bow, and murmured a few cold words of greeting. The king frowned, and looked at her angrily. He saw that she had been weeping, and his expression was harsh and stern.

"Come, princess!" said he imperiously.

But Amelia had now overcome her terror and her confusion. She was resolved to act, and know the worst.

"Will your majesty grant me an audience? I have something important, most important to myself, to say. I would speak more to the heart of my brother than to the ear of my king. I pray your majesty to allow me to speak with you alone."

The king's eyes were fixed upon her with a dark and threatening expression, but she did not look down or tremble; she met his glance firmly, even daringly, and Frederick hesitated. "She will speak the whole truth to me," thought the king, "and I shall be forced to act with severity against her. I cannot do this; I am not brave enough to battle with a maiden's heart."

"Sister," said he aloud, "if you have indeed something to say to your brother, and not to the king, I counsel you not to speak now. I have so much to do and hear as a king, I have no time to act another part. Is what yon have to say to me truly important? Does it relate to a rare jewel, or a costly robe?—to some debt, which your pin- money does not suffice to meet?—in short, to any one of those great matters which completely fill the heart of a young maiden? If so, I advise you to confide in our mother. If she makes your wishes known to me, you are sure to receive no denial. It is decidedly better for a young girl to turn to her mother with her little wishes and mysteries. If they are innocent, her mother will ever promote them; if they are guilty, a mother's anger will be more restrained and milder than a brother's ever can be."

"You will not even listen to me, my brother?" said the princess, sobbing violently.

The king threw a quick glance backward toward the door opening into the corridor, where the cavaliers and maids of honor were assembled, and looking curiously into the room of the princess.

"No! I will not listen to you," said he, in a low tone; "but you shall listen to me! You shall not act a drama at my court; you shall not give the world a cause for scandal; you shall not exhibit yourself with red and swollen eyes; that might be misinterpreted. It might be said that the sister of the king did not rejoice at the return of her brother; that she was not patriot enough to feel happy at Prussia's release from the burdens of war, not patriot enough to despise and forget the enemies of her country! I command you to be gay, to conceal your childish grief. A princess dare not weep, or, if she does, it must be under the shadow of night, when God only is with her. This is my counsel and reproof, and I beg you to lay it to heart. I will not command you to accompany me, your eyes are red with weeping. Remain, then, in your room, and that the time may not pass heavily, I hand you this letter, which I have received for you."

He drew a sealed letter from his bosom, handed it to Amelia, and left the room.

"Let us go," said he, nodding to his courtiers; "the princess is unwell, and cannot accompany us."

Mademoiselle von Haak hastened again to the boudoir. "Has your royal highness spoken to the king?"

She shook her head silently, and with trembling hands tore open the letter given her by the king. Breathlessly she fixed her eyes upon the writing, uttered one wild shriek, and fell insensible upon the floor. This was the last letter she had written to Trenck, and upon the margin the king had written this one word, "Read." The king then knew all; he had read the letter; he knew of her engagement to Trenck, knew how she loved him, and he had no mercy. For this was he condemned. He had given her this letter to prove to her that she had nothing to hope; that Trenck was punished, not for high treason against the state, but because he was the lover of the princess.

Amelia understood all. With flashing eyes, with glowing cheeks, she exclaimed: "I will set him at liberty; he suffers because he loves me; for my sake he languishes in a lonely prison. I will free him if it costs me my heart's blood, drop by drop! Now, King Frederick, you shall see that I am indeed your sister; that I have a will even like your own. My life belongs to my beloved; if I cannot share it with him, I will offer it up to him—I swear this; may God condemn me if I break my oath! Trenck shall be free! that is the mission of my life. Now, friend, come to my help; all that I am and have I offer up. I have gold, I have diamonds, I gave an estate given me by my father. I will sell all to liberate him; we will, if necessary, bribe the whole garrison. But now, before all other things, I must write to him."

"I promise he shall receive your letter," said Mademoiselle von Haak; "I will send it to Lieutenant Schnell. I will enclose it to my mother; no one here must know that I correspond with an officer at the fortress of Glatz."

"No one dare know that, till the day of Trenck's liberation," said Amelia, with a radiant smile.



CHAPTER XI.

THE UNDECEIVED.

Since the day Joseph Fredersdorf introduced Lupinus to Eckhof, an affectionate intercourse had grown up between them. They were very happy in each other, and Fredersdorf asserted that there was more of love than friendship in their hearts, that Lupinus was not the friend but the bride of Eckhof! In fact, Lupinus had but little of the unembarrassed, frank, free manner of a young man. He was modest and reserved, never sought Eckhof; but when the latter came to him, his pale face colored with a soft red, and his great eyes flashed with a wondrous glow. Eckhof could not but see how much his silent young friend rejoiced in his presence.

He came daily to Lupinus. It strengthened and consoled him in the midst of his nervous, restless artist-life, to look upon the calm, peaceful face of his friend; this alone, without a word spoken, soothed his heart—agitated by storms and passions, and made him mild and peaceable. The quiet room, the books and papers, the weighty folios, the shining, polished medical instruments, these stern realities, formed a strange and strong contrast to the dazzling, shimmering, frivolous, false life of the stage; and all this exercised a wondrous influence upon the artiste. Eckhof came often, weighed down with care and exhaustion, or in feverish excitement over some new role he was studying, not to speak of his anxieties and perplexities, but to sit silently near Lupinus and looked calmly upon him.

