The Youth of the Great Elector by L. Muhlbach (page 3)

“I am a pupil no longer,” interrupted he with glowing cheek. “I am seventeen years old, and no tutor has any more power over me.”

She seemed not to have heard him, and continued in her sweet, melancholy voice: “To-morrow, when perhaps another messenger comes to summon you home, when he brings you a letter from your father with the command to set forth immediately, in which you are informed that he has selected a bride for you, oh, then will the Electoral Prince Frederick William be naught but the obedient son, who obeys his father’s commands, who leaves this country to seek his native land, and to wed the bride who has been chosen for him by his father.”

“No!” shouted the Electoral Prince fiercely, while he leaped up from the divan, and stamped his foot upon the ground–“I say no, and once more no. I shall not do what they order. I shall only follow my own will. And it is my will, my fixed, unalterable will, to make you my wife, and this will I shall carry into effect, despite my father, the German Emperor, and the whole world. Ludovicka, I here offer you my hand. Do you accept it? Will you be my wife?”

With a countenance irradiated by energy, pride, and love he held out his hand to her, and smilingly she laid her own small hand in his. “Yes,” she said, “I will be your wife. With pride and joy I accept your beloved hand, and swear that I love you, and will honor and obey you as my lord and my beloved!”

He sank upon his knees before her, and kissed the hand which rested in his own. “Ludovicka Hollandine, Princess of the Palatinate,” he said, with distinct and solemn voice, “I, Frederick William, Electoral Prince of Brandenburg, vow and swear hereby to love and be faithful to you ever as your wedded husband.”

“I accept your oath, and return it!” she cried joyfully. “I, too, swear to love and be ever true to you, and to take you for my husband. And here you have my betrothal kiss, and here you have your destined bride. Take her, and love her a little, for she loves you very much, and she will die of chagrin if you forget her!”

“I shall never forget you, Ludovicka!” cried he, tenderly embracing her. “Storms indeed will come, violent tempests will rage about us, but I rejoice in them. For strength is tried by storms, and when it thunders and lightens I can then prove to you that my arm is strong enough to protect you, and that you are safe from all danger upon my heart.”

“O Frederick! and still, still would they separate us. My mother just said to me yesterday, ‘Take care not to love the Electoral Prince seriously, for he can never be your husband.’ And when, trembling and weeping, I asked the reason, she at last replied, ‘Because you are a poor Princess, and because the misfortunes of your house overshadow you likewise.’ The Elector and his minister will never give their consent to such a union, and the Electoral Prince will never have the spirit to be disobedient to his father and to marry in opposition to his wishes.”

She darted a quick, searching glance at his face, and saw how he reddened with indignation. “I shall prove to your mother that she is mistaken in me,” he said vehemently. “I am indeed yet young in years, but I feel myself in heart a man who bows to no strange will, and is only obedient to the law of his conscience and his own judgment. I love you, Ludovicka, and I will marry you!”

“If they give us time, Frederick,” sighed Ludovicka. “If they do not force me first to wed some other man.”

“What do you say?” cried the Electoral Prince, growing pale, as he clasped his beloved yet closer to his side. “Could it be possible that–“

“That they sell and barter me away, just as they do other princesses? Yes, alas! it is possible. Ay, Frederick, more than possible–it is certain that they have such views. Wherefore think you, then, that the Electoral Prince of Hesse is here–that he came yesterday with my uncle, the Stadtholder, to visit my mother, and that he was even presented to me in my own apartment? O Frederick! my mother has told me it is a settled thing–that the Electoral Prince of Hesse has come to marry me. They have already made arrangements, and got everything in readiness. Day after to-morrow is to be the day for his formal wooing, and if you do not save me, if you know of no way of escape, then in eight days I shall be the bride of the Electoral Prince of Hesse. I had planned, Frederick, to try you first–to hear from yourself whether you actually loved me, whether your love was earnest. Had I discovered that you were only making sport of my heart, had you not formally offered me your hand and sued for me as your wife, then would I have gone silently away, would have buried my love in the depths of my soul, sacrificed myself to my mother’s wishes and the misfortune of my house, and become the wife of the Electoral Prince of Hesse. But you do love me, you offer me your hand, and now I confess my love openly and joyfully–now I cast myself in your arms and entreat you: Save me, my Frederick, do not let them tear me away from you! Save me from the Electoral Prince of Hesse!”

