The prince seized her hand, and endeavored to hold her back.

"I conjure you, mother, do not go too far in your suspicion and your examinations. Remember that your suspicion wounds me."

The queen gave him a proud, angry glance.

"I am here on my own property," said she, withdrawing her hand, "and no one shall oppose my will."

"Well, then, madame, follow your inclination," said the prince, with a resolute air; "I wished to spare you an annoyance. Let discord and sorrow come over us, if your majesty will have it so; and as you are inexorable, you will also find me firm and resolute. Examine the grotto, if you will."

He offered her his arm and conducted her to the grotto. Sophia Dorothea felt disarmed by her son's resolute bearing, and she was almost convinced that she had done him injustice, and that no one was concealed in the grotto. With a benignant smile she had turned to her son, to say a few soothing words, when she heard a low rustle among the shrubbery, and saw something white flitting through the foliage.

"And you say, my son, that I was deceived by a fata morgana" exclaimed the queen, hurrying forward with outstretched arm. "Come, my young lady, and save us and yourself the shame of drawing you forcibly from your hiding-place."

The queen had not been mistaken. Something moved among the shrubbery, and now a female figure stepped forth and threw herself at the feet of the queen.

"Pardon, your majesty, pardon! I am innocent of any intention to intrude on your majesty's privacy. I had fallen asleep in this grotto, and awoke when it was too late to escape, as your majesty was already at the entrance of the conservatory. In this manner I have been an involuntary witness of your conversation. This is my whole fault."

The queen listened with astonishment, while the prince regarded with consternation the kneeling girl who had been found here in the place of his Laura.

"This is not the voice of Mademoiselle von Pannewitz," said the queen, as she passed out into the light, and commanded the kneeling figure to follow her, that she might see her face. The lady arose and stepped forward. "Louise von Schwerin!" exclaimed the queen and the prince at the same time, while the little maid of honor folded her hands imploringly, and said, with an expression of childish innocence:

"O your majesty, have compassion with me! Yesterday's ball made me so very tired; and as your majesty was sleeping, I thought I would come here and sleep a little too, although I had not forgotten that your majesty was not pleased to have us visit this conservatory alone."

Sophia Dorothea did not honor her with a glance; her eyes rested on her son with an expression of severity and scorn.

"Really, I had a better opinion of you," said she. "It is no great achievement to mislead a child, and one that is altogether unworthy of a royal prince."

"My mother," exclaimed the prince, indignantly, "you do not believe—"

"I believe what I see," said the queen, interrupting him. "Have done with your assurances of innocence, and bow to the truth, which has judged you in spite of your denial. And you, my young lady, will accompany me, and submit to my commands in silence, and without excuses. Come, and assume a cheerful and unconstrained air, if you please. I do not wish my court to hear of this scandal, and to read your guilt in your terrified countenance. I shall take care that you do not betray your guilt in words. Come."

The prince looked after them with an expression of confusion and astonishment. "Well, no matter how this riddle is solved," murmured he, after the queen had left the conservatory with her maid of honor, "Laura is safe at all events, and in a week we will flee."



CHAPTER XV.

THE COUNTERMINE.

Three days had slowly passed by, and Fritz Wendel waited in vain for a sign or message from his beloved. He groped his way every day through the subterranean alley to the grotto, and stood every night under her window, hoping in vain for a signal or soft whisper from her.

The windows were always curtained and motionless, and no one could give the unhappy gardener any news of the poor Louise von Schwerin, who was closely confined in her room, and confided to the special guard of a faithful chambermaid.

The queen told her ladies that Louise was suffering from an infectious disease; the queen's physician confirmed this opinion, and cautioned the ladies of the court against any communication with the poor invalid. No special command was therefore necessary to keep the maids of honor away from the prisoner; she was utterly neglected, and her old companions passed her door with flying steps. But the queen, as it appeared, did not fear this contagion; she was seen to enter the sick girl's room every day, and to remain a long time. The tender sympathy of the queen excited the admiration of the whole court, and no one guessed what torturing anxiety oppressed the heart of the poor prisoner whenever the queen entered the room; no one heard the stern, hard, threatening words of Sophia; no one supposed that she came, not to nurse the sick girl, but to overwhelm her with reproaches.

Louise withstood all the menaces and upbraidings of the queen bravely; she had the courage to appear unembarrassed, and, except to reiterate her innocence, to remain perfectly silent. She knew well that she could not betray Laura without compromising herself; she knew that if the queen discovered the mysterious flight of Laura, she would, at the same time, be informed of her love affair with the poor gardener, and of their secret assignations. Louise feared that she would be made laughable and ridiculous by this exposure, and this fear made her resolute and decided, and enabled her to bear her weary imprisonment patiently. "I cannot be held a prisoner for ever," she said to herself. "If I confess nothing, the queen must at last be convinced of my innocence, and set me at liberty."

But Fritz Wendel was less patient than his cunning Louise. He could no longer support this torture; and as the fourth day brought no intelligence, and no trace of Louise, he was determined to dare the worst, and, like Alexander, to cut the gordian knot which he could not untie. With bold decision he entered the castle and demanded to speak with the king, stating that he had important discoveries to make known.

