Berlin and Sans-Souci by Louise MuhlbachOr Frederick the Great and his friends (page 7)

CHAPTER XI.

THE UNDECEIVED.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And now?” said Lupinus.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And now, Lupinus, you will tell me all?”

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

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

“To-morrow.”

“But when, when do we meet again?”

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

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

“Farewell.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Was that all the letter contained?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Listen! she speaks!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XII.

TRENCK’S FIRST FLIGHT.

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

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

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

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

“Provided he find the places where the horses stand concealed.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You alone, royal highness, have the power to save my son’s life!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who is she?” asked the king, discontentedly,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Both ladies left the room.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Come, my sister, come,” said he, offering his hand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The princess bowed her head and read:

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

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

“That is all, sire.”

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

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

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

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

“You would have written that?”

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

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

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

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

“And when will he be free?”

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

“In three months, then. Here is the letter, sire.”

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

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

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

“I pray that your majesty will allow me to retire,” said she. “I think we have finished–we have to other business to transact.”

“Oh! my sister,” said Frederick, mournfully, “think of what you are doing; do not harden your heart against me. Believe me, I suffer with you; and if the only question were the sacrifice of my personal wishes, I would gladly yield. But I must consider my ancestors, the history of my house, and the prejudices of the world. Amelia, I cannot, I dare not do otherwise. Forgive me, my sister. And now, once more, let us hold firmly to each other in love and trust. Let me fold you to my heart.”

He advanced and extended his hand, but his sister slowly recoiled.

“Allow me to remind your majesty that a poor unhappy woman is awaiting a word of consolation in the next room, and that this woman is Trenck’s mother. She, at least, will be happy when I inform her that her son will soon be free. Permit me, therefore, sire, to take my leave, and bear her this good news.”

She bowed formally and profoundly, and walked slowly across the room. The king no longer endeavored to hold her back. He followed her with a mournful, questioning glance, still hoping that she would turn and seek a reconciliation. She reached the door, now she turned. The king stepped forward rapidly, hut Princess Amelia bowed ceremoniously and disappeared.

“Lost! I have lost her,” sighed the king. “Oh, my God! must I then part from all that I love? Was it not enough to lose my friends by death? will cruel fate also rob me of a loved and living sister? Ah! I am a poor, a wretched man, and yet they call me a king.”

Frederick slowly seated himself, and covered his face with his hands. He remained in this position for a long time, his sighs being the only interruption to the silence which reigned in the apartment.

“Work! I will work,” said he proudly. “This is at least a consolation, and teaches forgetfulness.”

He walked hurriedly to his escritoire, seated himself, and regarded the manuscripts and papers which lay before him. He took up one of the manuscripts and began to read, but with an impatient gesture he soon laid it aside.

“The letters swim before my eyes in inextricable confusion. My God, how hard it is to do one’s duty!”

He rested his head on his hand, and was lost in thought for a long time. Gradually his expression brightened, and a wondrous light beamed in his eyes.

“Yes,” said he, with a smile, “yes, so it shall be. I have just lost a much-loved sister. Well, it is customary to erect a monument in memory of those we love. Poor, lost sister, I will erect a monument to your memory. The king has been compelled to make his sister unhappy, and for this he will endeavor to make his people happy. And if there is no law to which a princess can appeal against the king, there shall at least be laws for all my subjects, which protect them, and are in strict accordance with reason, with justice, and the godly principle of equality. Yes, I will give my people a new code of laws. [Footnote: Rodenbeck, Diary, p. 137.] This, Amelia, shall be the monument which I will erect to you in my heart. In this very hour I will write to Cocceji, and request him to sketch the outlines of this new code of laws.”

The king seized his pen and commenced writing. “The judges,” said he, hastily penning his words, “the judges must administer equal and impartial justice to all without respect to rank or wealth, as they expect to answer for the same before the righteous judgment-seat of God, and in order that the sighs of the widows and orphans, and of all that are oppressed, may not be visited upon themselves and their children. No rescripts, although issued from this cabinet, shall be deemed worthy of the slightest consideration, if they contain aught manifestly incompatible with equity, or if the strict course of justice is thereby hindered or interrupted; but the judges shall proceed according to the dictates of duty and conscience.”

The king continued writing, his countenance becoming more and more radiant with pleasure, while his pen flew over the paper. He was so completely occupied with his thoughts that he did not hear the door open behind him, and did not perceive the merry and intelligent face of his favorite, General Rothenberg, looking in.

The king wrote on. Rothenberg stooped and placed something which he held in his arms on the floor. He looked over toward the king, and then at the graceful little greyhound which stood quietly before him. This was no other than the favorite dog of the king, which had been lost and a captive. [Footnote: The greyhound had fallen into the hands of the Austrians at the battle of Sohr, and had been presented by General Nadasti to his wife as a trophy. When this lady learned that Biche had been a pet of the king, she at first refused to give it up: and only after several demands, and with much difficulty, could she be induced to return it. Rodenbeck, Diary, p. 126.]

The little Biche stood still for a moment, looking around intelligently, and then ran lightly across the apartment, sprang upon the table and laid its forepaw on the king’s neck.

“Biche, my faithful little friend, is it you?” said Frederick, throwing his pen aside and taking the little animal in his arms. Biche began to bark with delight, nestle closely to her master, and look lovingly at him with her bright little eyes. And the king–he inclined his face on the head of his faithful little friend, and tears ran slowly down his cheeks. [Footnote: Muchler, “Frederick the Great,” p. 350. Rodenbeck, Diary, p. 137.]