She flung both her arms around him, pressed him closely to her, and looked up to him with tenderly beseeching eye. With passionate warmth the Electoral Prince kissed those alluring eyes and lips responding to his pressure. “You shall be mine, you must be mine, for I love you inexpressibly. I can not, I will not live without you!”

“Let us fly, my beloved,” whispered she, always holding him in her embrace.

“Let us fly before the wrath of your father, before the courtship of the Electoral Prince of Hesse. Let us preserve our love in some quiet corner of the earth; let us fly where no one can follow us, where your father’s will and his minister’s hate can have no power–let us fly!”

“Yes,” said he, clasping closer in his arms the tender, glowing creature who clung so affectionately to him–“yes, let us fly, my beloved. They shall not tear you from me; I will have you, in spite of them all–you shall be mine, even though the whole world should rise up in opposition. To-morrow night let us make our escape. You are right; there must be some quiet corner of the world where we can hide ourselves, living for happiness, for love alone, until it is permitted us to emerge from our seclusion, and assume the station in the world due to us both. Yes, we will flee, Ludovicka, we will flee, no matter where!”

“Oh, I hope I know a place of refuge, where we may be sheltered from the first wrath of our relatives, my Frederick. I have friends, influential, mighty friends, who will gladly furnish us with an asylum, and from whom we may accept it. To them I shall turn–to them apply for a retreat. They will provide us with the means for flight. Only, my beloved,” she continued, hesitating and with downcast eyes, “only one thing is needful to enable me to flee with you.”

“What is that, my beloved, tell me?”

“Frederick, I can only follow my husband, only go with you as your wife.”

“Yes, you sweet, lovely girl, you can only follow me as your husband. To-morrow night we make our escape, and ere we escape we must be married, and a priest shall bless our love. You say you have influential and powerful friends here, and indeed I know that the richest, noblest men in Holland vie with one another for one kind glance from my Ludovicka. Oh, not in vain have the States stood godfather for my bride, and given her their name. Now will some rich, powerful citizen of Holland prove that he, too, is godfather to the lovely Princess Hollandine, and in Java or Peru, or perhaps on some ship, find us a republic. I accept it, beloved, I accept it, and swear beforehand that the future Elector shall reward the rich mynheer and the whole of Holland for the good now done to the Electoral Prince and his beloved Hollandine. Speak, therefore, to your good, rich friends; tell them they may help and assist us. I agree to everything, I accept everything. I only want you, you yourself, for you are my all, my life, my light!”

“You give me full power, then, to make arrangements for our flight, my Frederick?”

“I give you full power, my beloved; you are wiser, more thoughtful than I am; besides, you are not so strictly guarded, so encircled by spies as I am.”

“No; to-morrow I am still free,” exulted she–“to-morrow the Electoral Prince of Hesse has as yet no power over me, and no one will be observing me. My mother has been detained by sickness at The Hague, and here at Doornward there are no spies. Yes, I take charge of all, beloved. I shall manage everything, and to-morrow night I shall expect you.”

“To-morrow night I shall come here to take you away, my, beloved.”

“No, not here, for to-morrow my mother comes home, and then the castle will no longer be so solitary and quiet; then there will be many people here, and our movements might be watched.”

“Well, where else shall I find you, Ludovicka?”

She clung to him, and gazed tenderly into his glowing eyes. “Oh,” she said, “you do not know what I have ventured and dared for you. Do you remember with what animation and rapture you spoke to me recently of the secret league which exists at The Hague, of the rare feasts which you solemnize there, of the pleasure and delight you experience there? Do you remember how you lamented that we could not enjoy this glorious companionship together, that I could not be there at your side? Well, see, beloved, now you must admit how much I love you, and how ready I am to please you. I have in perfect secrecy and silence had myself initiated into the order of the Media Nocte.”