"Be silent, my Lupinus," said Eckhof to him. "Let me lay my storm- tossed, wild heart in the moonlight of thy glance; it will be warmed and cooled at the same time. Let thy mild countenance beam upon me, soften and heal my aching heart. Look you, when I lay my head thus upon your shoulder, it seems to me I have escaped all trouble; that only far away in the distance do I hear the noise and tumult of the restless, busy world; and I hear the voice of my mother, even as I heard it in my childish days, whispering of God, of paradise, and the angels. Still, still, friend, let me dream thus upon your shoulder."

He closed his eyes in silence, and did not see the fond and tender expression with which Lupinus looked down upon him. He did not feel how violently the young heart beat, how quick the hot breath came.

At other times it was a consolation to Eckhof to relate, in passionate and eloquent words, all his sorrows and disappointments; all the strifes and contests; all his scorn over the intrigues and cabals which then, as now, were the necessary attendants of a stage- life. Lupinus listened till this wild cataract of rage had ceased to foam, and he might hope that his soft and loving words of consolation could find an entrance into Eckhof's heart.

Months went by, and Lupinus, faithful to the promise given to Eckhof, was still the thoughtful, diligent student; he sat ever in quiet meditation upon the bench of the auditory, and listened to the learned dissertations of the professors, and studied the secrets of science in his lonely room.

But this time of trial was soon to be at an end. Eckhof agreed, that after Lupinus had passed his examination, he should decide for himself if he would abandon the glittering career of science for the rough and stormy path of artist-life. In the next few days this important event was to take place, and Lupinus would publicly and solemnly receive his diploma.

Lupinus thought but little of this. He knew that the events of that day must exercise an important influence upon his future, upon the happiness or unhappiness of his whole life.

The day before the examination Lupinus was alone in his room. He said to himself, "If the faculty give me my diploma, I will show myself in my true form to Eckhof. I will step suddenly before him, and in his surprise I will see if his friend Lupinus is more welcome as—"

He did not complete the sentence, but blushing crimson at his own thoughts, he turned away and took refuge in his books; but the excitement and agitation of his soul were stronger than his will; the letters danced and glimmered before his eyes; his heart beat joyfully and stormily; and his soul, borne aloft on bold wings, could no longer be held down to the dusty and dreary writing-desk; he sprang up, threw the book aside, and hastened to the adjoining room. No other foot had ever crossed the threshold of this still, small room; it was always closed against the most faithful of his friends.

Besides, this little bedroom concealed a mystery—a mystery which would have excited the merriment of Fredersdorf and the wild amazement of Eckhof. On the bed lay a vestment which seemed utterly unsuited to the toilet of a young man; it was indeed a woman's dress, a glistening white satin, such as young, fair brides wear on their wedding-day. There, upon the table lay small white, satin shoes, perfumed, embroidered pocket-handkerchiefs, ribbons, and flowers. What did this signify? what meant this feminine boudoir, next to the study of a young man? Was the beloved whom he wished to adorn with this bridal attire concealed there? or, was this only a costume in which he would play his first role as an actor?

Lupinus gazed upon all these costly things with a glad and happy heart, and as he raised the satin robe and danced smilingly to the great mirror, nothing of the grave, earnest, dignified scholar was to be seen in his mien; suddenly he paused, and stood breathlessly listening. It seemed to him some one knocked lightly on the outer door, then again louder.

"That is Eckhof," whispered Lupinus. He left the mysterious little room, hastily closed the door, and placed the key in his bosom, then opened the outer door.

Yes, it was Eckhof. He entered with a beaming face, with a gay and happy smile. Lupinus had never seen him so joyous. He clasped his young friend so ardently in his arms, that he could scarcely breathe; he pressed so glowing a kiss upon his cheek, that Lupinus trembled, and was overcome by his own emotion.

"See, Lupinus, how much I love you!" said Eckhof. "I come first to you, that you may sympathize with me in my great joy. Almost oppressed by the sense of heavenly bliss, which seemed in starry splendor to overshadow me, I thought, 'I must go to Lupinus; he alone will understand me.' I am here to say to you, 'Rejoice with me, for I am happy.' I ran like a madman through the streets. Oh! friend, you have not seen my sorrow; I have concealed the anguish of my soul. I loved you boundlessly, and I would not fill your young, pure soul with sadness. But you dared look upon my rapture; you, my most faithful, best-beloved friend, shall share my joy."

"Tell me, then, at once, what makes you happy?" said Lupinus, with trembling lips, and with the pallor of death from excitement and apprehension.

"And you ask, my innocent and modest child," said Eckhof, laughing. "You do not yet know that love alone makes a man wretched or infinitely happy. I was despairing because I did not know if I was beloved, and this uncertainty made a madman of me."

"And now?" said Lupinus.