“You have not forgotten me, my little Biche? Ah, if men were true, and loved me as you do, my faithful little dog, I should be a rich, a happy king!”

General Rothenberg still stood at the half-opened door. “Sire, said he, “is it only Biche who has the grandes and petites entrees, or have I also?”

“Ah, it was then you who brought Biche?” said Frederick, beckoning to the general to approach.

“Yes, sire, it was I, but I almost regret having done so, for I perceive that Biche is a dangerous rival, and I am jealous of her.”

“You are my best gentleman-friend, and Biche is my best lady- friend,” said the king, laughing. “I shall never forget that Biche on one occasion might have discovered me to the Austrians, and did not betray me, as thousands of men would have done in her place. Had she barked at the time when I had concealed myself under the bridge, while the regiment of pandours was passing over, I should have been lost. But she conquered herself. From love to me she renounced her instincts, and was silent. She nestled close to my side, regarding me with her discreet little eyes, and licking my hand lovingly. Ah, my friend, dogs are better and truer than mankind, and the so-called images of God could learn a great deal from them!”

CHAPTER XIII.

THE FLIGHT.

Two months had passed since Trenck’s last attempted escape; two months of anguish, of despair. But he was not depressed, not hopeless; he had one great aim before his eyes–to be free, to escape from this prison. The commandant had just assured him he would never leave it alive.

This frightful picture of a life-long imprisonment did not terrify him, did not agitate a nerve or relax a muscle. He felt his blood bounding in fiery streams through his veins. With a merry laugh and sparkling eye he declared that no man could be imprisoned during his whole life who felt himself strong enough to achieve his freedom.

“I have strength and endurance like Atlas. I can bear the world on my shoulders, and shall I never be able to burst these doors and gates, to surmount these miserable fortress walls which separate me from liberty, the world of action, the golden sunshine? No, no, before the close of this year I shall be free. Yes, free! free to fly to her and give her back this letter, and ask her if she did truly write it? if these cold words came from her heart? No, some one has dared to imitate her writing, and thus deprive me of the only ray of sunshine which enters my dark prison. I must be free in order to know this. I will believe in nothing which I do not see written in her beautiful face; only when her lips speak these fearful words, will I believe them. I must be free, and until then I must forget all other things, even this terrible letter. My thoughts, my eyes, my heart, my soul, must have but one aim–my liberty!”

Alas! the year drew near its close, and the goal was not reached; indeed, the difficulties were greatly increased. The commandant, Von Fouquet, had just received stern orders from Berlin; the watch had been doubled, and the officers in the citadel had been peremptorily forbidden to enter the cell of the prisoner, or in any way to show him kindness or attention.

The officers loved the young and cheerful prisoner; by his fresh and hopeful spirit, his gay laugh and merry jest, he had broken up the everlasting monotony of their garrison-life; by his powerful intellect and rich fancy he had, in some degree, dissipated their weariness and stupidity. They felt pity for his youth, his beauty, his geniality, his energetic self-confidence; his bold courage imposed upon them, and they were watching curiously and anxiously to see the finale of this contest between the poor, powerless, imprisoned youth, and the haughty, stern commander, who had sworn to Trenck that he should not succeed in making even an attempt to escape, to which Trenck had laughingly replied:

“I will not only make an attempt to escape, I will fly in defiance of all guards, and all fortress walls, and all commandants. I inhale already the breath of liberty which is wafted through my prison. Do you not see how the Goddess of Liberty, with her enchanting smile, stands at the head of my wretched bed, sings her sweet evening songs to the poor prisoner, and wakes him in the early morning with the sound of trumpets? Oh, sir commandant, Liberty loves me, and soon will she take me like a bride in her fair arms, and bear me off to freedom!”

The commandant had doubled the guard, and forbidden the officers, under heavy penalty, to have any intercourse with Trenck. Formerly, the officers who had kept watch over Trenck, had been allowed to enter, to remain and eat with him; now the door was closed against them, the major kept the key, and Trenck’s food was handed him through the window. [Footnote: Trenck’s Memoirs.] But this window was large, and the officer on guard could put his head in and chat awhile with the prisoner. The major had the principal key, but the officer had a night-key, and, by this means, entered often in the evenings and passed a few hours with the prisoner, listening with astonishment to his plans of escape, and his dreams of a happy future.

But they did not all come to speak of indifferent things, and to be cheered and brightened by his gay humor. There were some who truly loved him, and wished to give him counsel and aid. One came because he had promised his beloved mistress, his bride, to liberate Trenck, cost what it would. This was Lieutenant Schnell, the bridegroom of Amelia’s maid of honor. One day, thanks to the night-key, he entered Trenck’s cell.

“I will stand by you, and assist you to escape. More than that, I will fly with you. The commandant, Fouquet, hates me–he says I know too much for an officer; that I do not confine myself to my military duties, but love books, and art, and science. He has often railed at me, and I have twice demanded my dismissal, which he refused, and threatened me with arrest if I should again demand it. Like yourself, I am not free, and, like you, I wish to fly from bondage. And now let us consult together, and arrange our plan of escape.”

“Yes,” said Trenck, with a glowing countenance, and embracing his new-found friend, “we will be unconquerable. Like Briareus, we will have a hundred arms and a hundred heads. When two young and powerful men unite their wills, nothing can restrain them–nothing withstand them. Let us make our arrangements.”

The plan of escape was marked out, and was, indeed, ripe for action. On the last day of the year, Lieutenant Schnell was to be Trenck’s night-guard, and then they would escape. The dark shadows of night would assist them. Horses were already engaged. There was gold to bribe the guard, and there were loaded pistols for those who could not be tempted. These had been already smuggled into Trenck’s cell, and concealed in the ashes of the fireplace.