“You have done that?” cried the Prince, in joyful astonishment. “You belong to this glorious company of great minds, naming hearts, and noble souls? Oh, my Ludovicka, I recognize your love in this, and I thank you, and am proud of it that my betrothed belongs to the genial, the intellectual, and the elect. Oh, you are not merely my destined bride, you are my muse, my goddess, and in humility I bow my head before you, and I kiss the hem of your robe, beloved mistress, chosen one!”

He bent his knee and kissed her robe, and bowed lower to kiss the tiny foot in its blue satin shoe. Then he raised one of these pretty feet and kissed it again, and placed it on his breast, holding it fast there with both his hands.

“Mistress,” he whispered, lifting up to her his countenance, beaming with love and enthusiasm–“mistress, your slave lies before you. Crush me, let me be dust beneath your feet, if you do not love me; let me die here, or swear to me that you will ever love me, that to-morrow night you will link your destiny indissolubly with mine!”

“I will ever love you,” she breathed forth, with a magical smile; “to-morrow night I will link my fate to yours.”

“Give me a pledge of your vow, a sign, a token of this hour!” entreated he, still holding the little foot between his hands.

“What sort of pledge do you require, beloved of my heart? Ask, command; whatever it may be, it shall be yours!”

With beaming, happy look he gazed upon her glowing countenance, and nodded to her, and whispered words full of tenderness and love, and at the same time with fondling hand loosened the silver buckle which fastened the blue satin shoe upon her foot, drew off the slipper from her little foot, whose rosy hue was transparent through the white silk stocking, and smilingly thrust it into the breast pocket of his velvet jacket. “But, Frederick, my shoe–give me back my shoe,” said she, laughing; and her little hand and wondrous arm dived into his pocket to recover the stolen shoe. But the Prince held fast the little hand, whose warm, soft touch he felt to the deepest recesses of his heart, and pressed warm, glowing kisses on that ravishing arm, which seemed to quiver and tremble at the touch of his lips.

“My shoe,” she breathed softly–“give me my shoe!”

“Never!” said he energetically. “No, I swear it, so truly as I love you, I shall never give back to you this precious jewel. Mine it remains, and not for all the treasures of the earth do I give it back again. Here, on my heart, it shall rest, the charming little shoe, and when I die it shall rest beside me in my coffin.”

“No, no, I will have it again!” cried Ludovicka. “My heavens! what would my chambermaid say, if to-morrow morning one of my shoes had vanished–been spirited away?”

“Let her say and think what she pleases, dearest. Tell her you will direct her where to find it on the day after to-morrow. Think you not that when our flight is discovered, she will readily guess who has stolen your shoe?”

“But see, Frederick, see my poor foot; it is freezing, pining for its house!”

And smilingly Ludovicka extended toward the Prince her shoeless little foot. He took it between his hands and breathed on it with his glowing breath, and pressed upon it his burning lips.

“Forgive me, you beautiful foot, for having robbed you of your house. But look you, dear foot, the little house shall now become a sacred memento of my love and my betrothal; and look you, dear foot, I swear to you that you shall walk in pleasant paths. I shall strew flowers for you, you shall tread upon roses, and not a thorn shall prick you and not a stone bruise you. That I swear to you, you little foot of the great enchantress, and therefore forgive me my theft!”

“It shook its head, it will not!” cried Ludovicka, swinging her foot to and fro.

“It shall forgive, or I will punish its mistress!” cried the Prince, while he sprang up, ardently encircling his beloved with his arm. “Yes, you shall pay me for your cruel foot, and–“

All at once he became silent, and, hearkening, looked toward the wall. Ludovicka shrank back, and turned her eye to the same spot.

“Is there, a door there?” whispered he.

“Yes,” she breathed softly, “a tapestry door leading to the small corridor, and thence into my sleeping apartment.”

“Is any one in your sleeping room?”

“My little cousin, Louisa of Orange, who came to-day, and insisted upon staying here–Hush, for God’s sake! she is coming. Hide yourself!”

