"Cousin Frederick William," she asked merrily, "where do you come from, and why do you scream so fearfully?"

"Have I frightened you, Cousin Louisa Henrietta?" he asked, extending both hands to her in greeting.

"Not me, cousin, but Hulda," she returned, holding out her little hands. "You must know, cousin, Hulda is very scary, and it comes from her being sad."

"Who is Hulda? The smart dairymaid there?"

"Hey, God forbid, cousin! How can you think that dairymaid could be scared? No, Hulda is my pretty white cow, and she is sad because she has lost her little calf. I am not to blame for it, and I told my poor Hulda that, too, and as she lowed so piteously I wept with her heartily and comforted her."

"But why did you let them take away her little calf? Why did you suffer it? Is it not your own cow?"

"Understand, it is my own cow," replied the little girl, seriously. "My good aunt, the Electress, has made me a present of it, that I may have some pleasure when I come here to Doornward, and it makes me feel as if I were at home. For you must know, cousin, that I have a regular dairy at The Hague."

"No, cousin, I did not know it," said the Electoral Prince, while he looked kindly into the lovely, rosy countenance of the little Princess Louisa Henrietta of Orange.

"You do not know that?" she cried, clapping her little hands together in astonishment. "Yes, I have a dairy—three cows, who belong to myself alone, and for which papa has had built a stable of their own, which is very grand and splendid. And next to the stable is a room for the milk and butter. O cousin! I tell you, it is splendid! The next time you come to us at The Hague, send for me, and I will show you my cows in their stable, and if you are right good, you shall have a glass of milk from my favorite cow."

"Many thanks!" cried the Electoral Prince, laughing. "But I am no friend of warm milk, and understand nothing whatever of farming."

"Well, why should you?" said the Princess gravely. "You are a man, and men have something else to do; they must go to war and govern countries. But women must understand management and know how to keep house."

"So? Must they that?" laughed the Prince. "Common women, indeed, but you, Louisa, you are a Princess."

"But a Princess of Holland, cousin, and my mother has told me that the Princesses of Holland must seek their greatest renown in becoming wise and prudent housewives, and understanding farming thoroughly, in order that all the rest of the women of Holland may learn from them. My mother says that a Prince of Holland should be the first servant of the Sovereign States, but a Princess of Holland should be the first housekeeper of the Dutch people, and the more skillful she is the more will the people love her. And therefore I shall try to be right skillful, for I shall be so glad if our good people would love me a little."

"Would you, indeed?" asked the Electoral Prince, quite moved by the lovely countenance and the heartfelt tone of the little girl. "Would you be glad if the people loved you a little? Well, I promise you, Cousin Louisa Henrietta, they will love you, and whoever shall look into your good, truthful eyes will feel himself fortunate and glad, just as I do now. Keep your beautiful eyes, Louisa, and your innocence and harmlessness, and be a good housewife, then your people will love you very much. But tell me, cousin, for whom is that wreath which is hanging on your arm?"

"For my beautiful cow; but if you will have it I will give it to you, and—no," she broke off, abashed and reddening, "no, forgive me, dear Cousin Frederick William; I shall not give you a wreath which I destined only for an animal. I shall fix it so," she cried, with a lovely smile, "I shall take this wreath to my Hulda, and to you, cousin, I shall give my own wreath."

She hastily tore the wreath from her own locks, and raising herself on tiptoe tried with uplifted arm to place it on the Prince's head, but he stayed her hand.

"No, cousin," he said; "that must be done properly. You are a lady, a Princess, and if you crown a knight, then let him bow the knee before you."

And he bent his knee before her, and looked up at her smilingly and joyously. "Crown me, Cousin Louisa Henrietta," he said, with ceremonial pathos—"crown me and give me a device."

The little maiden held the crown thoughtfully in her hand, her large blue eyes fixed upon the smiling countenance before her with an earnest, meditative expression.

"Well," he said, "why do you not give me the wreath? And what are you thinking of?"

"Of a motto, cousin," she replied seriously; "for you told me I must give you a device. But I am only a silly little girl, and you must bear with me. Mother said yesterday to me that the best motto she could give for everyday use is this, 'Be a good woman.' Now I think, if it were rightly changed and turned, it would suit you."

And with charming determination she pressed the wreath upon the Prince's dark locks, and then laid both her hands upon his head.

"Be a good man," she said, "yes, Electoral Prince Frederick William, be a good man."

The smile had suddenly vanished from the Prince's countenance, and given place to a deep earnestness. "Yes," he said solemnly, "I promise you I shall be a good man." And just as he said this the cow bellowed aloud, and Princess Louisa turned her looks upon her and nodded pleasantly.

"Look you, cousin," she said, "Hulda, too, gives you her blessing, and do not laugh at it, for God speaks in all that live; the flowers and beasts emanate from him as well as men. And if man does not do his duty, and is not good and diligent, then God does not love him, and the flower which blooms and the cow that gives milk are dearer to him, for they do their duty. But see, the milkmaid is ready, and now, Cousin Frederick William, now I must go to the milkroom and measure the milk into the pans, and I will tell you, but nobody else shall know, I secretly take a quart cup full of milk, and take it to the calves' stable to the calf, from my Hulda. It ought not, indeed, to drink milk any longer, but be an independent creature, eating hay and chewing the cud, but it will just feel that the milk comes from its own mother, and be glad. Farewell, Cousin Frederick William, I must be gone."

She was about to slip away, but the Electoral Prince held her fast. "No," he said, "not so cursory shall be our leave-taking, my darling little heavenly flower. Who knows when we shall meet again?"

"You are not going away yet, cousin?" she asked, stroking his cheeks with both her little hands. "Ah! they told me that your father would by no means allow you to remain here any longer, and I was so sorry that it made me cry."

"Why did it make you sorry, Cousin Louisa?" asked the Electoral Prince, drawing the little maiden to himself.

She leaned her little head upon his shoulder. "I do not know," she said, looking at him with her great blue eyes. "I believe I love you so much because you are always so good and friendly to me, and have often talked and played with me, and not laughed at me when I told you about my animals. I thank you for it, my dear, good cousin, and I shall love you as long as I live."

"And I, my dear, good cousin, I thank you for the motto which you have given me, and I shall think of it and of you as long as I live. Yes, my dear child, I will be a good man, and do you know, little Louisa," he continued, smiling, "whenever I am in trouble and danger, I shall think of you and pray, 'God and all ye innocent angels on high, have pity on the innocent and good! Amen!'"

He pressed a fervent kiss on the child's forehead, nodded smilingly to her, took the wreath from his head to conceal it in his bosom, and then strode away with light, quick steps. The child looked thoughtfully after him with her large blue starry eyes, as if lost in thought, until the slender, athletic form of the young man had vanished behind the trees. "How does he know my prayer?" she whispered softly, "and why did he smile as he repeated it? Ah! surely Cousin Ludovicka has told him what a timid little coward I was last night. But hark! Hulda is lowing. Yes, yes, I am coming now!"

And the little girl flew across the grassplot, and flung both her arms around the animal's neck, and stroked and coaxed it, calling it pet names, and telling it of its beautiful calf, to which she would forthwith carry some milk. And the cow lowed no more, but looked with its big intelligent eyes into the child's face.



V.—MEDIA NOCTE.

"The gods have come down from Olympus! The gods greet the earth! They greet beauty! They greet youth! They greet wisdom and the arts! The gods greet the earth! Long live the gods! Live Venus, the mother of love! Long live Minerva, the unapproachable virgin, full of wisdom! Long live Zeus, the god of gods, men transformed into gods, and gods into men! Olympus live on earth!"

So sang they and rejoiced in triumphant chorus, and high above from the clouds pealed forth music, and from thicket and shrubbery sounded sweet songs, dying away in gentle whispers. Then all was still, for the gods, who had traversed the halls in dazzling procession, had now taken their places at the long rose-crowned tables. An Olympic festival was being solemnized that evening in the Media Nocte. Earth was forsaken now, and the children of earth found themselves again on Olympus, changed to gods. Those were not the drawing rooms in which they had been wont to assemble, commingling in cheerful pastimes, in hilarious merriment, these people clad in light Greek robes. No, this was cloud-capped Olympus, this was heaven upon earth; rose-colored, luminous clouds encircled the space, and behind them the galleries which ran round the hall had vanished. Instead of the ceiling usually bounding this vast room, they now looked up to the deep blue sky, and star after star twinkled there, and filled the apartment with soft mild light. And not in a hall furnished with chairs and divans did they find themselves this evening, but in a monstrous grotto in the heart of Olympus—a grotto of sparkling, glittering mountain crystal, bright and transparent as silver gauze, and behind this a magical moving to and fro of beauteous human shapes, of genii and Cupids. Only the long table in the middle of the grotto reminded of earth, or maybe the home of heathen gods.

For, like the children of earth, the gods on Olympus used to carouse and drink, and, like the children of men, did they enjoy fullness of food and luscious wine. Golden goblets, wreathed with roses, stood before the silver plates loaded with fruits and tempting viands. In crystal flasks sparkled the golden wine, in silver vases the gay-colored flowers exhaled their sweets. Luxurious cushions, soft as swan's down, spangled and silvery as were the clouds which stooped from heaven, lined both sides of the long table, and on them the gods and goddesses had just sank in blissful silence, gazing on the glorious place, and rejoicing that men are gods and gods are men! There, on high, sits Zeus on golden throne, and Ganymede, the beautiful boy, stands near and hands him on golden dishes the fragrant ambrosia, and Hebe, the lovely, childlike maid, hovers about, and presents in crystal cups the gleaming purple wine, glistening like gold. Juno, the radiant queen of heaven, sits beside Zeus; and as if woven of silvery clouds and stars seems the garment that lightly and loosely envelops but does not hide the wondrous shape. A light cloud of silver gauze covers her countenance, as that of all the other goddesses.