And now it was Christmas eve. This was a grand festal day even for all the officers of the citadel. With the exception of the night- watch, they were all invited to dine with the commandant. A day of joy and rejoicing to all but the poor prisoner, who sat solitary in his cell, and recalled, with a sad heart, the happy days of his childhood. “The holy evening” had been to him a golden book of promise, and a munificent cornucopia of happiness and peace.

The door of his cell was hastily opened, and Schnell rushed in.

“Comrade, we are betrayed!” said he breathlessly. “Our plan of flight has been discovered. The adjutant of the commander has just secretly informed me that when the guard is changed I am to be arrested. You see, then, we are lost, unless we adopt some rash and energetic resolution.”

“We will fly before the hour of your arrest,” said Trenck, gayly.

“If you think that possible, so be it!” said Schnell. He drew a sword from under his mantle, and handed it to Trenck. “Swear to me upon this sword, that come what may, you will never allow me to fall alive into the hands of my enemies.”

“I swear it, so truly as God will help me! And now, Schnell, take the same oath.”

“I swear it! And now friend, one last grasp of the hand, and then forward. May God be with us! Hide your sword under your coat. Let us assume an indifferent and careless expression–come!”

Arm in arm, the two young men left the prison door. They appeared calm and cheerful; each one kept a hand in his bosom, and this hand held a loaded pistol.

The guard saluted the officer of the night-watch, who passed by him in full uniform. In passing, he said: “I am conducting the prisoner to the officers’ room. Remain here–I will return quickly.”

Slowly, quietly, they passed down the whole length of the corridor; they reached the officer’s room, and opened the door. The guard walked with measured step slowly before the open door of Trenck’s cell, suspecting nothing. The door closed behind the fugitives–the first step toward liberty was taken.

“And now, quickly onward to the side door. When we have passed the sentry-box, we will be at the outer works. We must spring over the palisades, and woe to the obstacle that lies in our path!–advance! forward!”

They reached the wall, they greeted fair Freedom with golden smiles, but turning a corner, they stood suddenly before the major and his adjutant!

A cry of horror burst from Schnell’s lips. With one bold leap, he sprang upon the breastworks, and jumped below. With a wild shout of joy Trenck followed him. His soul bounded with rapture and gladness. He has mounted the wall, and what he finds below will be liberty in death, or liberty in life.

He lives! He stretches himself after his wondrous leap, and he is not injured–he recovers strength and presence of mind quickly.

But where is his friend? where is Schnell? There–there; he lies upon the ground, with a dislocated ankle, impossible to stand– impossible to move.

“Remember your oath, friend–kill me! I can go no farther. Here is my sword–thrust it into my bosom, and fly for your life!”

Trenck laughed gayly, took him in his arms as lovingly and tenderly as a mother. “Swing yourself on my back, friend, and clasp your arms about my neck, and hold fast. We will run a race with the reindeer.”

“Trenck! Trenck! kill me Leave me here, and hasten on. Escape is impossible with such a burden.”

“You are as light as a feather, and I will die with you rather than leave you.”

Onward! onward! the sun sets and a heavy fog rises suddenly from out of the earth.

“Trenck, Trenck, do you not hear the alarm–guns thundering from the citadel? Our pursuers are after us.”

“I hear the cannon,” said Trenck, hastening on. “We have a half hour’s start.”

“A half hour will not suffice. No one has ever escaped from Glatz who did not have two hours’ advance of pursuit. Leave me, Trenck, and save yourself.”

“I will not leave you. I would rather die with you. Let us rest a moment, and gather breath.”

Gently, carefully, he laid his friend upon the ground. Schnell suppressed his cries of pain, and Trenck restrained his panting breath–they rested and listened. The white, soft mist settled more thickly around them. The citadel and the town was entirely hidden from view.

“God is with us,” said Trenck. “He covers us with an impenetrable veil, and conceals us from our enemies.”

“God is against us–our flight was too soon discovered. Already the whole border is alarmed. Listen to the signals in every village. The three shots from the citadel have announced that a prisoner has escaped. The commanding officers are now flying from point to point, to see if the peasants are doing duty, and if every post is strictly guarded. The cordon is alarmed; the whole Bohemian boundary has been signalled. It is too late–we cannot reach the border.”

“We will not go then, friend, in the direction our enemies expect us,” said Trenck, merrily. “They saw us running toward the Bohemian boundary, and they will follow in that direction through night and fog. We will fly where they are not seeking us–we will cross the Reise. Do you see there a line of silver shimmering through the fog, and advancing to meet us? Spring upon my back, Schnell. We must cross the Reise!”

“I cannot, Trenck, I suffer agony with my foot. It is impossible for me to swim.”

“I can swim for both.”

He knelt down, took his friend upon his back, and ran with him to the river. And now they stood upon the shore. Solemnly, drearily, the waves dashed over their feet, sweeping onward large blocks of ice which obstructed the current.

“Is the river deep, comrade?”

“In the middle of the stream, deep enough to cover a giant like yourself.”

“Onward, then! When I can no longer walk, I can swim. Hold fast, Schnell!”

Onward, in the dark, ice-cold water, bravely onward, with his friend upon his back! Higher and higher rose the waves! Now they reached his shoulder!

“Hold fast to my hair, Schnell, we must swim!”

With herculean strength he swam through the dark, wild waters, and dashed the ice-blocks which rushed against him from his path.

Now they have reached the other shore. Not yet safe–but safe from immediate danger. The blessed night conceals their course, and their pursuers seek them on the other shore.