The king received him instantly, and at Fritz Wendel's request dismissed his adjutants.

"Now we are without witnesses, speak," said the king.

"I know a secret, your majesty, which concerns the honour and the future of the royal family; and you will graciously pardon me when I say I will not sell this secret except for a great price."

The king's eyes rested upon the impudent face of Fritz Wendel with a dangerous expression. "Name your price," said he, "but think well. If your secret is not worth the price you demand, you may perhaps pay for it with your head, certainly with your liberty."

"My secret is of the greatest value, for it will save the dynasty of the Hohenzollerns," said Fritz Wendel, boldly; "but I will sell it to your majesty—I will disclose it only after you have graciously promised me my price."

"Before I do that I must know your conditions," said the king, with difficulty subduing his rage.

"I demand for myself a major's commission, and the hand of Mademoiselle von Schwerin."

In the beginning the king looked at the bold speaker with angry amazement; soon, however, his glance became kind and pitiful. "I have to do with a madman," thought he; "I will be patient, and give way to his humor. I grant you your price," said he; "speak on."

So Fritz Wendel began. He made known the engagement of the prince; he explained the plan of flight; he was so clear, so exact in all his statements, that Frederick soon saw he was no maniac; that these were no pictures of a disordered brain, but a threatening, frightful reality.

When the gardener had closed, the king, his arms folded across his back, walked several times backward and forward through the room; then suddenly stopped before Fritz Wendel, and seemed, with his sharp glance, to probe the bottom of his soul.

"Can you write?" said the king.

"I can write German, French, English, and Latin," said he, proudly.

"Seat yourself there, and write what I shall dictate in German. Does Mademoiselle von Schwerin know your hand?"

"Sire, she has received at least twenty letters from me."

"Then write now, as I shall dictate, the one-and-twentieth."

It was a short, laconic, but tender and impressive love-letter, which Frederick dictated. Fritz Wendel implored his beloved to keep her promise, and on the same day in which the prince would fly with Laura to escape with him to Oranienburg, to entreat the protection of the prince, and through his influence to induce the priest to perform the marriage ceremony; he fixed the time and hour of flight, and besought her to leave the castle punctually, and follow him, without fear, who would be found waiting for her at the castle gate.

"Now, sign it," said the king, "and fold it as you are accustomed to do. Give me the letter; I will see that it is delivered."

"And my price, majesty," said Fritz, for the first time trembling.

The king's clouded brow threatened a fearful storm. "You shall have the price which your treachery and your madness has earned," said Frederick, in that tone which made all who heard it tremble. "Yes, you shall have what you have earned, and what your daring insolence deserves. Were all these things true which you have related with so bold a brow, you would deserve to be hung; you would have committed a twofold crime!—have been the betrayer of a royal prince—have watched him like a base spy, and listened to his secrets, in order to sell them, and sought to secure your own happiness by the misery of two noble souls! You would have committed the shameful and unpardonable crime of misleading an innocent child, who, by birth, rank, and education, is eternally separated from you. Happily for you, all this romance is the birth of your sick fancy. I will not, therefore, punish you, but I will cure you, as fools and madmen are cured; I will send you to a madhouse until your senses are restored, and you confess that this wild story is the picture of your disordered brain—until you swear that these are bold lies with which you have abused my patience. The restored invalid will receive my forgiveness—the obstinate culprit, never!"

The king rang the bell, and said to his adjutants, "Take this man out, and deliver him to the nearest sentinels; command them to place him at once in the military hospital; he is to be secured in the wards prepared for madmen—no man shall speak with him; and if he utters any wild and senseless tales, I am to be informed of it."

"Oh, sire! pardon, pardon! Send me not into the insane asylum. I will retract all; I will believe that all this is false; that I have only dreamed—that—"

The king nodded to his adjutants, and they dragged the sobbing, praying gardener from the room, and gave him to the watch.

The king looked after him sadly. "And Providence makes use of such pitiful men to control the fate of nations," said he. "A miserable garden-boy and a shameless maid of honor are the chosen instruments to serve the dynasty of the Hohenzollerns, and to rob the prince royal of Prussia of his earthly happiness! Upon what weak, fine threads hang the majesty and worth of kings! Alas, how often wretched and powerless man looks out from under the purple! In spite of all my power and greatness—in spite of my army, the prince would have flown, and committed a crime, that perhaps God and his conscience might have pardoned, but his king never! Poor William, you will pay dearly for this short, sweet dream of love, and your heart and its illusions will be trodden under foot, even as mine have been. Yes, alas! it is scarcely nine years, and it seems to me I am a hundred years older—that heavy blocks of ice are encamped about my heart, and I know that, day by day this ice will become harder. The world will do its part—this poor race of men, whom I would so gladly love, and whom I am learning daily to despise more and more!"

He walked slowly to and fro; his face was shadowed by melancholy. In a short time he assumed his wonted expression, and, raising his head, his eyes beamed with a noble fire.

"I will not be cruel! If I must destroy his happiness, it shall not be trodden under foot as common dust and ashes. Alas, alas! how did they deal with me? My friend was led to execution, and a poor innocent child was stripped and horsewhipped through the streets, because she dared to love the crown prince! No, no; Laura von Pannewitz shall not share the fate of Dorris Ritter. I must destroy the happiness of my brother, but I will not cover his love with shame!"