He flew across the room and jumped behind the door curtain, through which d’Entragues had gone out a little while before. The curtain yet shook from the violence of his movement, when the little tapestry door on the other side was opened, and a lovely child appeared upon the threshold. A long white nightgown, trimmed with rose-colored favors, concealed the slender delicate form in its flowing drapery, falling from the neck to the feet, which, perfectly bare, peeped forth from beneath the white wrapper like two little rose-buds. Her fair hair was parted over the broad, open brow, and fell in long, heavy ringlets on each side of the lovely childish face. The big blue eyes looked so pious and innocent, and such a soft, gentle smile played about the fresh crimson lips! In this whole fair apparition there was such a wondrous magic, so superhuman a loveliness, that it might have been supposed that an angel from heaven had descended and was now entering this apartment, which was yet aglow with the sighs and protestations of passionate earthly love, and radiant as a consecrated altar taper shone the candle in the silver candlestick which she carried in her hand. Lightly and inaudibly the child tripped across the floor to the Princess, who had thrown herself upon the divan, and assumed the appearance of just being aroused from a deep slumber.

“Forgive me, dear, beautiful Aunt Ludovicka,” said the little girl, in a low, soft voice, while she placed the candle upon the table and leaned over the Princess–“forgive me for waking you up. But I had such a fearful dream, and I fancied it was real. It seemed to me as if robbers were in the castle. I heard them laugh and talk quite plainly, and I was dreadfully distressed, and called you. You did not answer me, and then I thought they had already murdered you, and I sprang from the sofa where they had prepared my couch, near to your bed. You were not there, your bed was cold and empty, and still I heard quite plainly the loud laughing and talking of the robbers, and I was so dreadfully anxious and distressed that I must see where you were–I must see if they had not murdered you. I took the light and came here running, and, God be thanked! here is my dear Aunt Hollandine, and no robbers have taken her away from me, and no murderers have killed her.”

With her slender childish arms she embraced the Princess, and pressed her rosy cheeks tenderly against Ludovicka’s glowing face.

“You little blockhead, how you have frightened me!” said Ludovicka, repulsing her almost rudely. “I was asleep here, dreaming such sweet dreams, and all at once you have come and waked me, you little night owl. Go, go to bed, Louisa, and do not be so timid, child. No robbers and murderers come here, and in our castle you need not be afraid.”

“Ah, Aunt Hollandine,” whispered the child, while she cast a frightened, anxious glance around the room–“ah, Aunt Hollandine, I am afraid that this castle is haunted. It was either robbers or evil spirits who made such a noise and talked and laughed so loud. And”–she stooped lower and quite softly whispered–“and you may believe me, dear, good aunt, it is haunted here. I plainly saw the curtain across there shake as I entered. Evil spirits are abroad to-night. Do you hear how it howls and whistles out of doors, and how the windows rattle? Those are spirits, and they have flown in here and laughed and danced. O aunt! you did not hear, but I did, for I have been awake, and have heard and seen how the door curtain shook, and there they lurk now, those wicked spirits, and look at us and laugh. Oh, I know that, I do! My nurse, Trude, told me all about it the other evening, and she knows. There are good and bad spirits; but the good spirits make no noise, and you would not know they were here. They come to you so quietly and so gently, and sit by your bed and look at you, and their faces shine like the moon and their eyes like stars, and their thoughts are prayers and their smiles God’s blessing. But evil spirits are noisy and boisterous, and laugh and make an uproar as they did to-night!”

“You have been dreaming, little simpleton, and fancy now that you really heard what dull sleep alone was thrumming about your ears. All has been quiet and peaceful here, and no evil spirits were in this room–trust me.”

“Neither were good spirits here, aunt!” cried the child; with tearful voice. “The door curtain did move, and I did hear laughter–believe me. And, dear Aunt Hollandine, I beg you to give me your hand and come with me into your sleeping room, and please be kind enough to your poor little Louisa to take her with you into your great fine bed, and let us hug one another and pray together and sleep together; then the evil spirits can not get to us. Come, dear aunt, come!”