Suddenly the fog is dispersed; a rough bleak wind freezes the moisture in the atmosphere, and the moon rose in cloudless majesty in the heavens. It was a cold, clear December night, and the wet clothes of the fugitives were frozen stiff, like a harness, upon them. Trenck felt neither cold nor stiff; he carried his friend upon his shoulders, and that kept him warm; he walked so rapidly, his limbs could not stiffen.

Onward, ever onward to the mountains! They reached the first hill, under whose protecting shadows they sank down to rest, and take counsel together.

“Trenck, I suffer great agony; I implore you to leave me here and save yourself. In a few hours you can pass the border. Leave me, then, and save yourself!”

“I will never desert a friend in necessity. Come, I am refreshed.”

He took up his comrade and pressed on. The moon had concealed herself behind the clouds; the cold, cutting winds howled through the mountains. Stooping, Trenck waded on through the snow. He was scarcely able now to hold himself erect. Hope inspired him with strength and courage–they had wandered far, they must soon reach the border.

Day broke! the pale rays of the December sun melted the mountain vapors into morning. The two comrades were encamped upon the snow, exhausted with their long march, hopefully peering here and there after the Bohemian boundary.

“Great God! what is that? Are not those the towers of Glatz? and that dark spectre which raises itself so threateningly against the horizon, is not that the citadel?”

And so it was. The poor fugitives have wandered round and round the whole night through, and they are now, alas! exactly where they started.

“We are lost,” murmured Schnell; “there is no hope!” “No, we are not lost!” shouted Trenck; “we have young, healthy limbs, and weapons. They shall never take us alive.”

“But we cannot escape them. Our appearance will instantly betray us; I am in full uniform, and you in your red coat of the body-guard, both of us without hats. Any man would know we were deserters.”

“Woe to him who calls us so! we will slay him, and walk over his dead body. And now for some desperate resolve. We cannot go backward, we must advance, and pass right through the midst of our enemies in order to reach the border. You know the way, and the whole region round about. Come. Schnell, let us hold a council of war.”

“We must pass through that village in front of us. How shall we attempt to do so unchallenged?”

Half an hour later a singular couple drew near to the last house of the village. One was a severely wounded, bleeding officer of the king’s body-guard; his face was covered with blood, a bloody handkerchief was bound about his brow, and his hands tied behind his back. Following him, limped an officer in full parade dress, but bareheaded. With rude, coarse words he drove the poor prisoner before him, and cried for help. Immediately two peasants rushed from the house.

“Run to the village,” said the officer, “and tell the judge to have a carriage got ready immediately, that I may take this deserter to the fortress. I succeeded in capturing him, but he shot my horse, and I fear I broke a bone in falling; you see, though, how I have cut him to pieces. I think he is mortally wounded. Bring a carriage instantly, that I may take him, while yet alive, to the citadel.”

One of the men started at once, the other nodded to them to enter his hut.

Stumbling and stammering out words of pain, the wounded man followed him; cursing and railing, the officer limped behind him. On entering the room, the wounded man sank upon the floor, groaning aloud. A young girl advanced hastily, and took his wounded head in her arms; while an old woman, who stood upon the hearth, brought a vessel of warm milk to comfort him.

The old peasant stood at the window, and looked, with a peculiar smile, at the officer, who seated himself upon a bench near the fire, and drank the milk greedily which the old woman handed him. Suddenly the old man advanced in front of the officer and laid his hand on his shoulder.

“Your disguise is not necessary, Lieutenant Schnell, I know you; my son served in your company. There was an officer from the citadel here last night, and informed us of the two deserters. You are one, Lieutenant Schnell, and that is the other. That is Baron Trenck.”

And now, the wounded man, as if cured by magic, sprang to his feet. The sound of his name had given him health and strength, and healed the wound in his forehead. He threw the handkerchief off, and rushed out, while Schnell with prayers and threats held back the old man, and entreated him to show them the nearest way to the border.

Trenck hastened to the stable–two horses were in the stalls. The young girl, who had held his head so tenderly, came up behind him.

“What are you doing, sir?” she said anxiously, as Trenck released the horses. “You will not surely take my father’s horses?–if you do, I will cry aloud for help.”

“If you dare to cry aloud, I will murder you,” said Trenck, with flaming eyes, “and then I will kill myself! I have sworn that I will not be taken alive into the fortress. Have pity, beautiful child– your eyes are soft and kindly, and betray a tender heart. Help me– think how beautiful, how glorious is the world and life and liberty to the young! My enemies will deprive me of all this, and chain me in a cell, like a wild beast. Oh, help me to escape!”

“How can I help you?” said Mariandel, greatly touched.

“Give me saddles and bridles for these horses, in order that I may flee. I swear to you, by God and by my beloved, that they shall be returned to you!”

“You have then a sweetheart, sir?”

“I have–and she weeps day and night for me.”

“I will give you the saddles in remembrance of my own beloved, who is far away from me. Come, saddle your horse quickly–I will saddle the other.”

“Now, farewell, Mariandel–one kiss at parting–farewell, compassionate child! Schnell, Schnell, quick, quick to horse, to horse!”

Schnell rushed out of the hut, the peasant after him. He saw with horror that his horses were saddled; that Schnell, in spite of his foot, had mounted one, and Trenck was seated upon the other.

“My God! will you steal my horses? Help! help!”

Mariandel laid her hand upon her father’s lips, and suppressed his cries for help. “Father, he has a bride, and she weeps for him!– think upon Joseph, and let them go.”

The fugitives dashed away. Their long hair fluttered in the wind, their cheeks glowed with excitement and expectation. Already the village lay far behind them. Onward, over the plains, over the meadows, over the stubble-fields!