So saying, the king rang, and ordered his carriage to be brought round. He placed the letter, which he had dictated to Fritz Wendel, in his pocket, and drove rapidly to the queen-mother's palace.

Frederick had a long and secret interview with his mother. The ladies in the next room heard the loud and angry voice of the queen, but they could not distinguish her words. It seemed to them that she was weeping, not from sorrow or pain, but from rage and scorn, for now and then they heard words of menace, and her voice was harsh. At last, a servant was directed to summon Mademoiselle von Pannewitz to the presence of the queen.

He soon returned, stating that Mademoiselle Laura's room was empty, and that she had gone to Schonhausen to visit Queen Elizabeth Christine.

"I will follow her there myself," said the king, "and your majesty may rest assured that Queen Elizabeth will assist us to separate these unhappy lovers as gently as possible."

"Ah, you pity them still, my son?" said the queen, shrugging her shoulders.

"Yes, madame, I pity all those who are forced to sacrifice their noblest, purest feelings to princely rank. I pity them; but I cannot allow them to forget their duty."

Laura von Pannewitz had lived through sad and weary days since her last interview with the prince. The enthusiasm and exaltation of her passion had soon been followed by repentance. The prince's eloquent words had lost their power of conviction, now that she was no more subject to the magic of his glance and his imposing beauty. He stood no longer before her, in the confidence of youth, to banish doubts and despair from her soul, and convince her of the justification of their love.

Laura was now fully conscious that she was about to commit a great crime—that, in the weakness of her love, she was about to rob the prince of his future, of his glory and power. She said to herself that it would be a greater and nobler proof of her love to offer up herself and her happiness to the prince, than to accept from him the sacrifice of his birthright. But in the midst of these reproaches and this repentance she saw ever before her the sorrowful face of her beloved—she heard his dear voice imploring her to follow him—to be his.

Laura, in the anguish of her soul and the remorse of conscience, had flown for refuge to the gentle, noble Queen Elizabeth, who had promised her help and consolation when the day of her trial should come. She had hastened, therefore, to Schonhausen, sure of the tender sympathy of her royal friend.

As Laura's carriage entered the castle court, the carriage of the king drew up at the garden gate. He commanded the coachman to drive slowly away, and then stepped alone into the garden. He walked hastily through the park, and drew near to the little side door of the palace, which led through lonely corridors and unoccupied rooms, to the chamber of the queen. He knew that Elizabeth only used this door when she wished to take her solitary walk in the park. The king wished to escape the curious and wondering observations of the attendants, and to surprise the queen and Laura von Pannewitz. He stepped on quietly, and, without being seen, reached the queen's rooms, convinced that he would find them in the boudoir. He was about to raise the portiere which separated it from the ante-room, when he was arrested by the voices of women; one piteous and full of tears, the other sorrowful but comforting. The king let the portiere fall, and seated himself noiselessly near the door.

"Let us listen awhile," said the king; "the women are always coquetting when in the presence of men. We will listen to them when they think themselves alone. I will in this way become acquainted with this dangerous Laura, and learn better, than by a long interview, how I can influence her."

The king leaned his head upon his stick, and fixed his piercing eyes upon the heavy velvet portiere, behind which two weak women were now perhaps deciding the fate of the dynasty of Hohenzollern.

"Madame," said Laura, "the blossoms of our happiness are already faded and withered, and our love is on the brink of the grave."

"Poor Laura!" said the queen, with a weary smile, "it needed no gift of prophecy to foretell that. No flowers bloom around a throne; thorns only grow in that fatal soil! Your young eyes were blinded by magic; you mistook these thorns for blossoms. Alas! I have wounded my heart with them, and I hope that it will bleed to death!"

"O queen, if you knew my doubts and my despair, you would have pity with me; you would not be so cruel as to command me to sacrifice my love and my happiness! My happiness is his, and my love is but the echo of his own. If it was only a question of trampling upon my own foolish wishes, I would not listen to the cry of my soul. But the prince loves me. Oh, madame, think how great and strong this love must be, when I have the courage to boast of it! yes, he loves me; and when I forsake him, I will not suffer alone. He will also be wretched, and his tears and his despair will torture my heart. How can I deceive him? Oh, madame, I cannot bear that his lips should curse me!"

"Yield him up now," said the queen, "and a day will come when he will bless you for it; a day in which he will confess that your love was great, was holy, that you sacrificed yourself and all earthly happiness freely, in order to spare him the wretchedness of future days. He loves you now, dearly, fondly, but a day will come in which he will demand of you his future, his greatness, his royal crown, all of which he gave up for you. He will reproach you for then having accepted this great sacrifice, and he will never forgive you for your weakness in yielding to his wishes. Believe me, Laura, in the hearts of men there lives but one eternal passion, and that is ambition. Love to them is only the amusement of the passing hour, nothing more."

"Oh, madame, if that is so, would God that I might die; life is not worth the trouble of living!" cried Laura, weeping bitterly.

"Life, my poor child, is not a joy which we can set aside, but a duty which we must bear patiently. You cannot trample upon this duty; and if your grief is strong, so must your will be stronger."