With both her hands she seized the Princess by the arm, and tried to lift her from the divan. But Ludovicka hastily pushed her away.

“Leave such follies, Louisa, and go to bed!” she said angrily. “Had I known what a restless sleeper you were, I should not have gratified your wish of staying with me, but had you put to bed on the other side of the castle with the little princesses, my sisters.”

“Aunt,” said the child, in a touching tone of voice, “I will be perfectly still and quiet, I shall certainly not disturb you, if you will only be good and kind enough to come with me.”

“No,” said Ludovicka, “no, I am not going with you, for I have something still to do here. But if you are good and docile, and go back quietly and prettily to the sleeping room, and creep into your little bed, then I promise you to come soon.”

“Well, then, I will go,” sighed the child, and dropped her little head like a withered flower. “Yes, I will be good, that you may love me. But please come soon, Aunt Ludovicka, come soon.”

She again took the candlestick from the table, nodded to the Princess and tried to smile, while at the same time two long-restrained tears rolled, like liquid pearls, from her large blue eyes over her rosy cheeks. Softly and with her little head always bowed down she crossed the apartment to the tapestry door; but, just as she was on the verge of the threshold, she stopped, turned around, and an expression of radiant joy flashed across her pretty face.

“Dear aunt,” she cried, “Trude told me that when we pray evil spirits must fly away, and have no longer any power. I will pray, yes, I will pray for you.”

And the child sank upon her knees. Placing the candlestick at her side, she folded her little white hands upon her breast, raised her head and eyes, and prayed in a distinct, earnest voice: “Dear Heavenly Father and all ye holy angels on high, protect the innocent and the good! O God! guide us to thee with the golden star which shone upon the shepherds in the field when they went out to seek the child Christ! Blessed angels, come down and keep guard around our bed, that no evil spirits and bad dreams can come to trouble us! God and all ye holy angels on high, have pity on the innocent and good! Amen! Amen! Amen!”

And at the last amen, the child rose from her knees, again took up her light, and tripped lightly and smiling out of the room.

Ludovicka sprang to the door, shut it close, and leaned against it. The Electoral Prince stepped forth from the curtain on the other side, and his countenance was grave, and his large eyes were less fiery and passionate, as he now approached the Princess.

“Poor child,” he whispered, “how bitterly distressed she is! Go to her, my precious love, and pray with her for our happiness and our love.”

“Are you going away already, my Frederick?” she asked tenderly.

He pointed with his finger to the tapestry door. “She is so distressed, and her dear little face was so sad, it touched me to the heart.”

“How foolish I was,” she murmured impatiently–“how foolish not to think of it, that the child might disturb us! She has often before spent the night with me, and never waked up, never–“

“Never has she been disturbed,” concluded the Prince, smiling. “Never before have evil spirits chattered and laughed within your room, and roused her from her sleep. But she shall yet see that her prayer has not been in vain, but that it has exorcised the evil spirits. Farewell, dear one! Farewell, and this kiss for good-night–this kiss for my beloved promised bride! The last betrothal kiss, for to-morrow night you will be my wife! God and all ye holy angels on high, protect the innocent and good!”

He kissed once more her lips and her dark, perfumed hair, then hastened with rapid step across the apartment, hurriedly opened the window, lowered the rope ladder, and swung himself up on the windowsill.”

“Farewell, dearest, farewell! To-morrow night we shall meet again!” he whispered, kissing the tips of his fingers to her. Then he seized the rope ladder with both hands, and ere the Princess, who had hastened toward him, had yet found time to assist him and offer her hand to aid him in descending, his slight, elastic figure had disappeared beneath the dark window frame.

Ludovicka leaned out of the window, and with all the strength of her delicate little hands held firm the rope ladder, which swayed backward and forward and sighed and groaned beneath its burden. All at once the rope ladder stood still, and like spirit greetings were wafted up to her the words, “Farewell! farewell!”