But now, as all rest in silence, these gods and goddesses, now rises Zeus from his golden throne and bows to both sides, greeting.

"At the table of the gods must be enthroned Truth, the purest, most chaste of all the goddesses, and at her side the wisest, most puissant Genius, the Genius of Silence!" calls out Zeus, with far-resounding voice. "Do you admit that, ye gods and goddesses?"

"We admit it!" call out all in exulting chorus.

"You gods, swear by all that is sacred to you in heaven and upon earth that you will present this evening as a thank offering in sacrifice to the Genius of Silence! That never will pass your lips what your eyes see, never will your eyes betray the memory that shall dwell within your hearts!"

"We swear it by all that is sacred in heaven and upon earth!" cry the gods.

"Ye goddesses all, ye have heard!" cries Zeus, the enthroned. "Now do homage to Truth, as she to the Genius of Silence! Away with falsehood and deceit! Away with your masks!"

And the plump, wanton arms of the goddesses are raised, and the rosy-fingered hands tear the silvery veils from their heads and cast them triumphantly behind them, and triumphantly the gods greet the beaming countenances of the goddesses, their sparkling eyes and rosy lips, the haunts of sweet, seductive smiles.

"Long live the gods and goddesses of Olympus! No earthly memories cleave to them; if perchance they have borne earthly names, who knows it, who remembers it? The present only belongs to the gods—this hour is one of precious joy."

Only those two sitting there at the table of the gods, arm linked in arm, only they remember, for not alone the present but the future, too, belongs to them. The gods and goddesses call the two Venus and Endymion, but they, in tender whispers, call each other Ludovicka and Frederick. No one disturbs himself about them, no one notices the happy pair, and they observe and regard no one, for they are thinking only of themselves.

"Oh, my beloved," whispers the Prince, "how stale and insipid seems this fantastic feast to me to-night! Once it would have charmed me, and would have been to me as embodied poesy. But to-night it leaves me cold and empty, and I feel that the true and real contain in themselves the highest poetry."

"You are indeed right, my Endymion," says she softly—"you are indeed right: love is the highest poetry, and he who possesses the true and real needs not the fantastic semblance. Still, this is a feast of gods; therefore let us enjoy it with glad hearts and swelling joy. For is it not our wedding feast, and are not all these gods and goddesses unwittingly solemnizing the hymeneal of our love? Rejoice then, my darling, rejoice and sing with the convivial, open your heart to the ravishing hour, drink into thy soul the delight and rapture of the gods!"

A shadow stole over Endymion's high, clear brow, and he gently shook his head. "I love you so deeply and truly that I can not be merry in this hour," he said thoughtfully; "and this wild tumult and this uproarious joy seem not to me like a glorification of our love, but rather its profanation. Ah! my dear love, would that I were alone with you in the open air, beneath the broad high arch of heaven, instead of here beneath this artificial one; would that we sat hand in hand in one of those quiet shady spots in your park, where I could pour into your ear the holy secrets of my heart and tell you sweet stories of our love, and you should listen to me with tranquil, reverent heart, and you and I would solemnize together a glorious feast divine, more glorious than this mad joy can furnish us! He who is happy flees noisy pleasures, and he who loves ardently and truthfully longs for quiet and solitude, to meditate upon his love."

"We shall be solitary and alone, my Frederick, when we belong to one another—when nothing more can separate us, when we shall no more have to meet under the veil of secrecy, no more have to conceal the fair, divine reality under borrowed tinsel! You know, love, to-night we flee."

"God be praised! to-night will make you forever mine, and nothing then can separate us but death alone!"

"Speak not of death while life encircles us with all its charms! Be cheerful, my beloved—be happy, my Endymion. We celebrate the godly feast of love, and yet is it only the foretaste of our bliss. Yield yourself to the delights of the moment, drink from the golden goblet of joy, my Endymion!"

"Yes, I will drink, drink, for Venus drinks with me."

"She hands you, Endymion, the flower-crowned goblet! Drink! drink! drink! Enjoy the moment! Taste the pleasures of this hour! But think of the coming hour which is to consummate our bliss!"

"When will it be, beloved? And where shall I meet you?"

"When all is bustle and stir and singing, then let my Endymion descend from Olympus and repair to the grotto of rocks close by. To the left of the entrance he will find a cavern. Let him go in and there find his white garments; put them on and wait. All the rest follows of itself."

"And you, my heart—will you, too, follow of yourself?"

"Follow of myself and fetch Endymion!"

Music sent forth sweet strains, and from the rosy clouds the chorus of Cupids greeted the gods with songs of rejoicing.

After the singing the Muses entered, winding round the table, quoting far-famed songs and praising the arts, which they protected. And suddenly the starry sky above became obscure, and twilight reigned. Only behind the crystalline walls it shone bright and ever brighter, and in sunshine splendor emerged the antique marble statues of the gods, and walked and moved, endowed with flesh and growing life. Music resounded and bands of Cupids sang; again the hall was lighted up, the tables at which the gods had reclined vanished, geniuses hovered about, strewing the ground with fragrant flowers, and in glad confusion mingled gods and goddesses, heroes and demigods, with sparkling eyes and beating hearts. They poetized and sang, praised the gods, and laughed and shouted, "Long live the Media Nocte! Long live those great minds and noble hearts which belong to it!" And all was bustle, stir, and song!

Endymion forsook Olympus, entered the nearest grotto amid the rocks, and slipped into the little cavern to the left. Venus was still in the hall. To her came Hercules and softly whispered, "All is ready!"

"But where? Tell me, where? It seems to me like a dream! You see how I trust you, for without question have I done everything just as the paper directed. Here I am, in the Media Nocte, and know not at all what remains to be done!"

"The marriage ceremony and flight, fair Venus! Listen, however, to this one thing! In close proximity to this house, as you well know, stands the hotel of the French embassy. Well, gracious lady, walls can be leveled, and my enchanter Ducato can turn them into doors! Repair to the grotto hall and the cavern on the right. There will Venus be transformed into the Princess Ludovicka, and still be Venus! Then cross over to the cavern on the left, where, instead of Endymion, waits the Electoral Prince. She gives him her hand! My enchanter Ducato sees it, and all the rest takes care of itself. Only follow the god within your own breast! Only one thing more, Princess! Be Venus to him, and ravish his heart and soul, that he may not delay to sign the contract and inquire into its contents."

"Be not uneasy," smiles Venus proudly; "he will sign anything to be able to call me his."

Louder resound the peals of music, and all the gods sing and laugh and jest and shout. And the Bacchantes swing to and fro their ivy-wreathed staves, and their mouths with ecstasy pour forth their stammering songs of mirth! Venus has soared away! But no one observes it. Each is his own deity, here in the Media Nocte. Oh, blessed night of the gods! Forget that the wretched day of man will return in the morning! Louder resound the strains of music, and all is bustle, stir, and song there in Olympus!

From the cavern on the right steps forth the Princess Ludovicka in white satin robe, a myrtle wreath twined in her hair, and behind her sweeps her veil like a silver cloud. Venus! Venus ever! full of sweet enchantment!

She goes to the cavern on the left, and gently knocks. The door springs open, and she enters. It is bright within, and the Electoral Prince, in gold-embroidered suit, comes to meet her with beaming eyes, looks upon her radiant with happiness, and sinks down at her feet. Endymion! Endymion ever! Enchained by sweet magic! A door flies open; nobody has opened it, but there it is. The Electoral Prince jumps up and offers the Princess his hand. Neither of the two speaks, for their hearts are beating overloud.

The merry music and uproarious shouts of the gods on Olympus penetrate to them even in the stillness of the cave, but through the open door other sounds steal near. Solemn, long-drawn organ peals are heard, uniting in the melody of a pious choral. How strangely blended within that narrow space those exultant songs and those organ tones! The young lovers hear only the notes of the organ, and hand in hand move toward the sound.

A small pleasure boat receives them, flowers and myrtle trees line the banks, and inviting and alluring the organ calls them. Light glimmers at the end of the passage, and the lovers go toward it. They enter a large wide room! Solemn silence reigns here. At the farther end is a small altar. On it burn tall wax tapers, and before it, in full canonicals, stands the priest, prayer book in hand. At his sides are two gentlemen in simple, somber dress.

Farther forward, nearer the center of the hall, is a table hung with green, on which lie several papers and implements of writing, and near it is a notary in his official garb, again attended by several men. To all this Prince Frederick William gives but one brief glance, then turns his eyes once more upon his beloved, standing at his side, radiant in beauty and enticingly sweet. The jubilant songs of Olympus yet ring in their ears, the images of the gods yet flame and flaunt before their eyes.

"How beautiful you are, beloved Ludovicka! My Electoral Princess! come, let us go to the altar! Oh, your good, kind friends! How I thank them! How well they have arranged everything! Come! You see, the priest is waiting!"

"Not yet, beloved! For you see before the priest stands the notary, and my good friends will have us go through all the formalities of legal marriage. Before we are married we must sign the contract!"

"The contract of love is written in our hearts alone. What need for the intervention of signatures on paper? And how can strangers know what we alone can settle with one another? I swear unswerving love and fidelity to my Electoral Princess, and that requires no written confirmation. Come to the altar, dearest!"

He endeavors to draw her forward, but Ludovicka flings her arm about his neck and holds him back. "Beloved," she whispers, "the contract which we sign concerns not us, but the benevolent, mighty friends, who have lent us their aid, and will help us still further. Ah! without these noble friends our flight would have been wholly impossible, and we would have been separated for ever! To-morrow I would have been the bride of the Prince of Hesse, and your father would already have found means to compel your return home. Ah! beloved, they would have separated us, if our noble friends had not helped us. They have prepared everything, cared for everything. As soon as we are married, we shall journey away to our safe asylum, and there, under the protection of friends, be sheltered and secure. For such love and devotion we must be grateful, must we not?"