“Schnell. Schnell, I see houses–I see towns. Schnell, there lies a city!”

“That is Wunschelburg, and we must ride directly through it, for this is the nearest way to Bohemia.”

“There is a garrison there, but we must ride through them. Aha! this is royal sport! We will dash right through the circle of our enemies. They will be so amazed at our insolence, that they will allow us to escape. Hei! here are the gates–the bells are ringing for church. Onward, onward, my gallant steed, you must fly as if you had wings!”

Huzza! how the flint strikes fire! how the horses’ hoofs resound on the pavement! how the gayly-dressed church-goers, who were advancing so worthily up the street, fly screaming to every side! how the lazy hussars thinking no harm, stand at the house doors, and fix their eyes with horror upon these two bold riders, who dash past them like a storm-wind!

And now they have reached the outer gate–the city lies behind them. Forward, forward, in mad haste! The horses bow, their knees give way, but the bold riders rein them up with powerful arms, and they spring onward.

Onward, still onward! “But what is that? who is this advancing directly in front of us? Schnell, do you not know him? That is Captain Zerbtz!”

Yes, that is Captain Zerbtz, who has been sent with his hussars to arrest the fugitives; but he is alone, and his men are not in sight. He rode on just in front of them. When near enough to be heard, he said, “Brothers, hasten! Go to the left, pass that solitary house. That is the boundary-line. [Footnote: Trenck’s Memoirs.] My hussars have gone to the right.”

He turned his horse quickly, and dashed away. The fugitives flew to the left, passed the lonely house, passed the white stone which marked the border, and now just a little farther on.

“Oh, comrade, let our horses breathe! Let us rest and thank God, for we are saved–we have passed the border!”

“We are free, free!” cried Trenck, with so loud a shout of joy that the mountains echoed with the happy sound, and reechoed back, “Free, free!”

CHAPTER XIV.

I WILL.

Swiftly, noiselessly, and unheeded the days of prosperity and peace passed away. King Frederick has been happy; he does not even remember that more than two years of calm content and enjoyment have been granted him–two years in which he dared lay aside his sword, and rest quietly upon his laurels. This happy season had been rich in blessings; bringing its laughing tribute of perfumed roses and blooming myrtles. Two years of such happiness seems almost miraculous in the life of a king.

Our happy days are ever uneventful. True love is silent and retiring; it does not speak its rapture to the profane world, but hides itself in the shadows of holy solitude and starry night. Let us not, then, lift the veil with which King Frederick had concealed his love. These two years of bloom and fragrance shall pass by unquestioned.

When the sun is most lustrous, we turn away our eyes, lest they be blinded by his rays; but when clouds and darkness are around about us, we look up curiously and questioningly. King Frederick’s sun is no longer clear and dazzling, dark clouds are passing over it; a shadow from these clouds has fallen upon the young and handsome face of the king, quenched the flashing glance of his eye, and checked the rapid beating of his heart.

What was it which made King Frederick so restless and unhappy? He did not know himself, or, rather, he would not know. An Alp seemed resting upon his heart, repressing every joyful emotion, and making exertion impossible. He sought distraction in work, and in the early morning he called his ministers to council, but his thoughts were far away; he listened without hearing, and the most important statements seemed to him trivial. He mistrusted himself, and dismissed his ministers. It was Frederick’s custom to read every letter and petition himself, and write his answer upon the margin. This being done, he turned to his ordinary studies and occupations, and commenced writing in his “Histoire de Man Temps.” Soon, however, he found himself gazing upon the paper, lost in wandering thoughts and wild, fantastic dreams. He threw his pen aside, and tried to lose himself in the beautiful creations of his favorite poet, all things in nature and fiction seemed alike vain.

Frederick threw his book aside in despair. “What is the matter with me?” he exclaimed angrily. “I am not myself; some wicked fairy has cast a spell about me, and bound my soul in magic fetters. I cannot work, I cannot think; content and quiet peace are banished from my breast! What does this signify? and why–” He did not complete his sentence, but gazed with breathless attention to the door. He had heard one tone of a voice without which made his heart tremble and his eyes glow with their wonted fire.

“Announce to his majesty that I am here, and plead importunately for an audience,” said a soft, sweet voice.

“The king has commanded that no one shall be admitted.”

“Announce me, nevertheless,” said the petitioner imperiously.

“That is impossible!”

Frederick had heard enough. He stepped to the door and threw it open. “Signora, I am ready to receive you; have the goodness to enter.” He stepped abruptly forward, and, giving his hand to Barbarina, led her into his cabinet.

Barbarina greeted him with a sweet smile, and gave a glance of triumph to the guard, who had dared to refuse her entrance.

The king conducted her silently to his boudoir, and nodded to her to seat herself upon the divan. But Barbarina remained standing, and fixed her great burning eyes upon his face.

“I see a cloud upon your brow, sire,” said she, in a fond and flattering tone. “What poor insect has dared to vex my royal lion? Was it an insect? Was it–“

“No, no,” said Frederick, interrupting her, “an angel or a devil has tortured me, and banished joy and peace from my heart. Now tell me, Barbarina, what are you? Are you a demon, come to martyr me, or an angel of light, who will transform my wild dreams of love and bliss into reality? There are hours of rapture in which I believe the latter, in which your glance of light and glory wafts my soul on golden, wings into the heaven of heavens, and I say to myself, ‘I am not only a king, but a god, for I have an angel by my side to minister to me.’ But then, alas! come weary times in which you seem to me an evil demon, and I see in your flashing eyes that eternal hatred which you swore to cherish in the first hour of our meeting.”