"And now I am supremely happy—she loves me; she has confessed it this day. Oh! my friend, I almost tore this sweet, this heavenly secret from her heart. I threatened her, I almost cursed her. I lay at her feet, uttering wild words of rebuke and bitter reproach. I was mad with passion; resolved to slay myself, if she did not then and there disclose to me either her love or her contempt. I dared all, to win all. She stood pallid and trembling before me, and, as I railed at her, she extended her arms humbly and pleadingly toward me. Oh! she was fair and beautiful as a pardoning angel, with these glistening tears in her wondrous, dreamy eyes, fair and beautiful as a houri of Paradise; when at last, carried away by her own heart, she bowed down and confessed that she loved me; that she would be mine—mine, in spite of her distinguished birth, in spite of all the thousand obstacles which interposed. One wild day I exclaimed, 'Oh! my God, my God! I am set apart to be an artiste; thou hast consecrated me by misfortune.' To-day, I feel that only when I am truly happy can I truly create. From this day alone will I truly be an artiste. I have now received the heavenly consecration of happiness."

Eckhof looked down upon his young friend. When he gazed upon the fair and ashy countenance, the glassy eyes staring without expression in the distance, the blue lips convulsively pressed together, he became suddenly silent.

"Lupinus, you are ill! you suffer!" he said, opening his arms and trying to clasp his friend once more to his breast. But the touch of his hand made Lupinus tremble, and awakened him from his trance. One wild shriek rang from his bosom, a stream of tears gushed from his eyes, and he sank almost insensible to the floor.

"My friend, my beloved friend!" cried Eckhof, "you suffer, and are silent. What is it that overpowers you? What is this great grief? Why do you weep? Let me share and alleviate your sorrow."

"No, no!" cried Lupinus, rising, "I do not suffer; I have no pain, no cause of sorrow. Do not touch me; your lightest touch wounds! Go, go! leave me alone!""

"You love me not, then?" said Eckhof. "You suffer, and will not confide in me? you weep bitterly, and command me to leave you?"

"And he thinks that I do not love him," murmured Lupinus, with a weary smile. "My God! whom, then, do I love?"

"If your friendship for me were true and genuine, you would trust me," said Eckhof. "I have made you share in my happiness, and I demand the holy right of sharing your grief."

Lupinus did not reply. Eckhof lifted him gently in his arms, and laying him upon the sofa, took a seat near him.

He laid his arms around him, placed his head upon his bosom, and in a soft, melodious voice, whispered words of comfort, encouragement, and love. The young man trembled convulsively, and wept without restraint.

Suddenly he raised himself; the agony was over; his lips slightly trembled, but he pressed them together; his eyes were full of tears, but he shook his head proudly, and dashed them from him.

"It is past, all past! my dream has dispersed. I am awake once more!"

"And now, Lupinus, you will tell me all?"

"No, not now, but to-morrow. To-morrow you shall know all. Therefore, go, my friend, and leave me alone. Go to her you love, gaze in her eyes, and see in them a starry heaven; then think of me, whose star is quenched, who is bowed down under a heavy load of affliction. Go! go! if you love me, go at once!"

"I love you, therefore I obey you, but my heart is heavy for you, and my own happiness is clouded. But I go; to-morrow you will tell me all?"

"To-morrow."

"But when, when do we meet again?"

"To-morrow, at ten, we will see each other. At that time I am to receive my diploma. I pray you, bring Fredersdorf with you."

"So be it; to-morrow, at ten, in the university. Till then, farewell."

"Farewell."

They clasped hands, looked deep into each other's eyes, and took a silent leave. Lupinus stood in the middle of the room and gazed after Eckhof till he had reached the threshold, then rushed forward, threw himself upon his neck, clasped him in his arms, and murmured, in a voice choked with tears: "Farewell, farewell! Think of me, Eckhof! think that no woman has ever loved you as I have loved you! God bless you! God bless you, my beloved!"

One last glowing kiss, one last earnest look, and he pushed him forward and closed the door; then with a wild cry sank upon the floor.

How long he lay there, how long he wept, prayed, and despaired, he knew not himself. The hours of anguish drag slowly and drearily; the moments given to weeping seem to stretch out to eternity. Suddenly he heard heavy steps upon the stairs; he recognized them, and knew what they signified. The door opened, and two men entered: the first with a proud, imposing form, with gray hair, and stern, strongly- marked features; the other, a young man, pale and delicate, with a mild and soft countenance.

The old man looked at Lupinus with a frowning brow and angry glance; the other greeted him with a sweet smile, and his clear blue eye rested upon him with an expression of undying love.

"My father!" said Lupinus, hastening forward to throw himself into his arms; but he waved him back, and his look was darker, sterner.

"We have received your letter, and therefore are we here to-day. We hope and believe it was written in fever or in madness. If we are mistaken in this, you shall repeat to us what was written in that letter, which I tore and trampled under my feet. Speak, then! we came to listen."

"Not so," said the young man, "recover yourself first; consider your words; reflect that they will decide the question of your own happiness, of your father's, and of mine. Be firm and sure in your determination. Let no thought of others, no secondary consideration influence you. Think only of your own happiness, and endeavor to build it upon a sure foundation."

Lupinus shook his head sadly. "I have no happiness, I expect none."

"What was written in that letter?" said the old Lupinus sternly.

"That I had been faithful to my oath, and betrayed the secret I promised you to guard, to no one; that to-morrow I would receive my diploma; that you had promised, when I had accomplished this I should be free to choose my own future, and to confess my secret."

"Was that all the letter contained?"