"Certainly, that we must, and shall be gladly, beloved of my heart! Let them say how we can prove our gratitude, and certainly it shall be done!"

"They have said it, and written it down in the contract. Come, dearest, we will sign it, and then to the altar."

She throws her arm around his neck, she draws him to the table where stands the notary with his witnesses. She hands him the pen and looks at him with a sweet smile.

Venus! Venus ever!

But he? He is no longer Endymion! He is the Electoral Prince Frederick William! And strange! like a dream, like a greeting from afar, conies stealing to his ears, "Be a good man."

"Take the pen and sign!" whispers Venus, with glowing looks of love.

He lays down the pen. "I must know what I sign. Read it, Sir Notary!"

The notary bows low and reads: "In friendship and devotion to the Electoral Prince Frederick William of Brandenburg and his spouse, born Princess Ludovicka Hollandine of the Palatinate, we grant them an undisturbed asylum in our territories, promise to protect and defend them with all our power, to grant them, besides, maintenance and support, paying to the Electoral Prince of Brandenburg yearly subsidies of three hundred thousand livres, until he assumes the reins of government. On his side, the Electoral Prince of Brandenburg pledges himself, so soon as he begins to rule in his own right, to conclude a league with us for twenty years, and never to unite with our enemies against us, but to be true to us in good as also in evil days. Both parties confirm this by their signatures. Count d'Entragues has signed in the name of France."

"France!" cried the Electoral Prince, with loudly ringing voice. "France is the friend who will lend us aid?"

"Yes, Prince, France it is," said Count d'Entragues, approaching the Prince and bowing low before him. "France through me offers to the noble Electoral Prince of Brandenburg protection and an asylum, pays him rich subsidies, and in return requires nothing but his alliance, and, above all things, his friendship. I am happy to offer the friendship and good offices of King Louis XIII and Cardinal Richelieu to the Electoral Prince of Brandenburg and his spouse, and to be permitted to witness the ceremony of their marriage."

"Come, my beloved, sign," whispered Ludovicka, with pleading voice.

But he thrust back the pen, and looked at the Princess with flaming eyes. "Did you know, Princess, that it was France who was to assist us?"

"Certainly I knew it," replied she, with feigned astonishment. "Count d'Entragues himself offered me the assistance of France, and you gave me full powers to conclude all arrangements."

"It is true, so I did," murmured the Prince. "I thought you had reference to a private person, to one of those rich mynheers whom I have met at your house. I told you so, Princess, and you did not contradict me. You left me under the impression that it was a merchant of Holland who was offering his help and protection. From a private citizen I could have accepted aid, for that pledged the man, not the Prince. But from France I can accept no favors, for by such would be pledged and bound the Prince, the future ruler of his land, so that he could not act freely according to his judgment and the requirements of the case, but be subjected to restraint. Sir Count d'Entragues, I shall not sign."

The Princess uttered a shriek and threw both her arms, round him. "If you are serious in that, beloved, then are we lost, for who will help us if France will not?"

"God and ourselves, Ludovicka!"

"God listens not to our entreaties, and we are too weak to help ourselves. Oh, my beloved, prove now that you love me—that your vows are true. I am lost to you and you to me if we do not escape to-night—lost if we accept not France's aid. Look, here is the sheet of paper; our whole future lies on it. I offer it to you, beloved, and with it my life, my love, my happiness. Will you scorn me?"

She held out to him both her trembling hands, and looked at him with glances of entreaty. He returned the look, and a deadly paleness overspread his face. He took the sheet of paper from her hands—she opened her mouth for a cry of joy—then a shrill, rasping sound—he had torn the paper in two, and both pieces fell slowly to the ground.

"That is my answer, so help me God! I can do no otherwise."

A cry sounded from Ludovicka's lips, but it was a cry of horror. She reeled back, as if a fearful blow had struck her, and stared at the Prince with wide-open eyes.

"You reject me with disdain?" she asked in a toneless voice. "You will not flee with me?"

He rushed toward her, cast himself upon his knees before her, kissing her dress and hands with passionate ardor.

"Forgive me, Ludovicka, forgive me! I can not act differently. I can not be a traitor to my country, to my father, to Germany. I can not listen to my heart, with regard to my future, for my future belongs to my people, my native land, not to myself alone. Go home, beloved; be steadfast and courageous, as I shall be, and then we shall conquer destiny itself and win victory for our love."

"Stand up, Electoral Prince of Brandenburg!" she cried imperiously, and with angry glance. "Now answer me, will you accept the help of France, and flee with me?"

He turned away from her with a deep sigh. "No, I shall not accept the help of France."

"Count d'Entragues," said the Princess, with shrill, quivering voice, "you are a gentleman; I place myself under your protection. You will immediately conduct me to Doornward."

The count hastened to her and offered her his hand. She accepted it, and he led her slowly through the vast hall to one of the doors of entrance.

The Electoral Prince looked after her with distorted features and burning eyes. Once he made a movement as if to rush after her, but by a mighty effort he kept his place. Arrived at the door, she paused and turned upon him an earnest, questioning glance; he cast down his eyes before it. Count d'Entragues opened the door—a breathless pause ensued—then the door closed behind her.

The Electoral Prince placed his trembling hand upon his heart, and two tears rolled from his eyes. Violently he shook them away, and turned his head to the notary.

"Sir," he said, in a firm voice—"sir, I beg you to show me the way out. I would go to my palace."



VI.—THE HARDEST VICTORY.

The Electoral Prince had returned home, but he did not sleep the whole night through. The chamberlain, whose room adjoined the Prince's sleeping apartment, had heard him restlessly pacing the floor all night long, at times talking to himself half aloud, and then even weeping and lamenting. In his anguish of heart he had wakened Baron Leuchtmar and the private secretary Mueller, in order to impart to them the melancholy news. Both gentlemen had immediately risen and dressed themselves, and softly approached the door of the princely chamber. They, too, had heard the restless steps, the loud groans and lamentations of the Prince, and his grief had passed into their own hearts. As they looked at each other, each observed tears in the eyes of the other, and with quivering lips both whispered, "Poor young man! he must have some great grief! He suffers a great deal!"

"You must go to him, Leuchtmar," whispered Mueller. "You must ask what ails him, and try to comfort him."

The baron mournfully shook his head. "My dear Mueller," he said, "have you ever been in love?"

"No, never!" replied Mueller, in astonishment. "Why do you ask such a question?"

"Because you would then know, friend, that there is no consolation for disappointment in love."

"You think, then, that the Prince is disappointed in love?"

"Certainly, I think so. What other grief can a young Prince of hardly eighteen years have, especially when his heart is engrossed with a glowing passion. The Prince was last night in the Media Nocte, and something peculiar must have occurred there, for he came home unusually early, his custom having been of late not to return home until daybreak, singing and rejoicing."

"Only hear, Leuchtmar, how he sobs and groans! And now! Hush! what does he say?"

Both gentlemen held their breath, and quite distinctly could be heard within the wailing, tear-choked voice of the Prince:

"It is impossible—it is impossible. I can not. No, I can not. The sacrifice is too heavy! My heart will break!"

"Hear him well," whispered Mueller, amid his tears; "he can not make the sacrifice. He will die of grief. My God! go to him, baron. Tell him he need not make the sacrifice. No one can require of him the impossible. Go to him, man! Be humane. My God! only hear how he laments and groans!"

"I hear it, but I can not go in. I do not know his sorrow, and if the Prince needs me he can call me."

"You are a savage," said Mueller desperately. "Well, if you will not comfort him, then shall I go to him."

He stretched out his hand for the door knob, but Baron Leuchtmar held him back, and led the good private secretary back to his own room.

"Let us go to bed, friend," he said; "even if we can not sleep, as is probable, yet we can rest, which is needful for our aged limbs. We can not yet help the Prince; and, believe me, he would never forgive us if we were to go to him unsummoned, thereby betraying that we have been privy to his suffering and his pain. He has a grief, there is no question about that; but he is retiringly modest, and at the same time has a stout heart that will admit no one to share with him a burden he has perhaps imposed upon himself. I am glad of this, Mueller, and I tell you such hours of solitary grief purify the manly heart; in them the old myth is verified, from the fire and ashes of spent sorrows springs up the new-fledged phoenix. Should we prevent our Prince from passing through his purgatory, that he may emerge from the flames as a phoenix and a victorious hero?"

"You may be right," sighed Mueller, "but I only know that he is suffering bitterly."

Baron Leuchtmar smiled sadly. "May these sufferings steel his heart," he said, "that he may be armed against greater and bitterer trials! Come, Mueller, we will to bed, and to sleep."

But, however composedly and resolutely the baron had opposed himself to the suggestions of his soft-hearted colleague, sleep that night forsook his eyes, and ever he heard in imagination the Prince's groans and laments. At times he could hardly repress his longing to get up, to creep to the Prince's door and listen, that he might discover whether he were still awake. But the baron forcibly restrained himself, and finally, as day already began to dawn, he actually fell asleep. He might possibly have slept a few hours, but his servant approached his couch and roused him.

"Baron," he said, "some one is here who urgently desires to speak to you."

"Who, Frederick, who is there?" asked Baron Leuchtmar, quickly rising.

"The chamberlain, Baron von Marwitz, has arrived from Berlin."

"Marwitz, the Elector's first chamberlain?" cried the baron. "Quick, my clothes, quick! Help me to dress myself. Run and tell Baron von Marwitz that I will be at his service directly. But first tell me whether his highness is already visible. Has he already ordered his breakfast?"

"No, baron, I believe all is still quiet in his highness's apartments."

"God be thanked! God be thanked! Now present my compliments to Baron von Marwitz, and then come quickly and help me."