"What shall I do? What name do you give the duty which I must take upon myself?" cried Laura, with trembling lips. "I put my fate in your hands. What shall I do?"

"You must overcome yourself; you must conquer your love; you must follow the voice of conscience, which brought you to me for counsel."

"Oh, my queen, you know not what you ask! Your calm, pure heart knows nothing of love."

"You say that I know nothing of love?" cried the queen, passionately. "You know not that my life is one great anguish, a never-ceasing self-sacrifice! Yes, I am the victim of love—a sadder, more helpless, more torturing love than you, Laura, can ever know. I love, and am not beloved. What I now confess to you is known only to God, and I tell you in order to console you, and give you strength to accept your fate bravely. I suffer, I am wretched, although I am a queen! I love my husband; I love him with the absorbing passion of a young girl, with the anguish which the damned must feel when they stand at the gates of Paradise, and dare not enter in. My thoughts, my heart, my soul belong to him; but he is not mine. He stands with a cold heart near my glowing bosom, and while with rapture of love I would throw myself upon his breast, I must clasp my arms together and hold them still, and must seek and find an icy glance with which to answer his. Look you, there was a time when I believed it impossible to bear all this torture; a time in which my youth struggled like Tantalus; a time in which my pride revolted at this love, with its shame and humiliation; in which I would have given my crown to buy the right to fly into some lonely desert, and give myself up to tears. The king demanded that I should remain at his side, not as his wife, but as his queen; ever near him, but forever separated from him; unpitied and misunderstood; envied by fools, and thought happy by the world! And, Laura, oh, I loved him so dearly that I found strength to bear even this torture, and he knows not that my heart is being hourly crushed at the foot of his throne. I draw the royal purple over my wounded bosom, and it sometimes seems to me that my heart's blood gives this ruddy color to my mantle. Now, Laura, do I know nothing of love? do I not understand the greatness of the sacrifice which I demand of you?"

The queen, her face bathed in tears, opened her arms, and Laura threw herself upon her bosom; their sighs and tears were mingled.

The king sat in the ante-room, with pale face and clouded eyes. He bowed his head, as if in adoration, and suddenly a glittering brilliant, bright as a star, and nobler and more precious than all the jewels of this sorrowful world, fell upon his pallid cheek. "Truly," said he to himself, "there is something great and exalted in a woman's nature. I bow down in humility before this great soul, but my heart, alas! cannot be forced to love. The dead cannot be awakened, and that which is shrouded and buried can never more be brought to life and light!"

"You have conquered, my queen," said Laura, after a long pause; "I will be worthy of your esteem and friendship. That day shall never come in which my lover shall reproach me with selfishness and weakness! 'I am ready to be offered up!' I will not listen to him; I will not flee with him; and while I know that he is waiting for me. I will cast myself in your arms, and beseech you to pray to God for me, that He would send Death, his messenger of love and mercy, to relieve me from my torments."

"Not so, my Laura," said the queen; "you must make no half offering; it is not enough to renounce your lover, you must build up between yourselves an everlasting wall of separation; you must make this separation eternal! You must marry, and thus set the prince a noble example of self-control."

"Marry!" cried Laura; "can you demand this of me? Marry without love! Alas, alas! The prince will charge me with inconstancy and treachery to him, and I must bear that in silence."

"But I will not be silent," said the queen, "I will tell him of your grief and of the greatness of your soul; and when he ceases, as he must do, to look upon you as his beloved, he will honor you as the protecting angel of his existence."

"You promise me that. You will say to him that I was not faithless—that I gave him up because I loved him more than I did myself; I seemed faithless only to secure his happiness!"

"I promise you that, Laura."

"Well, then, I bow my head under the yoke—I yield to my fate—I accept the hand which Count Voss offers me. I ask that you will go to the queen-mother and say I submit to her commands—I will become the wife of Count Voss!"

"And I will lead you to the queen and to the altar," said the king, raising the portiere, and showing himself to the ladies, who stared at him in breathless silence. The king drew nearer to Laura, and bowing low, he said: "Truly my brother is to be pitied, that he is only a prince, and not a freeman; for a pitiful throne, he must give up the holiest and noblest possession, the pure heart of a fair woman, glowing with love for him! And yet men think that we, the princes of the world, are to be envied! They are dazzled by the crown, but they see not the thorns with which our brows are beset! You, Laura, will never envy us; but on that day when you see my brother in his royal mantle and his crown—when his subjects shout for joy and call him their king—then can you say to yourself, 'It was I who made him king—I anointed him with my tears!' and when his people honor and bless him, you can rejoice also in the thought, This is the fruit of the strength of my love!' Come, I will myself conduct you to my mother, and I will say to her that I would consider myself happy to call you sister." Turning to Queen Elizabeth, he said: "I will say to my mother that Mademoiselle von Pannewitz has not yielded to my power or my commands, but to the persuasive eloquence of your majesty, when the people of Prussia have for years considered their protecting angel, and who from this time onward must be regarded as the guardian spirit of our royal house!"

He reached his hand to the queen, but she took it not. Trembling fearfully, with the paleness of death in her face, she pointed to the portiere and said, "You were there—you heard all!"