"No—that I had resolved to choose a new career, resolved to leave the old paths, to break away from the past, and begin a new life at Eckhof's side." "My child at the side of a comedian!" cried the old doctor contemptuously. "Yes, I remember that was written, but I believed it not, and therefore have I come. Was your letter true? Did you write the truth to Ervelman?"

Lupinus cast his eyes down, and gave his hand to his father. "No," said he, "it was not true; it was a fantasy of fever. It is past, and I have recovered. To-morrow, after I receive my diploma, I will accompany you home, and you, friend, will go with us."

The next day the students rushed in crowds to the university to listen to the discourse of the learned and worthy Herr Lupinus. Not only the students and the professors, but many other persons, were assembled in the hall to honor the young man, of whom the professors said that he was not only a model of scholarship, but of modesty and virtue. Even actors were seen to grace the holy halls of science on this occasion, and the students laughed with delight and cried "Bravo!" as they recognized near Fredersdorf the noble and sharp profile of Eckhof. They had often rushed madly to thee theatre; why should he not sometimes honor the university?

But Eckhof was indifferent to the joyful greeting of the students; he gazed steadily toward the door, through which his young friend must enter the hall; and now, as the hour struck, he stooped over Fredersdorf and seized his hand.

"Friend," said he, "a wondrous anxiety oppresses me. It seems to me I am in the presence of a sphinx, who is in the act of solving a great mystery! I am a coward, and would take refuge in flight, but curiosity binds me to my seat."

"You promised poor Lupinus to be here," said Fredersdorf, earnestly. "It is, perhaps, the last friendly service you can ever show him— Ah! there he is."

A cry of surprise burst from the lips of all. There, in the open door, stood, not the student Lupinus, but a young maiden, in a white satin robe-a young maiden with the pale, thoughtful, gentle face of Lupinus. A man stood on each side of her, and she leaned upon the arm of one of them, as if for support, as they walked slowly through the room. Her large eyes wandered questioningly and anxiously over the audience; and now, her glance met Eckhof's, and a deadly pallor covered her face. She tried to smile, and bowed her head in greeting.

"This is the secret from which I wished to fly," murmured Eckhof. "I guessed it yesterday."

"I knew it long since," said Fredersdorf, sadly; "it was my most beautiful and cherished dream that your hearts should find and love each other. Have I not often told you that Lupinus was not your friend, but your bride; that no woman would ever love you as he did? You would not understand me. Your heart was of stone, and her happiness has been crushed by it."

"Poor, unhappy girl!" sighed Eckhof, and tears ran slowly down his cheeks. "I have acted the part of a barbarian toward you! Yesterday with smiling lips I pressed a dagger in her heart; she did not curse, but blessed me!"

"Listen! she speaks!"

It was the maiden's father who spoke. In simple phrase he asked forgiveness of the Faculty, for having dared to send them a daughter, in place of a son. But it had been his cherished wish to prove that only the arrogance and prejudice of men had banished women from the universities. Heaven had denied him a son. He had soon discovered that his daughter was rarely endowed; he determined to educate her as a son, and thus repair the loss fate had prepared for him. His daughter entered readily into his plans, and solemnly swore to guard her secret until she had completed her studies. She had fulfilled this promise, and now stood here to ask the Faculty if they would grant a woman a diploma.

The professors spoke awhile with each other, and then announced to the audience that Lupinus had been the most industrious and promising of all their students; the pride and favorite of all the professors. The announcement that she was a woman would make no change in her merit or their intentions; that the maiden LUPINA would be received by them with as much joy and satisfaction as the youth LUPINUS would have been. The disputation might now begin.

A murmur of applause was heard from the benches, and now the clear, soft, but slightly trembling voice of the young girl commenced to read. How strangely did the heavy, pompous Latin words contrast with the slight, fairy form of the youthful girl! She stood adorned like a bride, in satin array; not like a bride of earth, inspired by love, but a bride of heaven, in the act of laying down before God's altar all her earthly hopes and passions! She felt thus. She dedicated herself to a joyless and unselfish existence at the altar of science; she would not lead an idle, useless, musing, cloister- life. With a holy oath she swore to serve her race; to soothe the pain of those who suffered; to stand by the sick-beds of women and children; to give that love to suffering, weeping humanity which she had once consecrated to one alone, and which had come home, like a bleeding dove, with broken wings, powerless and hopeless!

The disputation was at an end. The deacon declared the maiden, Dorothea Christine Lupinus, a doctor. The students uttered wild applause, and the professors drew near the old Lupinus, to congratulate him, and to renew the acquaintance of former days.

The fair young Bride of Arts thought not of this. She looked toward Eckhof; their glances were rooted in each other firmly but tearlessly. She waved to him with her hand, and obedient to her wish he advanced to the door, then turned once more; their eyes met, and she had the courage to look softly upon the friend of her youth, Ervelman, who had accompanied her father, and say:

"I will fulfil my father's vow—I will be a faithful wife. Look, you, Ervelman, the star has gone out which blinded my eyes, and now I see again clearly." She pointed, with a trembling hand, to Eckhof, who was disappearing.