Ten minutes later Baron Kalkhun von Leuchtmar entered the Prince's reception room, where the chamberlain, Baron von Marwitz, awaited him. The two had a long conversation together, Leuchtmar listening with thoughtful mien to Marwitz's narration of the state of affairs at home.

"Marwitz," he said, at the close of their conversation, "we have been good and tried friends from our childhood; I know that the electoral house and our fatherland lie as near to your heart as to my own, and that I can trust you. I therefore tell you, you have come at a fortunate hour, and God sends you! The heart of the Prince is wrung by a mighty sorrow, and he probably knows no way out of his griefs. You will show him one, and if he is actually the aspiring and noble-hearted Prince, whom God has sent for the blessing of his house and the hope of his country, then will he appreciate this way and walk in it. Go to him now, Marwitz, and lay before him candidly and without reserve, as you have done before me, the deplorable condition of things in our native land."

"You will come with me, Leuchtmar, and present me to the Electoral Prince?"

"No, baron. You must suffer yourself to be announced by the chamberlain, for the Prince dismissed me yesterday in wrath. Hush, my friend! say not a word, it is not so bad! The heart of the Prince has reached a crisis in its history which will soon be past, and then, well then, he will call me of himself again. But I shall wait for that. I can not intrude upon him now."

"My friend," sighed Marwitz, "I begin to be afraid. If you do not support me, I will surely fail in my errand, and, like Schlieben, be forced to return disappointed to Berlin."

"I think not. Only be of good courage and speak boldly, as your heart and your love of country dictate."

"Is the Electoral Prince already up?" he asked of the man in waiting, and, as he received nothing but a shrug of the shoulders in reply, Leuchtmar beckoned to him to come nearer, and retired with him into a recess of one of the windows.

"Well, what is it, old Dietrich? You have seen the Electoral Prince already, have you not?"

"Yes, baron. He has not been to bed at all, but still has on the clothes he wore when he went away last night. He is just as pale as a sheet, and his eyes which usually shine so gloriously are to-day quite dim. He called me, and I thought he was about to order breakfast, but no! Something quite different he wanted, and it struck me as peculiarly strange. The Electoral Prince asked me who was on duty this week, I or the second valet, Eberhard? I told him Eberhard, for his week began yesterday. Then said the Electoral Prince: 'Well, Dietrich, I want you to exchange with him this time, for I would like to have you to wait upon me this week, and Eberhard shall have a holiday the whole week. I only want to see your old face about me!' Is not that strange, Sir Baron? Until yesterday Eberhard stood in such high favor, and my gracious master always preferred being dressed by him. Only yesterday evening Eberhard must accompany him to the feast, and now, all at once, my gracious master will not see him! Something must have happened, for last night Eberhard came home much later than the Electoral Prince, and asked, as if bewildered, whether his highness had been back long; and when I told him that the Electoral Prince had bidden me change with him, he turned deadly pale, trembled in every limb, and said, 'It is all over with me!' Baron, something surely happened last night."

"Probably Eberhard has been guilty of some negligence," said Leuchtmar carelessly. "He has often been negligent of late, as it seems to me. He has some love affair on hand, has he not?"

"Yes, Sir Baron, he has gotten in with that artful chambermaid of the Princess Ludovicka, out there at Doornward, and they are engaged to one another. But people do not say much good of Madame Alice: she is a cunning French girl and—"

"Do not trouble yourself about what people say," interrupted the baron. "Do your own duty and rejoice that for this week the Electoral Prince gives you the preference over Eberhard. Go, now, and announce to his highness the chamberlain, Baron von Marwitz, from Berlin."

A few minutes later the gentleman announced entered the Prince's drawing room. Frederick William advanced into the middle of the room to meet him, and greeted him with grave courtesy.

"I was expecting you, baron," he said coldly.

"Your highness was expecting me?" asked the baron, astonished. "Your highness knew already that I would come?"

"Yes, I knew it, baron. My mother's court painter, Gabriel Nietzel, arrived yesterday, and through him my gracious mother informed me that the Elector would send you to me with a very serious and angry message. You see, I am prepared. Deliver your message now, baron. Let us be seated."

The Prince sat down in the armchair and made the baron sit opposite him. His large eyes were fixed upon Marwitz, and burned with a strange, sad light. His noble pale countenance was of touching beauty.

"You hesitate?" asked the Prince quietly, after a pause. "What you have to say to me is, then, very bad?"

"No, your highness, not therefore did I delay," cried the baron, with feeling. "Your appearance bewildered me, because it pleased me so much. I have not seen your highness for three years. You were then hardly fifteen years old, a noble, promising boy, and now I behold you with rapture and delight, seeing that all our expectations have been fulfilled, and that out of the boy has grown a strong, noble, and serious young man. Yes, Prince, I read it in your countenance, your unhappy fatherland, your unhappy, much-to-be-pitied Brandenburgers, may look with trust and confidence to the future, for you will save and rescue them."

"Save them from what? Rescue them from what?" asked the Prince, in cold and measured phrase. "Why do you call my fatherland unhappy, and why do you say that the Brandenburgers are to be pitied? Is not my fatherland, for doubtless you do not mean Germany, but my special fatherland, in which I have been born and reared, is not the Mark Brandenburg now quite happy and peaceful, as it has been for some years past, since it is again under the Emperor's protection and favor, in pleasant neutrality between the two inimical parties? And as to my good Brandenburgers, I can not imagine how you can call them so much to be pitied when Count Adam von Schwarzenberg is still Stadtholder in the Mark—Count Adam von Schwarzenberg, who certainly must have the good of Brandenburg at heart, since he knows how much my father loves him and trusts to him. He will always show himself worthy of confidence, I doubt not, and I have the highest respect for my father's great and wise minister."

"Ah! your highness mistrusts me," cried Marwitz with an expression of pain. "Your highness takes me for one of Schwarzenberg's adherents."

"No, I take you for what you are, the messenger and emissary of my father, the Elector of Brandenburg."

"Your highness would thereby say that this messenger and emissary has consequently received his orders from Count Schwarzenberg, because the count is really lord of the Mark and the Elector's right hand. I read in your countenance that you do so, and that therefore you mistrust me. But I swear to you, Prince, you may believe in my honest, upright intentions—you may believe that what I say is in solemn earnest."

"I believe it, certainly I believe it," said the Prince. "You have undertaken the commissions of the Elector and his Minister Schwarzenberg; naturally you will be in earnest in executing them."

"Prince, I have undertaken the commissions, the behests of the Elector; but from himself and not from his minister did I obtain them. I have sworn to execute them, and do you know why?"

"Why? Simply because you are your master's obedient servant."

"No, Prince, because I am a faithful servant of my country, and because I have a heart to feel for her affliction and distress. The Elector has commanded me to travel to The Hague, and to convey his strict injunction to the Electoral Prince that he shall immediately set out and return home to Berlin. The Elector bids me say to your highness that he has committed to me five thousand dollars to defray the expenses of your journey back and for the liquidation of the most pressing debts. Should this sum not suffice, then am I empowered, in the name of his Electoral Highness, to give security for the payment of the other debts, and your highness is so to arrange your journey that your suite may follow in the least expensive way possible. I was to urge on you seriously and decidedly the propriety of departure, and your father bids me state to you that he has his own peculiarly strong reasons for esteeming a further sojourn in Holland neither safe, profitable, nor reputable. I was to assure your highness that you were not to be recalled, in order to be forced into a repulsive marriage. At the same time, the Elector desires that you return unembarrassed by engagements, and that you by no means entangle yourself by marriage without his knowledge and consent, for to such a union would the Elector not agree, nor ratify it."[18]

"Is that all you have to say to me?" asked the Prince, when Marwitz was silent.

"Prince, it is all I have to say to you in the Elector's name, and I have herewith executed the commission intrusted to me. But I have something still to add. I have still to execute the commissions given me by your future land, by your future subjects. I have to transmit to you the tears of the wretched, the sighs of the impoverished, the cries of the despairing, the agonized shriek of all the provinces, all the towns, all the villages, houses, and huts in the Mark. Prince, from the depth of their affliction all hearts uplift themselves to you; in the midst of their despair, the oppressed, the downtrodden, the tormented all venture to hope in you, and in spirit they kneel before you and with outstretched hands entreat you, as I do now, 'Pity our distress, future Elector of Brandenburg, have compassion upon the lands and provinces which shall one day constitute your state. Turn not a deaf ear to the prayers, the hopes of your future subjects.'"

Marwitz had sunk upon the floor, and stretched his clasped hands out to the Prince, who looked thoughtfully into his excited face.

"And what would my future subjects have, what do they desire of me?"

"That you forthwith, without delay, return to the Mark by the speediest way possible."

"I?" cried the Electoral Prince, with a mocking smile. "Your wishes and entreaties, and those of the Brandenburgers, coincide very exactly with my father's orders!"

"Yes, they do coincide, but spring from different motives. Prince, we implore, we entreat you to return; no longer give us over to the caprice, the villainy, the tyranny and avarice of Count von Schwarzenberg. He is the evil demon of your father, of your country. Come home and frighten him away!"

The Prince started, and for a moment a deep glow suffused his pale countenance. His look penetrated deeper into the baron's uplifted, beseeching eyes, as if through them he would read into the very depths of his heart.

"Stand up, Marwitz," he said, after a long pause—"stand up, for you are too old and too venerable to kneel before so young a man as myself. Else, sit down near me, and explain your words more clearly. What good can my return home do, and how think you that I can benefit the land? And first and foremost, why do you call Count Schwarzenberg the evil demon of my father and his country?"