“Alas! does your majesty still remember that?” said Barbarina, in a tone of tender reproof.

“You have taken care that I shall not forget it. You once told me that from hatred to love was but a small step. If you have truly advanced so far, how can I be assured but you will one day step backward?”

“How can you be assured?” said she, pointing a rosy finger with indescribable grace at the king. “Ah. sire! your divine beauty, your eyes, which have borrowed lightning from Jove and glory from the sun–your brow, where majesty and wisdom sit enthroned, and that youthful and enchanting smile which illuminates the whole–all these make assurance doubly sure! I will not allude to your throne, and its pomp and power! What is it to me that you are a king? For me you are a man, a hero, a god. Had I met you as a shepherd in the fields, I should have said, ‘There is a god in disguise!’ The fable is verified, and ‘Apollo is before me!’ Apollo, I adore, I worship you! let one ray from your heavenly eyes fall upon my face!” She knelt before him, folding her hands, extended them pleadingly toward the king, and looked upon him with a ravishing smile.

The king raised her, and pressed her–in his arms, then took her small head in his hands, and turning it backward, gazed searchingly in her face.

“Oh! Barbarina,” said he, sadly, “to-day you are an angel, why were you a demon yesterday? Why did you martyr and torture me with your childish moods and passionate temper? Why is your heart, which can be so soft and warm, sometimes cold as an iceberg and wholly pitiless? Child! child! do you not know I have been wounded by many griefs, and that every rough word and every angry glance is like a poisoned dagger to my soul? I had looked forward with such delight to our meeting yesterday at Rothenberg’s! I expected so much happiness, and I had earned it by a diligent and weary day’s work. Alas! you spoiled all by your frowning brow and sullen silence. It was your fault that T returned home sad and heartless. I could not sleep, but passed the night in trying to find out the cause of your melancholy. This morning I could not work, and have robbed my kingdom and my people of the hours which properly belong to them; weak and powerless, I have been swayed wholly by gloom and discontent. What was it, Barbarina, which veiled your clear brow with frowns, and made your sweet voice so harsh and stern?”

“What was it?” said Barbarina, sadly; and resting on the arm of the king, she leaned her head back and looked up at him with half-closed eyes. “It was ambition which tortured me. But I did wrong to conceal any thing from you. I should, without sullen or angry looks, have made known the cause of my despair. I should have felt that I had only to breathe my request, and that the noble and magnanimous heart of my king would understand me. I should have known that the man who had won laurels in the broad fields of science and on the bloody battle-field, would appreciate this thirst for renown; this glowing, burning hate toward those who cross our paths and wish to share our fame!”

“Jealous? you are jealous, then, of some other artiste,” said the king, releasing Barbarina from his arms.

“Yes, sire, I am jealous!–jealous of your smiles, of your applause; of the public voice, of the bravos, which like a golden shower have fallen upon me alone, and which I must now divide with another!”

“Of whom, then, are you jealous?” said the king.

She threw her head back proudly, a crimson blush blazed upon her cheeks, and her eyes sparkled angrily.

“Why has this Marianna Cochois been engaged? Why has Baron von Swartz put this contempt upon me?” said she fiercely. “To engage another artiste is to say to the world, that Barbarina no longer pleases, that she no longer has the power to enrapture the public, that her triumphs are over, and her day is past! Oh! this thought has made me wild! Is not Barbarina the first dancer of the world? Can it be that another prima donna, and not the Barbarina, is engaged for the principal role in a new and splendid ballet? Does Barbarina live, and has she not murdered the one who dared to do this, to bring this humiliation upon her?”

Tears gushed from her eyes, and sobbing loudly, she hid her face in her hands. The king gazed sadly upon her, and a weary smile played upon his lip.

“You are all alike–all,” said he, bitterly, “and the great artiste is even as narrow-minded and pitiful as the unknown and humble; you are all weak, vain, envious, and swayed by small passions; and to think that you, Barbarina, are not an exception; that the Barbarina weeps because Marianna Cochois is to play the principal role in the new ballet, ‘Toste Galanti.'”

“She shall not, she dare not,” cried Barbarina; “I will not suffer this humiliation; I will not be disgraced, dishonored in Berlin; I will not sit unnoticed in a loge, and listen to the bravos and plaudits awarded to another artiste which belong to me alone! Oh, sire, do not allow this shame to be put upon me! Command that this part, which is mine, which belongs to me by right of the world-wide fame which I have achieved, be given to me! I implore your majesty to take this role from the Cochois, and restore it to me.”

“That is impossible, Barbarina. The Cochois, like every other artiste, must have her debut. Baron Swartz has given her the principal part in ‘Toste Galanti,’ and I cannot blame him.”

“Oh! your majesty, I beseech you to listen. Is it not true–will you not bear witness to the fact that Barbarina has never put your liberality and magnanimity to the test; that she has never shown herself to be egotistical or mercenary? I ask nothing from my king but his heart, the happiness to sit at his feet, and in the sunshine of his eyes to bathe my being in light and gladness. Sire, you have often complained that I desired and would accept nothing from you; that diamonds and pearls had no attraction for me. You know that not the slightest shadow of selfishness has fallen upon my love! Now, then, I have a request to-day: I ask something from my king which is more precious in my eyes than all the diamonds of the world. Give me this role; that is, allow me to remain in the undisturbed possession of my fame.” She bowed her knee once more before the king, but this time he did not raise her in his arms.