“He is gone,” murmured Ludovicka, retreating from the window–“he is gone! But to-morrow, to-morrow night, I shall have him again. To-morrow night I shall be his wife. O Sir Count d’Entragues! you shall be forced to acknowledge that the Electoral Prince loves me, and that his declaration of love is synonymous with an offer of marriage! I think I have managed everything exactly as it was marked out on the paper. Let us look again.”

She again drew forth the paper from the casket on her writing table, and read it through attentively. “Yes,” she murmured as she read, “all in order. Offer of marriage elicited. Alarmed by the threat that they will unite me to the Prince of Hesse. Not betray who the friends are who will render me their aid. Secret marriage arranged. Time presses, To-morrow night. All is in order. The Media Nocte, too, confessed. Only one thing is still wanting. I only omitted telling him that our rendezvous must be in the Media Nocte, and that we make our escape from there. Well, never mind, I can tell him to-morrow, and about ten o’clock the orange-colored ribbon may flutter from my window, and Count d’Entragues will be so rejoiced! Oh, to-morrow, to-morrow I shall be my handsome Electoral Prince’s wife!”

She stretched forth her arms, as if she would embrace, although he was invisible, the handsome, beloved youth, whose kisses yet burned upon her lips. Her flaming eyes wandered over the apartment, as if she still hoped to find there his fine and slender shape. Now, not finding him, she sighed heavily and fixed her eyes upon the great portrait, which hung upon the wall above the divan. It was the half-length likeness of a woman, a queen, as was shown by the diadem of pearls surmounting her high, narrow forehead, and behind which a crown could be discerned. A rare picture it was, possessed of magical attractions. The large blue eyes, so glowing and tender, the soft, rounded cheeks, so transparently fair, the full, pouting lips, so speaking–all seemed to promise joy; and yet in the whole expression of the face there was so much melancholy and so much pain! Princess Ludovicka walked softly to the portrait, and lifted up to it her folded hands.

“I, too, will pray,” she whispered. “Yes, I will pray to you, Mary Stuart, queen of love and beauty! O Mary! holy martyr, graciously incline thy glance toward thy grandchild. Let thy starry eyes rest upon me, and graciously protect me in the path that I shall tread to-morrow, for it is the path of love! Oh, let it be the path of happiness as well! Mary Stuart, pray for me, and protect me, your grandchild! Amen!”

III.–THE WARNING.

“Your Highness stayed out very late again last night,” said Herr Kalkhun von Leuchtmar, as he entered the sleeping apartment of the Electoral Prince Frederick William, who was still in bed.

“Yes, it is true,” replied the Prince, stretching himself at his ease, “I did come home very late last night.”

“The chamberlain has already waked your highness three times, and your highness has each time assured him that he would get up, but has each time, it seems, fallen asleep again.”

“Yes, I did fall asleep each time,” answered Frederick William, in a somewhat irritated tone of voice; “and what of it?”

“Why,” said Herr von Leuchtmar pleasantly–“why, the painter Gabriel Nietzel, who arrived yesterday, and, to whom your highness promised to give audience this morning at eight o’clock, has been waiting almost two hours; Count von Berg, on whom your highness was to call at nine o’clock, has been expecting you an hour in vain–the horse has stood saddled in the stable for an hour; and the private secretary Mueller, with whom your highness was to prepare to-day a treatise upon fortifications, will probably make no progress whatever with the work.”

“It seems that I am not to have the privilege of sleeping as long as I choose,” cried the Electoral Prince, with a mocking laugh. “My house moves like clockwork, in which there is no comfort or rest whatever, but where each must perform his prescribed service with mathematical exactness, that the whole be not stopped.”

“It is in a house as in a state,” said Leuchtmar seriously: “each one, high and low, must do his duty, else the whole machinery stops, and, as your highness very justly remarked, the clockwork either stands still or is at the least put out of order.”

“Consequently, the clockwork of my house was disarranged merely because I stayed up two hours later than I have been accustomed to do?”

“Totally disarranged, your highness.”

The Prince reddened with displeasure, his eyes flashed, and he had already opened his mouth for an angry reply, when he violently restrained himself.

“I will get up,” he said, “and then we can talk more about it.”