"Permit me, your highness, to answer the last question first, and thus will you understand the rest. Count Schwarzenberg is answerable for all the distress, wretchedness, and misery which envelop the Mark, Prussia, indeed all parts of your devastated and distracted land, for he acts contrary to the true interests of the Elector and his land, being wholly devoted to the interests of his own master, the Emperor of Germany. To this end all is worked and manoeuvred, with this aim all efforts are undertaken, to ruin Brandenburg, and take from it all power and consideration, yea, all hope, in order that it may be rendered dependent upon the Emperor and empire, and become less dangerous. For the benefit of the Emperor, and to the detriment of the Elector and his land, has Count Schwarzenberg concluded the treaty of Prague. Up to that time Brandenburg was the ally of Sweden, now it is neutral—that is to say, it is the prey of both parties; it is visited, laid under contribution, and plundered by the Swedish and Imperialist troops, and can apply for redress to no one, expect aid from no one. With each day the misery increases more and more. All trade and commerce languish; in the country the fields remain untilled, in the towns the artisans are unemployed, nobody finds work or wages. Hunger and want, and in their retinue sickness and death, daily demand hundreds of victims. The Swede has possession of your rightful heritage, Pomerania, and the Imperialists press to invade the Pomeranian towns and lay them under contribution, without thinking of leaving the vanquished cities wherewithal to pay tribute to their Sovereign, the Elector of Brandenburg. Imperialist is to become the whole Mark, the whole of Pomerania and Prussia, Westphalia and the duchy of Cleves. Imperialist and Catholic—that is Count Schwarzenberg's plan, and with cruel consistency he puts in motion everything that can conduce to its accomplishment. To prevent the recovery, the prosperity of Prussia and the Mark is the aim of all his policy. He exhausts the land, and yet more than the enemy plunders and taxes the towns, enriching himself through the blood and tears of the tortured citizens and hungry peasantry, living in luxury and splendor, while the Elector is suffering want, while his land is starved and unproductive."

"Abominable! horrible!" groaned the Electoral Prince, covering his face with both his hands, probably to conceal from Marwitz the tears which stood in his eyes.

"Prince," cried Marwitz joyfully, "you are moved! The afflictions of your country touch your noble heart! Oh, may God be with you in this hour, and strengthen you for noble and great resolves!"

"What do you require of me?" asked the Prince, after a pause, slowly withdrawing his hands from his livid face. "What can I do?"

"You can come home, Prince, come home to the unhappy land whose future lord you are by the appointment of God. Your mere presence will be a comfort to the unhappy, a terror to Schwarzenberg. On you rest the hopes of all patriots. You are the standard around whom they rally, the banner to which they look up in hope and patience, for which, if needs be, they will battle to the last drop of their blood. You furnish us all with a center and support, perhaps even your father himself, who maybe sometimes fears his own almighty minister, certainly your mother, who longs for her son as her stay and support! Prince, one more last word. I say it with hesitation, I would not even intrust it to the air, and yet it must be spoken—Prince, the power of Count Schwarzenberg over your father's heart is great, and—and—Count Schwarzenberg is a believing Catholic! It would be a new pillar to his might if the Elector—"

"Hush, hush!" interrupted the Electoral Prince, jumping up from his seat. "Not another word! You are right, the very air itself may not hear such words! Bury them in your heart and never again utter them! These are fearful tidings, which you have brought me, Marwitz, and my heart is bitterly, painfully moved by them, so that for an instant I—"

"Oh, my beloved young master," entreated Marwitz, "let not your heart be merely touched by them, but be inspired and sanctified. Embrace a high noble decision. Conquer yourself, and—"

With uplifted hand the Electoral Prince beckoned him to be silent, and with rapid step and head sunk he paced up and down the apartment. Then all at once he stopped, and, quickly raising his head, asked, "Where is Leuchtmar? Why did he not come with you?"

"I know not, Prince—he told me he could not dare to appear in your presence; he—"

"Ah! that is true," said the Prince mournfully; "we have not seen each other since—I beg of you, Marwitz, to go and fetch Leuchtmar to me."

The baron made haste to execute the Prince's mandate. Frederick William looked after him until the door closed behind him. Then his large, moist eyes were slowly upraised to heaven, and his trembling lips murmured: "Oh, how young I am yet, and how much I have still to learn! Help me, my God, that I may have the needed strength!"

Again the door opened, and Marwitz entered, followed by Leuchtmar, who remained standing at the door. The Electoral Prince looked at him with questioning glances, and ever brighter became his brow, ever more cheerful his aspect. And all at once he spread out his arms, and in a tone of most heartfelt love, most tender pleading, called out, "My beloved teacher! come to my arms!"

Leuchtmar sprang forward with a cry of joy. The Prince tenderly fell on his neck and pressed him closely to his breast.

"Oh," he murmured softly, "my friend, I have suffered much, and still suffer. Forgive me on account of my pain!"

And he leaned his head on Leuchtmar's shoulder and wept bitterly. A long pause ensued. No one of the three could interrupt it, for speech remained locked upon the trembling lips of all, and only their tears, their sighs spoke. Then the door slowly opened, and the private secretary, Mueller, appeared upon the threshold. For a moment he stood still, and looked with quivering lips upon the Prince, who was just slowly extricating himself from Leuchtmar's embrace, then he stepped resolutely forward.

"Your highness," he said, "forgive me for venturing to intrude my presence here, without having been summoned. But old Dietrich dared not take the step which I do now, and so the responsibility rests upon myself alone."

"And what is it?" asked the Prince. "What brings you to me, my dear, true friend?"

"He calls me his dear, true friend!" rejoiced Mueller.

"All is right again, then—all is in order! We are not dismissed—we are not sent home!"

"You may be, after all, my old friend," said the Electoral Prince, with a feeble smile. "But what would you say to me? What sort of responsibility have you taken upon yourself?"

"Prince, I have taken upon myself the responsibility of admitting into your cabinet the veiled lady who has just come, and of requesting you to grant her the audience for which she has been besieging Dietrich with tears and lamentations. Dietrich, however, would not hear to it, and the lady continually called for Eberhard to come—Eberhard must lead her to the Prince. But, as Dietrich says, this is not Eberhard's week of service, so that he can not enter here. I was attracted to the antechamber by the loud conversation, and now the lady turned upon me, and pleaded so touchingly and so eloquently, that I could not refuse to grant her request. Your highness, I have conducted the lady into your cabinet, and she awaits you there."

"But, Mueller," cried Baron Leuchtmar despairingly, "what have you done? How could you be so inconsiderate?"

The old man drew himself up, and his mild eye grew angry. "Inconsiderate! I was not at all inconsiderate, Baron Leuchtmar. On the contrary, I thought it would be unworthy of a noble Prince to allow a woman to plead in vain, and I thought, moreover, that Hercules would never have become a hero if he had not had the valor to meet the women who greeted him at the crossing of the roads."

"You have done right, Mueller," said Frederick William, with a faint smile; "it will be seen whether Hercules was perhaps my forefather. I shall speak to the lady. Wait for me here."

He crossed the apartment hastily, and entered his cabinet. In the center of the room stood a veiled female form. The Prince, however, recognized her, although her face could not be seen, for he knew her by her pretty coquettish costume to be the Princess Ludovicka's French chambermaid, and he stepped quickly up to her.

"I thought that it was you, Alice," he said softly, "and I have therefore come to tell you to—"

With sudden movement she tore back her veil, and before the pale, beautiful countenance thereby revealed the Prince stepped back, as pale as death.

"You yourself?" he murmured. "You, Ludovicka?"

"Yes, I, Ludovicka! I come here in my maid's dress," said she, in a voice trembling with pain and emotion. "I come to you, my beloved, to ask you whether you will desert me, leaving me in despair, affliction, and heart-sickness? O Frederick, Frederick! how fearfully have I suffered this night!"

"And I?" murmured he softly. "Have I not suffered too?"

"No," she cried, "you have not suffered as I did, for you love me not as I love you—you love me not more than your life, your honor, your fatherland! You will abandon and forsake me, because it is France that has offered us aid! Oh, you are a cold, heartless man, as all men are, and yet I love you so much and can not live without you! Frederick William, you will not go with me to France—well then, I will go with you, wherever you will. I cleave to you—I will stay with you! Let shame and ignominy be my fate, let my mother curse me, let all the world despise me and call me your mistress, I will stay with you, for I love you and can not live without you!"

Passionately she extended her arms to him, love flaming in her glances. But a darker shadow flitted across the Prince's face, and he shrank back.

"God forbid, Ludovicka," he said, "that misery and shame should ever come to you through me, that your mother should curse you for my sake! We are both yet children, Ludovicka. I felt right painfully last night that the first duty of children is to obey and reverence their parents. Let us do our duty, Ludovicka!"

"That is," replied she with swelling rage—"that is to say, you give me up? They have overcome your opposition, they have brought you back to obedience, to subjection?"

"No other than myself has done it, Ludovicka."

"You? You give me up? Voluntarily? And yet you swore that you loved me and me alone of all the world?"

"And I swore truly, Ludovicka. I love you boundlessly!"

"And yet you will forsake me?"

"Yet I must do so, beloved! I must forsake you, but God alone, who has witnessed my tortures this past night, knows what I suffer. My father is solitary, my fatherland calls to me, and the first thing that I sacrifice on its altar is my love for you. I can not marry you, Ludovicka, and God forbid that I should accept your love without marriage!"

"Words, nothing but words!" cried she indignantly. "You would palliate your unfaithfulness, represent your fickleness of mind as magnanimity! But I hear only one thing in your words—you give me up, you renounce your love?"

"Yes!" he cried with a loud scream of pain—"yes, I renounce my love!"

"Vengeance upon you for it!" cried she, in flaming wrath. "I, Ludovicka Hollandine, cry vengeance upon you, for you break my heart!"