"Friend," said Eckhof, to Fredersdorf, "if the gods truly demand a great sacrifice as a propitiation, I think I have offered one this day. I have cast my Polycrates' ring into the sea, and a part of my heart's blood was cleaving to it. May fate be reconciled, and grant me the happiness this pale and lovely maiden has consecrated with her tears. Farewell, Christine, farewell! Our paths in life are widely separated. Who knows, perhaps we will meet again in heaven? You belong to the saints, and I am a poor comedian, who makes a false show throughout a wild, tumultuous life, with some pompous shreds and tatters of art and beauty, to whom, perhaps, the angels in heaven will deny a place, even as the priests on earth deny him a grave." [Footnote: Eckhof lived to awake respect and love for the national theatre throughout all Germany. He had his own theatre in Gotha, where he was born, and where he died in 1778. He performed the double service of exalting the German stage, and obtaining for the actors consideration and respect.]



CHAPTER XII.

TRENCK'S FIRST FLIGHT.

"This is, then, the day of his liberation?" said Princess Amelia to her confidante, Mademoiselle von Haak. "To-day, after five months of torture, he will again be free, will again enjoy life and liberty. And to me, happy princess, will he owe all these blessings; to me, whom God has permitted to survive all these torments, that I might be the means of effecting his deliverance, for, without doubt, our work will succeed, will it not?"

"Undoubtedly," said Ernestine von Haak; "we shall and must succeed."

"Let us reconsider the whole plan, if only to enliven the tedious hours with pleasant thought. When the commandant of the prison, Major von Doo, pays the customary Sunday-morning visit to Trenck's cell, and while he is carefully examining every nook to assure himself that the captive nobleman has not been endeavoring to make a pathway to liberty, Trenck will suddenly overpower him, deprive him of his sword, and rush past him out of the cell. At the door he will be met by the soldier Nicolai, who is in our confidence, and will not seem to notice his escape. Once over the palisades, he will find a horse, which we have placed in readiness. Concealed by the military cloak thrown over him, and armed with the pistols with which his saddle-holsters have been furnished, he will fly on the wings of the wind toward Bohemia. Near the border, at the village of Lonnschutz, a second horse will await him. He will mount and hurry on until the boundary and liberty are obtained. All seems so safe, Ernestine, so easy of execution, that I can scarcely believe in the possibility of a failure."

"It will not fail," said Ernestine von Haak. "Our scheme is good, and will be ably assisted—it must succeed."

"Provided he find the places where the horses stand concealed."

"These he cannot fail to find. They are accurately designated in a little note which my lover, when he has charge of the prison-yard, will contrive to convey to him. Schnell's known fidelity vouches for the horses being in readiness. As your royal highness was not willing that we should enlist accomplices among the soldiers, the only question that need give us uneasiness is this: Will Trenck be able to overcome unaided all obstacles within the fortifications?"

"No," said Amelia, proudly; "Trenck shall be liberated, but I will not corrupt my brother's soldiers. To do the first, is my right and my duty, for I love Trenck. Should I do the second, I would be guilty of high treason to my king, and this even love could not excuse. Only to himself and to me shall Trenck owe his freedom. Our only allies shall be my means and his own strength. He has the courage of a hero and the strength of a giant. He will force his way through his enemies like Briareus; they will fall before him like grain before the reaper. If he cannot kill them all with his sword, he will annihilate them with the lightning of his glances, for a heavenly power dwells in his eyes. Moreover, your lover writes that he is beloved by the officers of the garrison, that all the soldiers sympathize with him. It is well that it is not necessary to bribe them with miserable dross; Trenck has already bribed them with his youth and manly beauty, his misfortunes and his amiability. He will find no opposition; no one will dispute his passage to liberty."

"God grant that it may be as your highness predicts!" said Ernestine, with a sigh.

"Four days of uncertainty are still before us—would that they had passed!" exclaimed Princess Amelia. "I have no doubts of his safety, but I fear I shall not survive these four days of anxiety. Impatience will destroy me. I had the courage to endure misery, but I feel already that the expectation of happiness tortures me. God grant, at least, that his freedom is secured!"

"Never speak of dying with the rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes your highness has to-day," said Mademoiselle von Haak, with a smile. "Your increasing pallor, caused no doubt by your grief, has given me much pain. I am no longer uneasy, however, for you have recovered health and strength, now that you are again hopeful. As for the four days of expectancy, we will kill them with merry laughter, gayety, and dancing. Does not the queen give a ball to-day? is there not a masquerade at the opera to-morrow? For the last five months your highness has taken part in these festivities because you were compelled; you will now do so of your own accord. You will no longer dance because the king commands, but because you are young, happy, and full of hope for the future. On the first and second day you will dance and fatigue yourself so much, that you will have the happiness of sleeping a great deal on the third. The fourth day will dawn upon your weary eyes, and whisper in your ear that Trenck is free, and that it is you who have given him his freedom."

"Yes, let us be gay, let us laugh, dance, and be merry," exclaimed Princess Amelia. "My brother shall be satisfied with me; he need no longer regard me in so gloomy and threatening a manner; I will laugh and jest, I will adorn myself, and surpass all the ladies with the magnificence of my attire and my sparkling eyes. Come, Ernestine, come. We will arrange my toilet for this evening. It shall be magnificent. I will wear flowers in my hair and flowers on my breast, but no pearls. Pearls signify tears, and I will weep no more."

Joyously she danced through the room, drawing her friend to the boudoir; joyously she passed the three following days of expectation; joyously she closed her eyes on the evening of the third day, to see, in her dreams, her lover kneeling at her feet, thanking her for his liberty, and vowing eternal fidelity and gratitude.