“Barbarina,” said he, sadly and thoughtfully, “put away from you this unworthy and pitiful envy. Cast it off as you do the tinsel robes and rouge of the stage with which you conceal your beauty. Be yourself again. The noble, proud, and great-hearted woman who shines without the aid of garish ornament, who is ever the queen of grace and beauty, and needs not the borrowed and false purple and ermine of the stage. Grant graciously to the Cochois this small glory, you who are everywhere and always a queen in your own right!”

Barbarina sprang from her knees with flashing eyes. “Sire,” said she, “you refuse my request–my first request–you will not order that this part shall be given to me?”

“I cannot; it would be unjust.”

“And so I must suffer this deadly shame; must see another play the part which belongs to me; another made glad by the proud triumphs which are mine and should remain mine. I will not suffer this! I swear it! So true as my name is Barbarina I will have no rival near me! I will not be condemned to this daily renewed struggle after the first rank as an artiste. I will not bear the possibility of a comparison between myself and any other woman. I am and I will remain the first; yes, I will!”

She raised herself up defiantly, and her burning glance fell upon the face of the king, but he met it firmly, and if the bearing of Barbarina was proud and commanding, that of King Frederick was more imposing.

“How!” said he, in a tone so harsh and threatening that Barbarina, in spite of her scorn and passion, felt her heart tremble with fear. “How! Is there another in Prussia who dares say, ‘I will?’ Is it possible that a voice is raised in contradiction to the expressed will of the king?”

Barbarina turned pale and trembled. The countenance of Frederick expressed what she had never seen before. It was harsh and cold, and a cutting irony spoke in his glance and a contemptuous smile played upon his lip.

“Mercy, mercy!” cried she, pleadingly; “have pity with my passion. Forget this inconsiderate word which scorn and despair drew from me. Oh! sire, do not look upon me so coldly, unless you wish that I should sink down and die at your feet; crush me not in your anger, but pardon and forget.”

With her lovely face bathed in tears and her arms stretched out imploringly; she drew near the king, but he stood up erect and stepped backward.

“Signora Barbarina, I have nothing to forgive, but I cannot grant your request. The Cochois keeps her role, and if you have any complaint to make, apply to your chief, Baron Swartz; and now, signora, farewell; the audience is ended.”

He bowed his head lightly and turned away; but Barbarina uttered one wild cry, sprang after him, and with mad frenzy she clung to his arm.

“Sire, sire! do not go,” she said, breathlessly; “do not forsake me in your rage. My God, do you not see that I suffer; that I shall be a maniac if you desert me!” and, gliding to his feet, she clasped his knees with her beautiful arms, and looked up at him imploringly. “Oh, my king and my lord, let me be as a slave at your feet; do not spurn me from you!”

King Frederick did not reply; he leaned forward and looked down upon the lovely and enchanting woman lying at his feet, and never, perhaps, had her charms appeared so intoxicating as at this moment, but his face was sad, and his eyes, usually so clear and bright, were veiled in tears. There was a pause. Barbarina still clung to his knees, and looked up beseechingly, and the king regarded her with an expression of unspeakable melancholy; his great soul seemed to speak in the glance which fixed upon her. It was eloquent with love, rapture, and grief. Now their eyes met and seemed immovably fixed. In the midst of the profound silence nothing was heard but Barbarina’s sighs. She knew full well the significance of this moment. She felt that fate, with its menacing and unholy shadow, was hovering over her. Suddenly the king roused himself, and the voice which broke the solemn silence sounded strange and harsh to Barbarina.

“Farewell, Signora Barbarina,” said the king.

Barbarina’s arms sank down powerless, and a sob burst from her lips. The king did not regard it; he did not look back. With a firm hand he opened the door which led into his chamber; entered and closed it. He sank upon a chair, and gave one long and weary sigh. A profound despair was written on his countenance, and had Barbarina seen him, she would have appreciated the anguish of his heart.

She lay bathed in tears before his door, and cried aloud: “He has forsaken me! Oh, my God, he has forsaken me!” This fearful and terrible thought maddened her; she sprang up and shook the door fiercely, and with a loud and piteous voice she prayed for entrance. She knew not herself what words of love, of anguish, of despair, and insulted pride burst from her pallid lips. One moment she threatened fiercely, then pleaded touchingly for pardon; sometimes her voice seemed full of tears–then cold and commanding. The king stood with folded arms, leaning against the other side of the door. He heard these paroxysms of grief and rage, and every word fell upon his heart as the song of the siren upon the ear of Ulysses. But Frederick was mighty and powerful; he needed no ropes or wax to hold him back. He had the strength to control his will, and the voice of wisdom, the warning voice of duty, spoke louder than the siren’s song.

“No,” said he, “I will not, I dare not allow myself to be again seduced. All this must come to an end! I have long known this, but I had no strength to resist temptation. Have I not solemnly sworn to have but one aim in life–to place the good of my people far above my own personal happiness? If the man and the king strive within me for mastery, the king must triumph above all other things. I must consider the holy duties which my crown lays upon me; my time, my thoughts, my strength, belong to my people, my land. I have already robbed them, for I have withdrawn myself. I have suffered an enchantress to step between me and my duty–another will than mine finds utterance, influences, and indeed controls my thoughts and actions. Alas! a king should be old and be born with the heart of a graybeard–he dare never have a heart of youth and fire if he would serve his people faithfully and honestly! With a heart of flesh I might have been a happier, a more amiable man, but a weak, unworthy king. I should have been intoxicated by a woman’s love, and her light wish would have been more powerful than my will. Never, never shall that be! I will have the courage to trample my own heart under foot, and the sorrows of the man shall bo soothed and healed by the pomp and glory of the king.”