"And you will have no compassion? You will not see what I suffer? Ludovicka, look! Look in my eyes, they wept out last night the pains of a whole life—see what I suffer! Ludovicka, on my knees I beseech you, if you really love me, then have pity upon me—for the sake of my agony forgive me what you suffer!"

And beside himself with emotion, he fell upon his knees, lifting up to her his clasped hands and his face that was bathed in tears.

But now it was she who shrank back. "No," said she harshly and severely, "no, no compassion, no forgiveness! I do not love you, I have never loved you, for you are a foolish boy, and know nothing of the glow of passion! You are a child! Go away and act like a child, and be an obedient son! Love rejects you! love turns from you!" And waving him off with both hands, the Princess turned and walked to the door. Frederick William, still upon his knees, heard her quickly retreating steps, but did not rise. Ludovicka had already stretched out her hand to open the door; but she turned round once more, and in tones of mingled love and grief cried, "Frederick, will you let me go?"

He did not answer, his head sank lower, and a painful groan forced itself from his breast. She opened the door—he heard it—he saw the streak of light that crossed the room through the open door, it vanished—the door had closed. Then was wrung from the Prince's breast a shriek of agony such as only issues from the lips of man under the pressure of earth's sharpest pangs.

The three gentlemen were yet assembled in the Prince's drawing room, conversing and imparting to one another their fears and hopes. All at once the door of the cabinet opened and the Electoral Prince entered. Pale as death, but with firm, determined features, he stepped up to the three gentlemen, who looked at him with tender, anxious glances.

"Marwitz," he said, "you can this very day set out on your return to Berlin, for your mission is fulfilled. Say to my father that as an obedient son I submit to his wishes, and shall forthwith depart for Berlin."

The three gentlemen only answered him by a single cry of joy, and, animated by one feeling, one inspiration, sank upon their knees and prayed aloud, "Bless, O God! bless the Prince, who has conquered himself!"

"What is going on here?" asked a loud manly voice behind them. "What means this? Three gentlemen on their knees, and my young cousin looking on like the Knight St. George!"

"And so he is, Prince of Orange," cried Baron Leuchtmar, rising and advancing to meet the Prince, who had come in unannounced, as was his wont at the house of his cousin. "Yes, he is a Knight St. George, who has conquered the dragon. You know, Prince Henry, how sweetly they have enticed him, with what magic chains they have been encircling him. You know the Media Nocte and"—added he softly—"the Princess Ludovicka."

"Well, and what more now?" asked the Prince, with eager interest. "Not much, cousin," said Frederick William, with a melancholy smile. "I must bid you farewell. I owe it to my parents, to my honor, and my country, forthwith to leave The Hague!"[19]

"Bravo, cousin, bravo!" cried Henry of Orange. "You flee from danger and escape from temptation. That is to be called heroism, and herewith you have as truly conquered a citadel as when I vanquished Breda!"

"Believe me too, cousin," said Frederick William, while he leaned upon the

Prince's heroic breast—"believe me, that this victory has cost much blood and many tears."

One moment he let his head rest on the shoulder of his fatherly friend, then proudly drew himself up.

"Baron Leuchtmar and you, my trusty private secretary, Mueller!" he cried, with loud voice, "to-day we leave The Hague and proceed to Arnheim, and thence we set forth to-morrow on our journey home. Marwitz, you travel in advance. The golden days of our youth are past! Let iron ones follow! I am prepared for all!"



BOOK III.

I.—NEW PLANS.

"Strange, very strange," muttered Count Adam Schwarzenberg to himself. "The Prince must have set out on his journey four weeks ago, and still no news from Gabriel Nietzel! The journey by sea, it is true, offered no opportunity for any enterprise, and the Electoral Prince had the sublime fancy of choosing the water in preference to the land route, in spite of the severities of this season of the year. But, according to the Prince's scheme of traveling, and according to my own calculations, the Prince must have reached Hamburg full eight days ago, and as he was only to stay there three days, he must already have been journeying five days by land, and yet have I in vain looked for any tidings whatever from Gabriel Nietzel. Could it be possible that this man has dared to disobey me?—could he have carried his folly so far as to sacrifice wife and child rather than execute my commands?"

Gloomily the count's brow wrinkled, as he asked himself this question, and his eyes flamed with fury. With folded arms he walked rapidly to and fro.

"To think that all my plans may be wrecked by the pangs of conscience of a single fool!" he sighed—"to think, that for months, nay, for years, I have been laboring in vain to see the realization of these projects, and that in my highest, proudest aims I am dependent upon a blockhead, who—What is it Daniel? What is your errand?"

"Pardon me, your excellency; some one is without who desires most urgently to speak with you."

"Who is it?—do you know him?"

"No, my lord count, I do not know him, and he will not tell what he wants of your excellency. He says he must speak with your lordship himself, and I must only announce his name. It is Gabriel Nietzel."

"Gabriel Nietzel!" cried the count. "Why did you not tell me so directly, you fool! Bring him in without delay, and take care that no one disturbs us so long as the painter Gabriel Nietzel is with us."

The lackey hurried off, leaving the door open for the painter, whom he fetched in from the first antechamber. Breathlessly, in violent excitement, Count Schwarzenberg looked toward this open door. "It is my future fate that is about to enter," he murmured. "Ah, there he is! There is Gabriel Nietzel!" And in his vehement agitation he rushed forward a few steps to meet the painter, whom he saw approaching through the entrance hall. But forcibly constraining himself to an appearance of moderation and reserve, he stood still and assumed a calm, unimpassioned expression. Gabriel Nietzel entered, and behind him the lackey gently closed the door. The sharp eyes of the count rested inquiringly upon the newcomer, who remained standing near the door with head sunk and humble, melancholy mien. This submissive, contrite silence on the part of the returning painter was sufficiently eloquent to the mind of the count. It told him that Gabriel Nietzel had nothing welcome to communicate. He subdued his rage and proudly threw back his head, as if to shake off, like troublesome insects, all his disappointed hopes.

"Well, you are actually at home again, Master Court Painter!" he cried, in a tone that was well-nigh cheerful.

"Yes, your excellency," whispered Gabriel, with downcast eyes, "here I am again, and report myself forthwith to your excellency."

"To me?" asked Schwarzenberg, affecting astonishment. "Why do you report yourself to me, and what have I to do with you, Sir Court Painter Gabriel Nietzel? You should have gone to the palace, to the Electress, and gladdened her heart with your pleasing intelligence. I doubt not that you are the bearer of glad tidings for her, and come to forewarn her of the Prince's speedy arrival here in safety and good health?"

"I had no wish to go to her highness the Electress," said Gabriel Nietzel humbly. "She knows already, independently of any information from me, that the Electoral Prince is safe and sound. I come to your excellency to excuse myself for the failure of my undertaking, and to beg your pardon."

"I do not understand you at all, Sir Court Painter," replied Count Schwarzenberg, shrugging his shoulders. "I know not what sort of undertaking you had in view, what you have failed in, and what I can have to pardon you for."

"Your excellency!" cried Gabriel with an outburst of grief—"your excellency, I swear that I am innocent, that it has been the result of no ill will, no negligence, but because I really could not find an opportunity for carrying out what—"

"Well, carrying out what?" asked Schwarzenberg, when Gabriel faltered. "What do I care for your unfinished works, your abortive schemes? I only buy finished pictures, and, if they are well executed and successes, I pay for them in kingly style. With daubers, though, and wretched copyists who would pass off copies as originals, I have nothing to do. Speak not to me, then, Sir Court Painter, of your sketches and designs. I ask nothing about them, but only come to me when you have a completed work to exhibit."

"Your excellency will not understand me," said Gabriel, while drops of agony trickled from his cold brow.

"No," proudly retorted the count, "it is for you to understand me, Sir Court Painter Gabriel Nietzel. Were you not sent to The Hague to complete your studies there? Why have you returned home so soon?"

"Because I was homesick, most gracious sir—because I longed inexpressibly after my child, my wife!"

The painter ventured to lift his eyes with earnest anxiety and entreaty to the face of the count, but Schwarzenberg's glance remained cold.

"Ah, you have a wife?" he asked, with indifference. "You left her behind and went alone to The Hague?"

"Yes, I went there quite alone, because I had a great and important work to accomplish there; but before I had even stretched my canvas and sketched the outlines, an unexpected hindrance interposed which annihilated all my plans."

"What sort of hindrance?" asked the count carelessly, while he played with the heavy golden chain about his neck, to which was attached the portrait of the Elector set in brilliants. "What sort of hindrance?"

"The Electoral Prince, to whom the Electress had recommended me, and who received me into the number of his attendants, suddenly and unexpectedly determined to take his departure from The Hague, and straightway carried his resolution into effect. He himself, together with Baron von Marwitz, Baron Leuchtmar von Kalkhun, secretary Mueller, and his chamberlain repaired forthwith to Amsterdam, in order to take ship there. He, however, ordered his majordomo and myself to break up his household, to pack up his books and paintings, and to journey with them by land to Berlin. I ventured to protest against this, and even preferred the request to be permitted to accompany the Electoral Prince upon his sea voyage; this, however, Baron Leuchtmar refused, and nobody was allowed to speak with the Electoral Prince himself. Up to the time of his departure he remained shut up in his chamber, and only left it to get into the carriage which conveyed him to Amsterdam. There, as was known, lay a passenger vessel ready to sail for Hamburg, and in this the Electoral Prince took passage."

"And you did not see the Electoral Prince at all before he set out?"

"Oh, your excellency, I had ranged myself along with all his other household officers at the side of his traveling carriage, and the Prince very condescendingly held out his hand to me, yes, he even tried to smile. 'Gabriel Nietzel,' he said, 'make all speed to reach Berlin right soon. I shall desire my mother to allow you to enter my special service, and then you shall paint for me many a pretty picture. Until then, farewell!' He once more nodded kindly to me, and jumped into the carriage."