Amelia greeted the fourth day with a happy smile, never doubting but that it would bring her glad tidings. But hours passed away, and still Mademoiselle von Haak did not appear. Amelia had said to her: "I do not wish to see you to-morrow until you can bring me good news. This will, however, be in your power at an early hour, and you shall flutter into my chamber with these tidings, like the dove with the olive-branch."

Mademoiselle von Haak has still not yet arrived. But now the door opens—she is there, but her face is pale, her eyes tearful; and this pale lady in black, whose noble and beautiful features recall to Amelia such charming and delightful remembrances—who is she? What brings her here? Why does she hurry forward to the princess with streaming eyes? Why does she kneel, raise her hands imploringly, and whisper, "Mercy, Princess Amelia, mercy!"

Amelia rises from her seat, pale and trembling, gazes with widely extended eyes at the kneeling figure, and, almost speechless with terror, asks in low tones, "Who are you, madame? What do you desire of me?"

The pale woman at her feet cries in heart-rending accents, "I am the mother of the unfortunate Frederick von Trenck, and I come to implore mercy at the hands of your royal highness. My son attempted to escape, but God did not favor his undertaking. He was overtaken by misfortune, after having overcome almost all obstacles, when nothing but the palisades separated him from liberty and safety; he was attacked by his pursuers, disarmed, and carried back to prison, wounded and bleeding." [Footnote: Trenck's Biography, i., 80.]

Amelia uttered a cry of horror, and fell back on her seat pale and breathless, almost senseless. Mademoiselle von Haak took her gently in her arms, and, amid her tears, whispered words of consolation, of sympathy, and of hope. But Amelia scarcely heeded her; she looked down vacantly upon the pallid, weeping woman who still knelt at her feet.

"Have mercy, princess, have mercy! You alone can assist me; therefore have I come to you; therefore have I entreated Mademoiselle von Haak with tears until she could no longer refuse to conduct me to your presence. Regardless, at last, of etiquette and ceremony, she permitted me to fall at your feet, and to cry to you for help. You are an angel of goodness and mercy; pity an unfortunate mother, who wishes to save her son!"

"And you believe that I can do this?" said Amelia, breathlessly.

"You alone, royal highness, have the power to save my son's life!"

"Tell me by what means, countess, and I will save him, if it costs my heart's blood."

"Conduct me to the king. That is all that I require of you. He has not yet been informed of my son's unfortunate attempt. I must be the first to bring him this intelligence. I will confess that it was I who assisted my son in this attempt, who bribed the non-commissioned officer, Nicolai, with flattery and tears, with gold and promises; that it was I who placed the horses and loaded pistols in readiness beyond the outer palisade; that I sent my son the thousand ducats which were found on his person; that I wrote him the letter containing vows of eternal love and fidelity. The king will pardon a mother who, in endeavoring to liberate her son, left no means of success untried."

"You are a noble, a generous woman!" exclaimed the princess, with enthusiasm. "You are worthy to be Trenck's mother! You say that I must save him, and you have come to save me! But I will not accept this sacrifice; I will not be cowardly and timidly silent, when you have the courage to speak. Let the king know all; let him know that Trenck was not the son, but the lover of her who endeavored to give him his freedom, and that—"

"If you would save him, be silent! The king can be merciful when it was the mother who attempted to liberate the son; he will be inexorable if another has made this mad attempt; and, above all, if he cannot punish the transgressor, my son's punishment will be doubled."

"Listen to her words, princess, adopt her counsel," whispered the weeping Ernestine. "Preserve yourself for the unfortunate Trenck; protect his friends by your silence, and we may still hope to form a better and happier plan of escape."

"Be it so," said the princess with a sigh. "I will bring him this additional sacrifice. I will be silent. God knows that I would willingly lay down my life for him. I would find this easier than to veil my love in cowardly silence. Come, I will conduct you to the king."

"But I have not yet told your royal highness that the king is in his library, and has ordered that no one should be admitted to his presence."

"I will be admitted. I will conduct you through the private corridor and the king's apartments, and not by the way of the grand antechamber. Come."

She seized the countess's hand and led her away.

The king was alone in his library, sitting at a table covered with books and papers, busily engaged in writing. From time to time he paused, and thoughtfully regarded what he had written. "I have commenced a new work, which it is to be hoped will be as great a success in the field of science as several that I have achieved with the sword on another field. I know my wish and my aim; I have undertaken a truly noble task. I will write the history of my times, not in the form of memoirs, nor as a commentary, but as a free, independent, and impartial history. I will describe the decline of Europe, and will endeavor to portray the follies and weaknesses of her rulers. [Footnote: The king's own words. "OEuvres posthumes: Correspondance avec Voltaire."] My respected colleagues, the kings and princes, have provided me with rich materials for a ludicrous picture. To do this work justice, the pencil of a Hollenbreughel and the pen of a Thucydides were desirable. Ah! glory is so piquant a dish, that the more we indulge, the more we thirst after its enjoyment. Why am I not satisfied with being called a good general? why do I long for the honor of being crowned in the capitol? Well, it certainly will not be his holiness the pope who crowns me or elevates me to the rank of a saint—truly, I am not envious of such titles. I shall be contented if posterity shall call me a good prince, a brave soldier, and a good lawgiver, and forgives me for having sometimes mounted the Pegasus instead of the war horse."