The king, his countenance beaming with respectful admiration, drew near the queen, and placing his arm around her neck, he whispered, "Yes, I was there—I heard all. I heard, and I know that I am a poor, blind man, to whom a kingdom is offered, a treasure-house of love and all good gifts, and I cannot, alas! cannot, accept it!"

The queen uttered a loud cry, and her weary head dropped upon his shoulder. The king gazed silently into the pale and sorrowful face, and a ray of infinite pity beamed in his eyes. "I have discovered to-day a noble secret—a secret that God alone was worthy to know. From this day I consider myself as the high priest of the holiest of holies, and I will guard this secret as my greatest treasure. I swear this to you, and I seal my oath with this kiss pressed upon your lips by one who will never again embrace a woman!" He bowed low, and pressed a fervent, kiss upon the lips of the queen. Elizabeth, who had borne her misfortunes bravely, had not the power to withstand the sweet joy of this moment; she uttered a loud cry, and sank insensible to the floor. When she awoke she was alone; the king had called her maids—had conducted Laura von Pannewitz to the carriage, and returned to Berlin. Elizabeth was again alone—alone with her thoughts—with her sorrows and her love. But a holy fire was in her eyes, and raising them toward Heaven, she whispered: "I thank thee, O heavenly Father, for the happiness of this hour! I feel his kiss upon my lips! by that kiss they are consecrated! Never, never will they utter one murmuring word!" She arose and entered her cabinet, with a soft smile; she drew near to a table which stood by the window, and gazed at a beautiful landscape, and the crayons, etc., etc., which lay upon it. "He shall think of me from time to time," whispered she. "For his sake I will become an artist and a writer; I will be something more than a neglected queen. He shall see my books upon his table and my paintings on his wall. Will I not then compel him sometimes to think of me with pride?"



CHAPTER XVI.

THE SURPRISE.

The day after the queen-mother's interview with the king, the court was surprised by the intelligence that the physician had mistaken the malady of Louise von Schwerin; that it was not scarlet fever, as had been supposed, but some simple eruption, from which she was now entirely restored.

The little maiden appeared again amongst her companions, and there was no change in her appearance, except a slight pallor. No one was more amazed at her sudden recovery than Louise. With watchful suspicion, she remarked that the queen-mother had resumed her gracious and amiable manner toward her, and seemed entirely to have forgotten the events of the last few days; her accusations and suspicions seemed quieted as if by a stroke of magic. In the beginning, Louise believed that this was a trap laid for her, she was therefore perpetually on her guard; she did not enter the garden, and was well pleased that Fritz Wendel had the prudence and forbearance never to walk to and fro by her chamber, and never to place in her window the beautiful flowers which she had been wont to find there every morning. In a short time Louise became convinced that she was not watched, that there were no spies about her path; that she was, in fact, perfectly at liberty to come and go as she pleased. She resumed her thoughtless manner and childish dreamings, walked daily in the garden, and took refuge in the green-house. Strange to say, she never found her beautiful Fritz, never met his glowing, eloquent eyes, never caught even a distant view of his handsome figure. This sudden disappearance of her lover made her restless and unhappy, and kindled the flame of love anew. Louise, who in the loneliness and neglect of her few days of confinement, had become almost ashamed of her affair with Fritz Wendel, and begun to repent of her foolish love, now excited by the obstacles in her path, felt the whole strength of her passion revive, and was assured of her eternal constancy.

"I will overcome all impediments," said this young girl, "and nothing shall prevent me from playing my romance to the end. Fritz Wendel loves me more passionately than any duke or baron will ever love me; he has been made a prisoner because of his love for me, and that is the reason I see him no more. But I will save him; I will set him at liberty, and then I will flee with him, far, far away into the wide, wide world where no one shall mock at our love."

With such thoughts as these she returned from her anxious search in the garden. As she entered her room, she saw upon her table a superb bouquet, just such a tribute as her loved Fritz had offered daily at her shrine before the queen's unfortunate discovery. With a loud cry of joy, she rushed to the table, seized the flowers, and pressed them to her lips; she then sought in the heart of her bouquet for the little note which she had ever before found concealed there.

Truly this bouquet contained also a love-letter, a very tender, glowing love-letter, in which Fritz Wendel implored her to fly with him; to carry out their original plan, and flee with him to Oranienburg, where they would be married by the priest who had been won over by the Prince Augustus William. To-day, yes, this evening at nine o'clock must the flight take place.

Louise did not hesitate an instant; she was resolved to follow the call of her beloved. A court ball was to take place this evening, and Louise von Schwerin must appear in the suite of the queen; she must find some plausible excuse and remain at home. As the hour for the queen's morning promenade approached, Louise became so suddenly ill that she was forced to ask one of the maids of honor to make her excuses, to return to her room, and lay herself upon the bed.

The queen came herself to inquire after her health, and manifested so much sympathy, so much pity, that Louise was fully assured, and accepted without suspicion the queen's proposal that she should give up the ball, and remain quietly in her room. Louise had now no obstacle to fear; she could make her preparations for flight without interruption.