"That is the only time that you have spoken at all to the Electoral Prince?"

"No, your honor, on the very day of my arrival I had an audience with him, and the Electoral Prince was highly delighted to receive news from home. I must tell him everything in detail, and since, with your gracious permission, I claimed to side with your lordship's opponents, the Electoral Prince immediately became very confidential and affectionate to me, receiving me into his house and retinue, and promising to present me at the courts of the Stadtholder and the Queen of Bohemia."

"How came it, then, that the Prince so immediately afterward suddenly took the resolution to depart?"

"Most gracious sir, four-and-twenty hours after myself the Chamberlain von Marwitz arrived at The Hague, and had a long conversation with the Electoral Prince. Immediately after that the Electoral Prince gave orders for departure, and three hours later had already left The Hague."

"Now it seems, therefore, that Baron von Marwitz is a very persuasive speaker, who well understood how to move the Electoral Prince's heart, and to lead him back to obedience to his father and—myself. I shall therefore prove my gratitude to Herr von Marwitz. I like very much to have my orders and commissions executed punctiliously and exactly, and this Herr von Marwitz has done, for I had bidden him to leave no means untried whereby the Electoral Prince might be induced to leave Holland."

A crushing glance from his large gray eyes as he uttered these words fell full upon Gabriel Nietzel's pale and contrite face, making his heart quake with undefined dread.

"Your honor is very angry with me?" he asked faintly.

"You?" exclaimed the count in astonishment. "Why should I be angry with you? What have I to do with you? I only know you as the painter Nietzel, who sold me a copy for a good original, and whom I could therefore have condemned to the gallows as a falsifier and cheat. But you know I have forgiven you, and let your copy be valued as an original. I even went further in my magnanimous forgiveness; I had even intrusted you with commissions for Holland, where you were to visit the picture galleries in order to make copies. You have not executed my commissions, for you have returned home too soon. That is all, and therefore all connection between us is dissolved. Farewell, Mr. Court Painter Gabriel Nietzel; you are dismissed!"

He haughtily motioned to the door, turned his back upon the painter, and slowly traversed the apartment. But Gabriel Nietzel did not go. There he stood as if rooted to the spot, and stared fixedly at the count, who walked to and fro, as if lost in thought, and seemed to be wholly unconscious that the painter had dared still to remain in his presence. After a long pause his eye fell quite accidentally on the spot where Gabriel Nietzel stood, and he started as if in sudden terror.

"Why, you still here?" he asked. "You dare to brave me? To terrify me with your dull, pale face? Have you grown deaf, Mr. Court Painter? Did you not hear me dismiss you?"

"I heard, but your honor knows that I can not go. Your lordship well knows that from your lips I await the sentence which is to seal my whole future fate, and that I will not leave this room until I have received this."

"How? You will not leave this room. You will stay although I have bidden you go? Very well, then, I shall call my servants and have you put out."

And already the count's hand was stretched forth to take his silver whistle. But Gabriel Nietzel dared to grasp this hand and hold it firmly between both his own.

"Pity, gracious sir, pity!" he pleaded. "Drive me from your presence, take from me the pension you most condescendingly insured to me; I feel that I am indeed undeserving of your favor and graciousness. Only, for pity's sake, for humanity's sake, restore to me my own—give me my wife and child!"

"What have I to do with your wife and child?" asked Count Schwarzenberg angrily. "Have you handed them over to me? Am I the chief of an asylum for deserted women and children?"

"My wife, Sir Count, give me back my wife!" cried Gabriel Nietzel, sinking down upon his knees.

"I know nothing about her, I have never seen her," said the count.

"You do know about her, your excellency! You took her and my dear, precious child under your protection when I went to The Hague. You had my wife and child carried to, Spandow, and gave them an abode within your palace there."

"Now I see plainly that you speak like a deranged man, Master Gabriel Nietzel," cried the count passionately. "Collect your faculties, man, or I shall immediately have you arrested and sent to a madhouse. I repeat, collect your faculties, and utter not such palpably idle tales. Very likely that I should have taken your wife and child into my keeping. Bethink yourself, Master Gabriel Nietzel, be rational, and remember that you are happily unincumbered and a free bachelor!"

"No, no, I am not free!" shrieked Gabriel Nietzel. "I have a wife, I have a child, and see them again I must! Deliver them up to me, Sir Count. I beseech you by all that is sacred—deliver them up to me! I must have my wife and boy again!"

"Well then, go and look for them," said Schwarzenberg composedly "Apply to the police, and furnish them with a description of both their persons. Show your marriage license and your child's certificate of baptism, that every one may be convinced of the truth of your deposition. Then write a description of your wife, or, as you are a painter, draw a likeness of her, publish her name and family, call upon her relatives to render you their assistance, and in that way, if you really have a wife, you will in the end succeed in discovering her."

"Sir Count, you well know that I can not do so," groaned Gabriel Nietzel. "You well know that I am a poor, ruined man, entirely in your power. I beseech you, have mercy upon me! Restore to me my wife and child, and I will do all that you require of me. Give me back my wife, and I swear to you that I will do here what I was to have done on the journey. I swear to you that I will make good what I missed, that I—"

"I do not believe your oaths, Gabriel Nietzel," interposed the count. "You are liberal with your oaths and promises, but come short in deeds, in performances. Nobody will pay for a picture before he has seen it, or at least a sketch of the same. Therefore take yourself off, devise a plan, sketch your outline, and bring it to me. If it pleases me, and is practicable, if I see that you are zealous and well disposed, then will I gladly aid you in its execution and pay you in princely style. That is my last word, Master Court Painter Gabriel Nietzel, and now go, and do not show your face here again until you can show me that sketch. You have understood me, have you not, Master Gabriel Nietzel? I bespeak a picture, and you are to furnish me with a sketch of it; then, as you are in want, I shall gladly pay you for it in advance."

"Yes, I have understood your lordship," said Gabriel Nietzel, heaving a deep sigh. "I know a subject for the painting you have ordered, and will make a sketch of it. You shall not have to wait long for it."

"It is a fine subject," said Schwarzenberg quietly. "We might call it the murder of Julius Caesar."

"No, it is the execution of the Emperor Conrad III—the execution and murder of the last Hohen-Hohenstaufen," sobbed the painter, while tears fell in clear streams from his eyes.

"I believe another paroxysm of insanity has seized you," said the count contemptuously. "How can any one weep merely because he will represent a tragic scene? What is the last of the Hohenstaufens to you? You depict his death, and if the painting is a success I shall reward you handsomely for it, give you a splendid income, and then you can go to Italy, the home of all artists, to spend the remainder of your life there in pleasure and freedom."

"It shall be just as your excellency says," sighed Gabriel. "Only, your excellency, only be so gracious as to give me back my wife and child."

"I said so, your paroxysm of madness is coming on afresh!" cried Schwarzenberg, shrugging his shoulders. "Man, are you really beside yourself?—have you lost your senses? Do you demand your wife and child of me, of Count Adam von Schwarzenberg, the Stadtholder in the Mark? Go away with your follies. Be off, so that you can make your sketch, and when you come back, and it is good, you will perhaps find me inclined to answer all your silly questions for you!"

"Sir Count, oh, for God's sake, let me at least see my Rebecca once more!"

"Rebecca! your wife's name is Rebecca? Why, that really sounds as if she were a Jewess. And you say that she is your wife? Ah, repeat that again, then name the priest who celebrated your nuptials and united a Christian to a Jewess! By ——! I shall bring this evildoer to a strict account, and he shall be degraded from his office as a criminal and blot upon the Church, for he has sinned against God, the Church, and his Sovereign! Gabriel Nietzel, name the priest who married you to a Jewess!"

"I can not name him," murmured Nietzel, almost inaudibly. "Sir Count, I will be obedient and diligent in your service. I am a wretched sinner, and must expiate my crime. I shall do penance, too, and will be nothing more than a tool in your hands. Only have mercy upon me. Let me at least see my wife and child, if I may not speak to them! I only wish to see them, in order to gain courage and strength for my difficult and dangerous undertaking."

The count reflected for a moment, his eyes fastened upon Gabriel Nietzel's countenance, whose imploring, anxious expression seemed to touch him.

"I have in my house at Spandow," he said, after a long pause, "a beautiful painting by Albrecht Duerer. It was, unfortunately, a little injured in the transportation, and you shall restore it for me. To-morrow morning repair to Spandow, and ask for me. I shall be there, and will myself put the painting in your charge. Perhaps you will see there another painting besides, which will please you, and which, perhaps, is not unknown to you."

Gabriel Nietzel took the count's proffered hand, and with joyful impatience pressed it to his lips. "Sir Count, I will be your servant, your slave, your creature. I will damn my soul for you and suffer the torture of perpetual flames if you will only give back to me my wife and child!"

"Master Court Painter," said Schwarzenberg, parodying his words, "I shall make you a rich and distinguished man. I shall send you to Italy, and you will enjoy the heavenly fires of the Italian sky, if you will only bring me the sketch ordered, and prove to me that you are in earnest as to its execution."

Gabriel Nietzel laughed aloud in the joy of his heart.

"Your highness shall not have long to wait. I will very soon have the sketch at your excellency's disposal."

"We shall see," said the count, with a slight nod of his head. "And now that we have understood one another, and you have somewhat recovered your reason, now for the last time I tell you, you are dismissed!"

Gabriel Nietzel bowed low, and strode through the apartment toward the door of entrance, reverentially going backward that he might not turn his back upon the high-born, all-powerful count. He had almost reached the door, when it was opened and a valet appeared, who announced in a loud voice:

"His honor Count John Adolphus von Schwarzenberg!"

"My son!" exclaimed the count. "He has returned? Where is he? Where?"