With a merry smile, the king now resumed his writing. The door which communicated with his apartments was opened softly, and Princess Amelia, her countenance pale and sorrowful, looked searchingly into the room. Seeing that the king was still writing, she knocked gently. The king turned hastily and angrily.

"Did I not say that I desired to be alone?" said he, indignantly. Perceiving his sister, he now arose, an expression of anxiety pervading his countenance. "Ah, my sister! your sad face proclaims you the bearer of bad news," said he; "and very important it must have been to bring you unannounced to my presence."

"My brother, misfortune has always the privilege of coming unannounced to the presence of princes, to implore pity and mercy at their hands. I claim this holy privilege for the unfortunate lady who has prayed for my intercession in her behalf. Sire, will you graciously accord her an audience?"

"Who is she?" asked the king, discontentedly,

"Sire, it is the Countess Lostange," said Amelia, in a scarcely audible voice.

"The mother of the rebellious Lieutenant von Trenck!" exclaimed the king, in an almost threatening tone, his eyes flashing angrily.

"Yes, it is the mother of the unfortunate Von Trenck who implores mercy of your majesty!" exclaimed the countess, falling on her knees at the threshold of the door.

The king recoiled a step, and his eye grew darker. "Really, you obtain your audiences in a daring manner—you conquer them, and make the princess your herald."

"Sire, I was refused admission. In the anguish of my heart, I turned to the princess, who was generous enough to incur the displeasure of her royal brother for my sake."

"And was that which you had to say really so urgent?"

"Sire, for five months has my son been languishing in prison, and you ask if there is an urgent necessity for his mother's appeal. My son has incurred your majesty's displeasure; why, I know not. He is a prisoner, and stands accused of I know not what. Be merciful—let me know his crime, that I may endeavor to atone for it."

"Madame, a mother is not responsible for her son; a woman cannot atone for a man's crimes. Leave your son to his destiny; it may be a brighter one at some future day, if he is wise and prudent, and heeds the warning which is now knocking at his benighted heart." At these words, the king's glance rested for a moment on the countenance of the princess, as if this warning had also been intended for her.

"It is, then, your majesty's intention to cheer a mother's heart with hope? My son will not be long a captive. You will pardon him for this crime of which I have no knowledge, and which you do not feel inclined to mention."

"Shall I make it known to you, madame?" said the king, with severity. "He carried on an imprudent and treasonable correspondence, and if tried by court-martial, would be found guilty of high treason. But, in consideration of his youth, and several extenuating circumstances with which I alone am acquainted, I will be lenient with him. Be satisfied with this assurance: in a year your son will be free; and when solitude has brought him to reflection, and the consciousness of his crime, when he is more humble and wiser, I will again be a gracious king to him. [Footnote: Trenck's Memoirs, i., 82.] Write this to your son, madame, and receive my best wishes for yourself."

"Oh, sire, you do not yet know all. I have another confession to make, and—"

A light knock at the door communicating with the antechamber interrupted her, and a voice from the outside exclaimed: "Sire, a courier with important dispatches from Silesia."

"Retire to the adjoining apartment, and wait there," said the king, turning to his sister.

Both ladies left the room.

"Dispatches from Silesia," whispered the countess. "The king will now learn all, I fear."

"Well, if he does," said the princess, almost defiantly, "we are here to save him, and we will save him."

A short time elapsed; then the door was violently thrown open, and the king appeared on the threshold, his eyes flashing with anger.

"Madame," said he, pointing to the papers which he held in his hand, "from these papers I have undoubtedly learned what it was your intention to have communicated to me. Your son has attempted to escape from prison like a cowardly criminal, a malefactor weighed down with guilt. In this attempt he has killed and wounded soldiers, disarmed the governor of the fortress, and, in his insolent frenzy, has endeavored to scale the palisades in broad daylight. Madame, nothing but the consciousness of his own guilt could have induced him to attempt so daring a flight, and he must have had criminal accomplices who advised him to this step—accomplices who bribed the sentinel on duty before his door; who secretly conveyed money to him, and held horses in readiness for his flight. Woe to them if I should ever discover the criminals who treasonably induced my soldiers and officers to break their oath of fidelity!"

"I, your majesty, I was this criminal," said the countess. "A mother may well dare to achieve the freedom of her son at any price. It is her privilege to defend him with any weapon. I bribed the soldiers, placed the horses in readiness, and conveyed money to my son. It was Trenck's mother who endeavored to liberate him."

"And you have only brought him to greater, to more hopeless misery! For now, madame, there can be no mercy. The fugitive, the deserter, has forfeited the favor of his king. Shame, misery, and perpetual captivity will henceforth be his portion. This is my determination. Hope for no mercy. The articles of war condemn the deserter to death. I will give him his life, but freedom I cannot give him, for I now know that he would abuse it. Farewell."

"Mercy! mercy for my son!" sobbed the countess. "He is so young! he has a long life before him."

"A life of remorse and repentance," said the king with severity. "I will accord him no other. Go!"

He was on the point of reentering the library. A hand was laid on his shoulder; he turned and saw the pale countenance of his sister.

"My brother," said the princess, in a firm voice, "permit me to speak with you alone for a moment. Proceed, I will follow you."