Herr von Leuchtmar bowed and withdrew to the antechamber. A quarter of an hour, however, had hardly elapsed before the chamberlain issued from the Prince’s sleeping apartment, and announced to Herr Kalkhun von Leuchtmar, that breakfast was served, and that his highness, the Electoral Prince, awaited the baron’s attendance at this meal in his drawing room. Herr von Leuchtmar hastened to obey the summons, and to repair to the Prince’s drawing room. Frederick William seemed not at all conscious of his entrance. He sat on the divan sipping his chocolate, and at the same time restlessly playing with the greyhound that lay at his feet, looking up at him with its gentle, truthful eyes. Herr von Leuchtmar seated himself opposite the Prince, and took his breakfast in silent reserve. Once the Prince’s eye scanned the noble, serious countenance of his former tutor, and the expression of perfect repose resting there seemed to pique and irritate him. He jumped up and several times walked briskly up and down the room. Then he paused before Leuchtmar, who had likewise risen, and whose large, dark-blue eyes were turned upon the Prince in gentle sorrow.

“Leuchtmar,” said the latter, shortly and quickly, “all is not between us as it should be.”

“I have remarked it for some time with pain,” replied the baron softly. “Your highness is out of humor.”

“No, I am discontented!” cried the Prince; “and, by heavens, I have a right to be!”

“Will your highness have the kindness to tell me why you are discontented?”

“Yes, I will tell you, for you must know it in order that you may endeavor to alter it. I am discontented, Leuchtmar, because you and Mueller will never forget that I have owed respect to you as my teachers.”

“Prince,” said the baron, lifting his head a little higher–“Prince, have we two behaved ourselves so as no longer to deserve your respect?”

“Respect, indeed; but you confound respect with obedience, and wish me to obey you unreservedly, as if I were still a boy, subject to his teachers.”

“While now you would say you are a Prince arrived at years of majority, who no longer needs a teacher, and whose earlier preceptors are now only his subjects, dependent upon him.”

“No, I would not say that; and it is exceedingly obliging in you to carry your guardianship so far as even to interpret what I would say. Meanwhile, you have made a remark which claims my attention. You said that I was a Prince in my majority?”

“Certainly, your highness, you are a major in so far as the laws of the electoral house of Brandenburg allow the Electoral Prince, in case of his father’s death, if he has attained his sixteenth year, to assume the reins of government, independent of governor or regent.”

“Consequently, if my father were to die (which God forbid!) I might administer the government independently, in my own right?”

“Independently and in your own right, your highness.”

“Whence comes it then that I, who might undertake the government of a whole country, am yet perpetually under restraint in the conduct of my own private life, watched over and treated like an irresponsible boy? It grieves me, Herr von Leuchtmar, to be forced to remind you that the time for my education is past, for I am not sixteen years old, but already several weeks advanced in my eighteenth year.”

“I thank your highness for this admonition,” replied the baron quietly, “and I confess that without it I should not have known that your education was finished.”

“Sir, you insult me! So you still regard me as nothing but a boy?”

“No, your highness, as a man, and I believe that Socrates was right when he said, ‘The education of man begins in the cradle and ends only in the grave.'”

“You know very well that he meant it in a widely different sense. Our talk is not now of actual education, but of the relations of pupil and teacher. The time of my pupilage is past, Sir Baron, and you will bear in mind, I beg, that I no longer sit in the schoolroom.”

“That, again, I did not know,” said Leuchtmar gently, “and again in my defense I cite the wise Socrates, who said, ‘Man is learning his whole life long, to confess at last that the only certain knowledge he has attained is that he knows nothing.'”

“Maxims and maxims forever!” cried the Prince impatiently. “You want to evade me–you purposely misunderstand me. Well, then, candidly speaking, I am sick and tired of being everlastingly found fault with, watched over, tutored and spied upon, and once for all I beg that a stop be put to all this.”

“Will your highness do me the favor to say who it is that finds fault with, watches over, tutors, and spies upon you?”

“Why, yes–you, Baron Kalkhun von Leuchtmar, you and the private secretary Mueller, you two first and foremost do those very things.”