In the next room Barbarina leaned over against the door, exhausted by her prayers and tears. “Listen to me, my king,” said she, softly. “In one hour you have broken my will and humbled my pride forever! From this time onward Barbarina has no will but yours. Command me, then, wholly. Say to me that I am never to dance again, and I swear to you that my foot shall never more step upon the stage; command that all my roles shall be given to the Cochois, I will myself hand them to her and pray her to accept them. You see, my king, that I am no longer proud–no longer ambitious. Have mercy upon me then, sire; open this fearful door; let me look upon your face; let me lie at your feet. Oh, my king, be merciful, be gracious; cast me not away from you!”

The king leaned, agitated and trembling, against the door. Once he raised his arm and laid his hand upon the bolt. Barbarina uttered a joyful cry, for she had heard this movement. But the king withdrew his hand again. All was still; from time to time the king heard a low sigh, a suppressed sob, then silence followed.

Barbarina pleaded no more. She knew and felt it was in vain. Scorn and wounded pride dried the tears which love and despair had caused to flow. She wept no more–her eyes were flaming–she cast wild, angry glances toward the door before which she had lain so long in humble entreaty. Threateningly she raised her arms toward heaven, and her lips murmured unintelligible words of cursing or oaths of vengeance.

“Farewell, King Frederick,” she said, at last, in mellow, joyous tones–“farewell! Barbarina leaves you.”

She felt that, in uttering these words, the tears had again rushed to her eyes. She shook her head wildly, and closed her eyelids, and pressed her hands firmly upon them, thus forcing back the bitter tears to their source. Then with one wild spring, like an enraged lioness, she sprang to the other door, opened it and rushed out.

Frederick waited some time, then entered the room, which seemed to him to resound with the sighs and prayers of Barbarina. It brought back the memory of joys that were past, and it appeared to him even as the death-chamber of his hopes and happiness. He stepped hastily through the room and bolted the door through which Barbarina had gone out. He wished to be alone. No one should share his solitude– no one should breathe this air, still perfumed by the sighs of Barbarina. King Frederick looked slowly and sadly around him, then hastened to the door before which Barbarina had knelt. An embroidered handkerchief lay upon the floor. The king raised it; it was wet with tears, and warm and fragrant from contact with her soft, fine hand. He pressed it to his lips and to his burning eyes; then murmured, lightly, “Farewell! a last, long farewell to happiness!”

CHAPTER XV.

THE LAST STRUGGLE FOR POWER.

Restless and anxious the two cavaliers of the king paced the anteroom, turning their eyes constantly toward the door which led into the king’s study, and which had not been opened since yesterday morning. For twenty-four hours the king had not left his room. In vain had General Rothenberg and Duke Algarotti prayed for admittance.

The king had not even replied to them; he had, however, called Fredersdorf, and commanded him sternly to admit no one, and not to return himself unless summoned. The king would take no refreshment, would undress himself, required no assistance, and must not be disturbed in the important work which now occupied him.

This strict seclusion and unaccustomed silence made the king’s friends and servants very anxious. With oppressed hearts they stood before the door and listened to every sound from the room. During many hours they heard the regular step of the king as he walked backward and forward; sometimes he uttered a hasty word, then sighed wearily, and nothing more.

Night came upon them. Pale with alarm, Rothenberg asked Algarotti if it was not their duty to force the door and ascertain the condition of his majesty.

“Beware how you take that rash step!” said Fredersdorf, shaking his head. “The king’s commands were imperative; he will be alone and undisturbed.”

“Have you no suspicion of the cause of his majesty’s distress?” asked Algarotti.

“For some days past the king has been grave and out of humor,” replied Fredersdorf. “I am inclined to the opinion that his majesty has been angered and wounded by some dear friend.”

General Rothenberg bent over and whispered to Algarotti: “Barbarina has wounded him; for some time past she has been sullen and imperious. These haughty and powerful natures have been carrying on an invisible war with each other; they both contend for sovereignty.”

“If this is so, I predict confidently that the beautiful Barbarina will be conquered,” said Algarotti. “Mankind will always be conquered by Frederick the king, and must submit to him. So soon as Frederick the Great recognizes the fact that the man in him is subjected by the enchanting Barbarina, like Alexander the Great, he will cut the gordian knot, and release himself from even the soft bondage of love.”

“I fear that he is strongly bound, and that the gordian knot of love can withstand even the king’s sword. Frederick, ordinarily so unapproachable, so inexorable in his authority and self-control, endures with a rare patience the proud, commanding bearing of Barbarina. Even yesterday evening when the king did me the honor to sup with me in the society of the Barbarina, in spite of her peevishness and ever-changing mood, he was the most gallant and attentive of cavaliers.”

“And you think the king has not seen the signora since that time?”

“I do not know; let us ask the guard.”

The gentlemen ascertained from the guard that Barbarina had left the king’s room in the morning, deadly pale, and with her eyes inflamed by weeping.

“You see that I was right,” said Algarotti; “this love-affair has reached a crisis.”

“In which I fear the king will come to grief,” said Rothenberg. “Believe me, his majesty loves Barbarina most tenderly.”

“Not the king! the man loves Barbarina. But listen! did you not hear a noise?”

“Yes, the low tone of a flute,” said Fredersdorf. “Let us approach the door.”

Lightly and cautiously they stepped to the door, behind which the king had carried on this fierce battle with himself, a battle in which he had shed his heart’s best blood. Again they heard the sound of the flute: it trembled on the air like the last sigh of love and happiness; sometimes it seemed like the stormy utterance of a strong soul in extremest anguish, then melted softly away in sighs and tears. Never in the king’s gayest and brightest days had he played