Her bearing was proud, almost dictatorial. Her sternly tranquil manner, her clear and earnest brow, showed plainly that she had formed an heroic determination. She was no longer the young girl, timidly praying for her lover; she was the fearless woman, determined to defend him, or die for him. The king read this in her countenance, it was plainly indicated in her royal bearing; and with the reverence and consideration which great spirits ever accord to misfortune, he did homage to this woman toward whom he was so strongly drawn by sympathy and pity.

"Come, my sister, come," said he, offering his hand.

Amelia did not take his hand; by his side she walked into the library, and softly locked the door behind her. One moment she rested against the wall, as if to gather strength. The king hastily crossed the room, and looked out at the window. Hearing the rustle of her dress behind him, he turned and advanced toward the princess. She regarded him fixedly with cold and tearless eyes.

"Is it sufficient if I promise never to see him again?" said she.

"The promise is superfluous, for I will make a future meeting impossible."

She inclined her head slightly, as if this answer had been expected.

"Is it enough if I swear never to write to him again, nevermore to give him a token of my love?"

"I would not believe this oath. If I set him at liberty he would compromise you and your family, by boasting of a love which yielded to circumstances and necessity only, and not to reason and indifference. I will make you no reproaches at present, for I think your conscience is doing that for me. But this much I will say: I will not set him at liberty until he no longer believes in your love."

"Will you liberate him if I rob him of this belief? If I hurl the broken bond of my promised faith in his face? If I tell him that fear and cowardice have extinguished my love, and that I bid him farewell forever?"

"Write him this, and I promise you that he shall be free in a few months; but, understand me well, free to go where he will, but banished from my kingdom."

"Shall I write at once?" said she with an expression of utter indifference, and with icy tranquillity.

"Write; you will find all that is necessary on my escritoire."

She walked composedly to the table and seated herself. When she commenced writing, a deathly pallor came over her face; her breath came and went hurriedly and painfully. The king stood near, regarding her with an expression of deep solicitude.

"Have you finished?" said he, as she pushed the paper aside on which she had been writing.

"No," said she calmly, "it was only a tear that had fallen on the paper. I must begin again." And with perfect composure she took another sheet of paper, and began writing anew.

The king turned away with a sigh. He felt that if he longer regarded this pale, resigned face, he would lose sight of reason and duty, and restore to her her lover. He again advanced to the window, and looked thoughtfully out at the sky. "Is it possible? can it be?" he asked himself. "May I forget my duties as head of my family, and only remember that she is my sister, and that she is suffering and weeping? Must we then all pay for this empty grandeur, this frippery of earthly magnificence, with our heart's blood and our best hopes? And if I now deprive her of her dreams of happiness, what compensation can I offer? With what can I replace her hopes, her love, the happiness of her youth? At the best, with a little earthly splendor, with the purple and the crown, and eventually, perhaps, with my love. Yes, I will love her truly and cordially; she shall forgive the brother for the king's harshness; she shall—"

"I have finished," said the sad voice of his sister.

The king turned from the window; Amelia stood at the escritoire, holding the paper on which she had been writing in one hand, and sustaining herself by the table with the other.

"Read what you have written," said the king, approaching her.

The princess bowed her head and read:

"I pity you, but your misfortune is irremediable; and I cannot and will not attempt to alleviate it, for fear of compromising myself. This is, therefore, my last letter—I can risk nothing more for you. Do not attempt to write to me, for I should return your letter unopened. Our separation must be forever, but I will always remain your friend; and if I can ever serve you hereafter, I will do so gladly. Farewell, unhappy friend, you deserve a better fate." [Footnote: Trenck's Memoirs, i., 86.]

"That is all?" said the king, as his sister ceased reading.

"That is all, sire."

"And you imagine that he will no longer believe in your love, when he receives this letter?" said the king, with a sad smile.

"I am sure he will not, for I tell him in this letter that I will risk nothing more for him; that I will not even attempt to alleviate his misery. Only when one is cowardly enough to sacrifice love to selfish fears, could one do this. I shall have purchased his liberty with his contempt."

"What would you have written if you had been permitted to follow the promptings of your heart?"

A rosy hue flitted over her countenance, and love beamed in her eyes. "I would have written, 'Believe in me, trust in me! For henceforth the one aim of my life will be to liberate you. Let me die when I have attained this aim, but die in the consciousness of having saved you, and of having been true to my love.'"

"You would have written that?"

"I would have written that," said she, proudly and joyfully. "And the truth of that letter he would not have doubted."

"Oh, woman's heart! inexhaustible source of love and devotion!" murmured the king, turning away to conceal his emotion from his sister.

"Is this letter sufficient?" demanded the princess. "Shall Trenck be free?"

"I have promised it, and will keep my word. Fold the letter and direct it. It shall be forwarded at once."

"And when will he be free?"

"I cannot set him at liberty immediately. It would be setting my officers a bad example. But in three months he shall be free."

"In three months, then. Here is the letter, sire."

The king took the letter and placed it in his bosom.

"And now, my sister, come to my heart," said he, holding out his arms. "The king was angry with you, the brother will weep with you. Come, Amelia, come to your brother's heart."

Amelia did not throw herself in his arms; she stood still, and seemed not to have heard, not to have understood his words.