"His honor has just gone to his apartments to divest himself of his traveling clothes, but with your highness's permission he will be here in a few minutes."

"Tell the count, that I expect him with impatience," cried the father. The valet hurried out, and Gabriel Nietzel was in the act of following him, when Schwarzenberg called him back.

"Do not go out that way now," he said; "my son is coming, and it is not worth while for him to see you. Go through yonder door. It leads to a corridor, and there you will find a small staircase by which you can descend to the court. Go!"



II.—COUNT JOHN ADOLPHUS VON SCHWARZENBERG.

"I think I have distressed and tormented him enough," said the count to himself; "he will devise some means of gratifying my wishes, and in his despair will risk everything in order to obtain his wife and child. It is well that men have hearts, for they supply the most convenient handles for seizing hold of them and managing them. And for that reason men without susceptible hearts always become rulers, conquerors. Therefore have I become great and powerful, and will ascend yet higher, grow yet more mighty, for I, thank God! I have no heart! I have never been a victim to the silly vagaries of an enamored heart, never made a fool of myself for any woman; never have I felt my heart moved by any other desire than that of attaining a pre-eminent position and becoming a great man. Such I have become, but I would mount yet higher, and in this—in this that enamored fool Gabriel Nietzel shall assist me."

The count grew suddenly silent, and looked toward the door. In the antechamber he had heard the sound of a voice familiar and grateful to his ears, a voice which awakened in his breast a rare and unwonted feeling of joy and happiness. "My son," he murmured, "yes, it is my son. I really believe that I have a heart at last, for I feel it beat higher just now, and feel that it is a happiness to have a son!"

He hastily crossed the room, and had almost reached the door, when it suddenly opened and revealed the presence of a tall and slender young man, dressed in the elegant Spanish garb, such as was worn at the court of the German Emperor Ferdinand III.

"Father, dear father!" he cried, with a voice full of tenderness, and with outstretched arms he sped toward his father to press him to his heart. Count Adam von Schwarzenberg smilingly submitted, and an infinite feeling of satisfaction penetrated his whole being under the warm pressure of his only son's embrace. But only one short instant did he yield to this sensation, for he was ashamed of his weakness, and gently extricated himself from his son's arms.

"Here you are again, you gadabout and rover!" he said; but he could not subdue the brighter glistening of his eyes, as they fastened themselves upon his son's handsome, spirited, and youthful face.

"Yes, here I am again, cher et aimable pere," exclaimed the young man, laughing; "but you do me great injustice by calling me a gadabout and rover, for, indeed, I have only traveled on most serious and proper business, and it strikes me that I am vastly to be feared and honored in my capacity of imperial treasurer and member of the Aulic council."

"What?" cried Count Adam joyfully, "the Emperor has conferred upon you such a high favor and honored you with such lofty titles?"

The young count nodded assent. "In me he has honored my father's son," said he, "and distinguished me out of veneration and respect for you."

"You are far too modest, my son," cried the count, smiling. "What the Emperor Ferdinand has done for you he did not for your father's son, but in deference to your own merits."

"Please, oh please, let us talk no more on the subject," said the young man. "You will not succeed in altering my opinion, especially as I had it from the exalted mouth of his Imperial Majesty himself, that he gladly distinguished the son of so noble, gifted, and faithful a servant as Count Adam Schwarzenberg had ever been to the imperial house, and in consideration thereof bestowed upon him the dignity of imperial treasurer, and nominated him independently of individual merit a member of the Aulic council. I beg you to observe, my noble and highly deserving count, that your son has fallen heir to his honors without individual merit, whence it naturally follows that I am a worthless treasurer, and wholly devoid of merit as a member of the Aulic council."

"Well," laughed his father, "then I must console you with this, Adolphus, that you are besides that my coadjutor in my office of Grand Master of the Knights of St. John, and that I entertain the fixed determination of soon seeing you share with me the Stadtholdership of the Mark."

"I assure you, I need no consolation whatever!" cried Count Adolphus Schwarzenberg. "I am your son, and that is as much as if I were the fair Danae, and had a shower of gold perpetually poured out upon me."

"You would deceive me," said Count Adam, gently shaking his head. "You would have me believe that you are satisfied with being my son, and have no personal ambition for yourself."

"It is no deception, cher pere" laughed the young man. "I really do not give myself the trouble to have personal ambition beforehand. I behold my much-loved father standing in the sunshine of renown, and I quite composedly allow a few stray beams from his splendor to alight upon myself. I would not say, though, that I am wholly devoid of ambition. I only avoid talking about it till the time comes."

"My son, the time is come," said Count Adam quickly. "Yes, the time for ambition is come with you, too, and to-day we must discuss it at length. But first tell me what news do you bring me from Vienna? Come, let us sit down, and confer with one another like two grave politicians and diplomatists." He took his son's arm and led him toward the divan.

"God forbid, Sir Stadtholder, that I, a mere tyro in diplomacy and politics, should venture to seat myself at your side," cried Count Adolphus. "No, father, I know my place, and you must indeed permit me to take my station at a reverential distance from you."

He took one of the little gold-embroidered footstools which stood near the divan and seated himself opposite his father. Count Adam looked upon him with a proud yet gentle smile, and seemed to have his own pleasure in his son's handsome and imposing appearance.

"I should like to know whether you resemble me," he said thoughtfully; "I should like to know whether I was ever such a lively, jovial young man."

"You are more than that, most respected father," cried his son; "you were handsome and possessed of irresistible attractions. I know that, for you are still so."

"So, it seems that my son has learned to flatter at the imperial court!"

"No, no; I speak the truth, and I swear that every one who has the good fortune to be admitted to your presence will confirm my testimony. You understand the art of fascinating men, and once let any one love you, then you can never be forgotten. The Emperor Ferdinand spoke of you with genuine admiration, and Princess Lobkowitz assured me that you were the only man whom she had ardently and truly loved. And yet they say that Princess Lobkowitz has had many admirers and still has."

"Princess Lobkowitz!" repeated Count Adam thoughtfully—"how fine that sounds, Princess Lobkowitz! Yet I well remember the time when Lobkowitz was quite a poor, inconsiderable count, who esteemed himself peculiarly happy when I lent him some of my pocket money, which, by the bye, I never saw again. We were both at that time pages at the court of Emperor Ferdinand I, and swore eternal friendship. But how vain are such oaths! I afterward left the imperial court and came to the court of Cleves, and thence here to Prussia. I have restlessly labored, and may well say that I have wielded the helm of state in this country for twenty years, and—am still nothing but plain Count Schwarzenberg! The little, insignificant Count Lobkowitz, on the other hand, has now become a Prince through the Emperor's favor, as have also Eggenberg, Liechtenstein, and Fuerstenberg."

"You shall be a Prince, too, father," said Count Adolphus softly. "Yes, without doubt, you have only to hint your wish to receive the title of Prince, and the Emperor Ferdinand will gladly remunerate you in that way, if he first sees his own desires fulfilled through you."

The count started, and cast an inquisitive, questioning look upon his son. "I thank you, Adolphus," said he, "you have led back our conversation, or rather, my lord treasurer, our conference, to the subject in point, in a manner as tender as diplomatic. Yes, the question is, first of all, to learn what news you bring for me from his Majesty, and what orders the Emperor has to give me."

"First of all, cher pere, the Emperor wishes that every possible obstruction be interposed to prevent the Electoral Prince's marriage with the Princess of the Palatinate, and that, if practicable, the Electoral Prince be deterred from forming any matrimonial connection. It would greatly complicate affairs if the Electoral Prince should chance to have offspring soon, and thereby outwardly give more firmness and durability to the house of Brandenburg."

The count's eyes flashed upon his son's countenance, which still preserved its placid, innocent expression. "Who told you that?" said he, "Who spoke such strange, mysterious words? Not the Emperor, no, he can not have said that!"

"No, but the Emperor's most confidential adviser, mio padre amato, the venerable father confessor and Jesuit, Signor Silvio. By the way, I regard him as a man turned serpent, and would avoid exposing a shoeless heel to him. But one thing is certain, that he has the Emperor's ear not only in the confessional, but in the council chamber as well, and what he says is just as good as if the Emperor himself said it. For the rest, they affirm at the imperial court that he is a sorcerer, and can look through men's eyes straight into their hearts and decipher what is therein as plainly and distinctly as if it was written on parchment in German text."

"I believe it is so," murmured the count. "I believe he has read into my heart, too. But further, further, my son! What more did Father Silvio say to you?"

"He spoke much of the weak and uncertain condition of the Electoral house of Brandenburg, which he said rested upon only two lives, and would be extinct if the Electoral Prince Frederick William should perish by a sudden death."

The count started, and a gray pallor overspread his face. His son, absorbed in his own discourse, observed it not and continued: "I ventured meanwhile to differ from the wise father, and reminded him that seven cousins and blood relations were still in existence, to give permanence to the Elector's family, and thereby lessen very greatly the weakness of the Brandenburg-Hohenzollerns. But Father Silvio smiled almost compassionately at this remark of mine, and said in a tone of lofty superiority: 'Young man, your father will be a better judge of this; only repeat my words to him: that the Emperor will not admit the claims of the collateral branches of the Electoral house, and if unfortunately the Electoral Prince of Brandenburg should die without descendants, he will consider the Electoral Mark as an unincumbered fief, which the Emperor of Germany, in the plenitude of his power and as an act of free grace, might bestow on another prince.'"

Count Adam Schwarzenberg sprang up, and for a moment his eyes rested with a penetrating expression upon his son's countenance. Then he turned and began to move violently to and fro. Now it was his son's turn to fix his eyes piercingly upon him. When the count turned again, however, there was no trace of excitement visible on the young man's countenance, and with a friendly smile he looked at his father. Count Adam stepped close up to him, and laid his hand on his son's shoulder.