The evening came. She heard the carriages rolling away with the queen and her suite. An indescribable anxiety oppressed this young girl. The hour of decision was at hand. She felt a maidenly trembling at the thought of her rash imprudence, but the hour was striking—the hour of romantic flight, the hour of meeting with her fond lover.

It seemed to her as if she saw the imploring eyes of Fritz ever before her—as if she heard his loving, persuasive voice. Forgetting all consideration and all modesty, she wrapped herself in her mantle, and drawing the hood tightly over her head, she hastened with flying feet through the corridors and down the steps to the front door of the palace. With a trembling heart she stepped into the street.

Unspeakable terror took possession of her. "What if he was not there? What if this was a plot, a snare laid for her feet? But no, no!" She saw a tall and closely-muffled figure crossing the open square, and coming directly to her. She could not see his face, but it was surely him. Now he was near her. He whispered the signal word in a low, soft tone. With a quaking heart, she gave the answer.

The young man took her cold little hand, and hurried her forward to the corner of the square. There stood the carriage. The stranger lifted her in his arms, and carried her to the carriage, sprang in, and slammed the door. Forward! The carriage seemed forced onward by the wings of the wind. In a few moments the city lay far behind them. In wild haste they flew onward, ever onward. The young man, still closely muffled, sat near to Louise—her lover, soon to be her husband! Neither spoke a word. They were near to each other, with quickly-beating hearts, but silent, still silent.

Louise found this conduct of her lover mysterious and painful. She understood not why he who had been so tender, so passionate, should remain so cold and still by her side. She felt that she must fly far, far away from this unsympathizing lover, who had no longer a word for her, no further assurances of love. Yes, he despised her because she had followed him, no longer thought her worthy of his tenderness. As this thought took possession of her, she gave a fearful shriek, and springing up from her seat, she seized the door, and tried to open it and jump out. The strong hand of her silent lover held her back.

"We have not yet arrived, mademoiselle," whispered he.

Louise felt a cold shudder pass over her. Fritz Wendel call her mademoiselle! and the voice sounded cold and strange. Anxiously, silently, she sank back in the carriage. Her searching glance was fixed upon her companion, but the night was dark. She could see nothing but the mysteriously muffled figure. She stretched out her small hands toward him, as if praying for help. He seized them, and pressed them to his heart and lips, but he remained silent. He did not clasp her in his arms as heretofore; he whispered no tender, passionate assurances in her ear. The terror of death overcame Louise. She clasped her hands over her face, and wept aloud. He heard her piteous sobs, and was still silent, and did not seek to comfort her.

Onward went the flying wheels. The horses had been twice changed in order to reach the goal more quickly. Louise wept without ceasing. Exhausted by terror, she thought her death was near. Twice tortured by this ominous silence, she had dared to say a few low, sobbing words to her companion, but he made no reply.

At last the carriage stopped. "We have arrived," he whispered to Louise, sprang from the carriage, and lifted her out.

"Where are we?" she said, convinced that she had been brought to a prison, or some secret place of banishment.

"We are in Oranienburg, and there is the church where the preacher awaits us." He took her arm hastily, and led her into the church. The door was opened, and as Louise stepped upon the threshold, she felt her eyes blinded by the flood of light upon the altar. She saw the priest with his open book, and heard the solemn sounds of the organ. The young man led Louise forward, but not to the altar; he entered first into the sacristy. There also wax lights were burning, and on the table lay a myrtle wreath and a lace veil.

"This is your bridal wreath and veil," said the young man, who still kept the hood of his cloak drawn tightly over his face. He unfastened and removed Louise's mantle, and handed her the veil and wreath. Then he threw back his hood, and removed his cloak. Louise uttered a cry of amazement and horror. He who stood before her was not her lover, was not the gardener Fritz Wendel, but a strange young officer in full-dress uniform!

"Forgive me," said he, "that I have caused you so much suffering to-day, but the king commanded me to remain silent, and I did so. We are here in obedience to the king, and he commanded me to hand you this letter before our marriage. It was written by his own hand." Louise seized the royal letter hastily. It was laconic, but the few words it contained filled the heart of the little maiden with shame. The letter contained these lines:

"As you are resolved, without regard to circumstances, to marry, out of consideration for your family I will fulfil your wish. The handsome gardener-boy is not in a condition to become your husband, he being now confined in a madhouse. I have chosen for you a gallant young officer, of good family and respectable fortune, and I have commanded him to marry you. If he pleases you, the priest will immediately perform the marriage ceremony, and you will follow your husband into his garrison at Brandenburg. If you refuse him, the young officer, Von Cleist, has my command to place you again in the carriage, and take you to your mother. There you will have time to meditate upon your inconsiderate boldness. FREDERICK II."

Louise read the letter of the king again and again; she then fixed her eyes upon the young man who stood before her, and who gazed at her with a questioning and smiling face. She saw that he was handsome, young, and charming, and she confessed that this rich uniform was more attractive than the plain, dark coat of the gardener-boy Fritz Wendel. She felt that the eyes of the young cavalier were as glowing and as eloquent as those of her old love.

"Well," said he, laughing, "have you decided, mademoiselle? Do you consider me worthy to be the envied and blessed husband of the enchanting and lovely Louise von Schwerin, or will you cruelly banish me and rob me of this precious boon?"

She gazed down deep into his eyes and listened to his words breathlessly. His voice was so soft and persuasive, not harsh and rough like that of Fritz Wendel, it fell like music on her ear.

"Well," repeated the young Von Cleist, "will you be gracious, and accept me for your husband?"

"Would you still wish to marry me, even if the king had not commanded it?"

"I would marry you in spite of the king and the whole world," said Von Cleist. "Since I have seen you, I love you dearly."

Louise reached him her hand.

"Well, then," she said, "let us fulfil the commands of the king. He commands us to marry. We will commence with that: afterwards we will see if we can love each other without a royal command."

The young captain kissed her hand, and placed the myrtle wreath upon her brow.

"Come, the priest is waiting, and I long to call you my bride."

He led the young girl of fourteen to the altar. The priest opened the holy book, and performed the marriage ceremony.

At the same hour, in the chapel of the king's palace, another wedding took place. Laura von Pannewitz and Count Voss stood before the altar. The king himself conducted Laura, and Queen Elizabeth gave her hand to Count Voss. The entire court had followed the bridal pair, and all were witnesses to this solemn contract. Only one was absent—the Prince Augustus William was not there.

While Laura von Pannewitz stood above in the palace chapel, swearing eternal constancy to Count Voss, the prince stood below at the castle gate, waiting for her descent. But the hour had long passed, and she came not. A dark fear and torturing anguish came over him.

Had the king discovered their plan? Was it he who held Laura back, or had she herself forgotten her promise? Was she unfaithful to her oath?

The time still flew, and she came not. Trembling with scorn, anguish, and doubt, he mounted the castle steps, determined to search through the saloons, and, at all risks, to draw near his beloved. Driven by the violence of his love, he had almost determined to carry her off by force.

Throwing off his mantle, he stepped into the anteroom. No man regarded him. Every eye was turned toward the great saloon. The prince entered. The whole court circle, which were generally scattered through the adjoining rooms, now forced themselves into this saloon—it glittered and shimmered with diamonds, orders, and gold and silver embroidery.

The prince saw nothing of all this. He saw only the tall, pallid girl, who stood in the middle of the room with the sweeping bridal veil and the myrtle wreath in her hair.

Yes, it was her—Laura von Pannewitz—and near her stood the young, smiling Count Voss. What did all this mean? Why was his beloved so splendidly attired? Why was the royal family gathered around her? Why was the queen kissing even now his beautiful Laura, and handing her this splendid diamond diadem? Why did Count Voss press the king's hand, which was that moment graciously extended to him, to his lips?

Prince Augustus William understood nothing of all this. He felt as if bewildered by strange and fantastic dreams. With distended, glassy eyes he stared upon the newly wedded pair who were now receiving the congratulations of the court.

But the king's sharp glance had observed him, and rapidly forcing his way through the crowd of courtiers, he drew near to the prince. "A word with you, brother," said the king; "come, let us go into my cabinet." The prince followed him, bewildered—scarcely conscious. "And now, my brother," said the king, as the door closed behind him, "show yourself worthy of your kingly calling and of your ancestors; show that you deserve to be the ruler of a great people; show that you know how to govern yourself! Laura von Pannewitz can never be yours; she is the wife of Count Voss!" The prince uttered so piercing, so heartrending a cry, that the king turned pale, and an unspeakable pity took possession of his soul. "Be brave, my poor brother; what you suffer, that have I also suffered, and almost every one who is called by Fate to fill an exalted position has the same anguish to endure. A prince has not the right to please himself—he belongs to the people and to the world's history, and to both these he must be ever secondary."

"It is not true, it is not possible!" stammered the prince. "Laura can never belong to another! she is mine! betrothed to me by the holiest of oaths, and she shall be mine in spite of you and of the whole world! I desire no crown, no princely title; I wish only Laura, only my Laura! I say it is not true that she is the wife of Count Voss!"

"It is true," whispered a soft, tearful, choking voice, just behind him. The prince turned hastily; the sad eye of Laura, full of unspeakable love, met his wild glance. Queen Elizabeth, according to an understanding with the king, had led the young Countess Voss into this apartment, and then returned with a light step to the adjoining room.

"I will grant to your unhappy love, my brother, one last evening glow," said the king. "Take a last, sad farewell of your declining sun; but forget not that when the sun has disappeared, we have still the stars to shine upon us, though, alas! they have no warmth and kindle no flowers into life." The king bowed, and followed his wife into the next room. The prince remained alone with Laura.

What was spoken and sworn in this last sad interview no man ever knew. In the beginning, the king, who remained in the next room, heard the raging voice of the prince uttering wild curses and bitter complaints; then his tones were softer and milder, and touchingly mournful. In half an hour the king entered the cabinet. The prince stood in the middle of the room, and Laura opposite to him. They gazed into each other's wan and stricken faces with steady, tearless eyes; their hands were clasped. "Farewell, my prince," said Laura, with a firm voice; "I depart IMMEDIATELY with my husband; we will never meet again!"

"Yes, we will meet again," said the prince, with a weary smile; "we will meet again in another and a better world: I will be there awaiting you, Laura!" They pressed each other's hands, then turned away.

Laura stepped into the room where Count Voss was expecting her. "Come, my husband," she said; "I am ready to follow you, and be assured I will make you a faithful and submissive wife."

"Brother," said Prince Augustus William, extending his hand to the king, "I struggle no more. I will conform myself to your wishes, and marry the Princess of Brunswick."



CHAPTER XVII.

THE RESIGNATION OF BARON POLLNITZ.

The morning after the ball, Pollnitz entered the cabinet of the king; he was confused and sat down, and that happened to him which had never before happened—he was speechless. The king's eyes rested upon him with an ironical and contemptuous expression.

"I believe you are about to confess your sins, Pollnitz, and make me your father confessor. You have the pitiful physiognomy of a poor sinner."

"Sire, I would consent to be a sinner, but I am bitterly opposed to being a poor sinner."

"Ah! debts again; again in want!" cried the king. "I am weary of this everlasting litany, and I forbid you to come whining to me again with your never-ending necessities; the evil a man brings upon himself he must bear; the dangers which he involuntary incurs, he must conquer himself."

"Will not your majesty have the goodness to assist me, to reach me a helping hand and raise me from the abyss into which my creditors have cast me?"

"God forbid that I should waste the gold upon a Pollnitz which I need for my brave soldiers and for cannon!" said the king, earnestly.

"Then, sire," said Pollnitz, in a low and hesitating tone, "I must beg you to give me my dismissal."

"Your dismissal! Have you discovered in the moon a foolish prince who will pay a larger sum for your miserable jests and malicious scandals and railings than the King of Prussia?"

"Not in the moon, sire, is such a mad individual to be found, but in a Dutch realm; however, I have found no such prince, but a beautiful young maiden, who will be only too happy to be the Baroness Pollnitz, and pay the baron's debts."

"And this young girl is not sent to a mad-house?" said the king; "perhaps the house of the Baron von Pollnitz is considered a house of correction, and she is sent there to be punished for her follies. Has the girl who is rich enough to pay the debts of a Pollnitz no guardian?"

"Father and mother both live, sire; and both receive me joyfully as their son. My bride dwells in Nuremberg, and is the daughter of a distinguished patrician family."

"And she buys you," said the king, "because she considers you the most enchanting of all Nuremberger toys! As for your dismissal, I grant it to you with all my heart. Seat yourself and write as I shall dictate."

He looked toward the writing-table, and Pollnitz, obeying his command, took his seat and arranged his pen and paper. The king, with his arms folded across his back, walked slowly up and down the room.

"Write! I will give you a dismissal, and also a certificate of character and conduct."

The king dictated to the trembling and secretly enraged baron the following words:

"We, Frederick II., make known, that Baron Pollnitz, born in Berlin, and, so far as we believe, of an honorable family, page to our sainted grandfather, of blessed memory, also in the service of the Duke of Orleans, colonel in the Spanish service, cavalry captain in the army of the deceased Emperor, gentleman-in-waiting to the Pope, gentlemen-in-waiting to the Duke of Brunswick, color-bearer in the service of the Duke of Weimar, gentleman-in-waiting to our sainted father, of ever-blessed memory; lastly, and at last, master of ceremonies in our service;—said Baron Pollnitz, overwhelmed by this stream of military and courtly honors which had been thrust upon him, and thereby weary of the vanities of this wicked world; misled, also, by the evil example of Monteulieu, who, a short time ago, left the court, now entreats of us to grant him his dismissal, and an honorable testimony as to his good name and service. After thoughtful consideration, we do not find it best to refuse him the testimony he has asked for. As to the most important service which he rendered to the court by his foolish jests and INCONSISTENCIES, and the pastimes and distractions which he prepared for nine years for the amusement of our ever-blessed father, we do not hesitate to declare that, during the whole time of his service at court, he was not a street-robber nor a cut-purse, nor a poisoner; that he did not rob young women nor do them any violence; that he has not roughly attacked the honor of any man, but, consistently with his birth and lineage, behaved like a man of gallantry; that he has consistently made use of the talents lent to him by Heaven, and brought before the public, in a merry and amusing way, that which is ridiculous and laughable amongst men, no doubt with the same object which lies at the bottom of all theatrical representations, that is, to improve the race. Said baron has also steadily followed the counsel of Bacchus with regard to frugality and temperance, and he has carried his Christian love so far, that he has left wholly to the PEASANTS that part of the Evangelists which teaches that 'To give is more blessed than to receive.' He knows all the anecdotes concerning our castles and pleasure resorts, and has indelibly imprinted upon his memory a full list of all our old furniture and silver; above all things, he understands how to make himself indispensable and agreeable to those who know the malignity of his spirit and his cold heart."

"As, however, in the most fruitful regions waste and desert spots are to be found, as the most beautiful bodies have their deformities, and the greatest painters are not without faults, so will we deal gently and considerately with the follies and sins of this much-talked-of baron; we grant him, therefore, though unwillingly, the desired dismissal. In addition to this, we abolish entirely this office so worthily filled by said baron, and wish to blot out the remembrance of it from the memory of man; holding that no other man can ever fill it satisfactorily." "FREDERICK II."



THE END.