“Your highness, if we have allowed ourselves to find fault with you when you did not deserve it, it was very presumptuous; if we have watched over you and tutored you, surely that might be forgiven in former tutors and instructors; but if we have acted as spies upon you, then have we both degraded ourselves and become contemptible, and your highness may esteem it as my last tutoring if I advise you to remove so unworthy a couple of subjects forever from your presence.”

“You will lead me _ad absurdum_, Leuchtmar!” cried the Prince. “You would prove to me that I am wrong and accuse you falsely. But you are mistaken, sir; I only speak the truth. One thing I ask you, though: have you ever looked upon me as an ungrateful pupil, a disobedient scholar, an ill-natured, idle man?”

“No, never,” returned Leuchtmar cordially. “No, your highness–“

“Leave off those tiresome titles,” interrupted the Prince. “Speak simply and to the point, without ceremony, as is becoming in serious moments, when man stands face to face with man.”

“Well then, no. You have ever been only a source of delight to your teachers and preceptors, and have ever proved yourself a kind-hearted, friendly, and condescending young Prince. You have (forgive me for saying so) been indeed the model of a young, amiable, good, and intellectual Prince. You have completed your studies at the universities of Arnheim and Leyden to the highest satisfaction of your professors. You have distinguished yourself at the colleges by diligence and attention, and perfected yourself in the languages and mastered all the sciences. Since you have been here at The Hague you have won for yourself the love and admiration of all those who have had the good fortune to come into your presence–“

“Leuchtmar,” interrupted the Prince, with difficulty suppressing a smile–“Leuchtmar, now you are falling into the opposite error; before you blamed me too much, now you praise me too much!”

“Prince, I spoke before as now, only according to my inmost convictions, and you permit me still to utter these, do you not?”

“Well,” said Frederick William, hesitating, “the thing is–if your convictions are too flattering or too injurious, you might moderate them a little. For example, the way you acted in my sleeping room, a little while ago, was injurious. Just acknowledge it–say that you went a little too far, that it was not becoming in you to find fault with me, because I sat up a few hours too late, and all is made up.”

“Prince,” replied Leuchtmar, after a slight pause–“Prince, forgive me, but I can not say it, for it would be an untruth. For a Prince, want of punctuality is a very dangerous and bad fault, and if he first becomes unreliable in his outer being, he will be so soon in his inner nature as well. But I do admit that perhaps I spoke in too excited a tone of voice, and the reason of that was, because–“

“Well? Be pleased to finish your sentence. Because–“

“Because, yes, let it be spoken plainly, because I know what this keeping of late hours means.”

“And what does it mean, if I may ask?”

“Prince, my dear, beloved Prince, you whom in the depths of my soul I call my son, Prince, forgive me if I answer. It means that you have fallen into bad company–company which it is beneath your dignity to keep, company alike prejudicial to your mind and honor as to your health.”

“Of what company do you dare to speak so?” asked the Prince, with wrathful voice.

“Prince, of that company which is hypocritical and deceitful as sin, dazzling and alluring as a poisonous flower, dangerous and deadly as Scylla and Charybdis, of the company of the Media Nocte.”

The Prince laughed aloud, and at the same time drew a deep breath, as if he felt his breast relieved of an oppressive burden. “Ah,” he said, “is it only this? The Media Nocte is indeed a society which appears to all those who do not belong to it as a monster, a dragon, which slays with its fiery breath those who approach it, and daily requires for its breakfast a youth or a maiden. But I tell you, you anxious and short-sighted fools, you take an eagle for a flying dragon, and scream fire merely because you see a bright light! The Media Nocte is no monster, no Scylla and Charybdis, and we need not on her account have our arms bound, as cunning Ulysses did, which, by the way, always seemed to me very weak and womanly. A man must go to meet danger with a bold eye, with valiant spirit; he must confront it with his freedom of will and strength, and not seek to defend himself from it by outward means of resistance. Supposing that the Media Nocte were the dangerous society which you erroneously imagine it to be, need this be a ground for me to intrench myself timidly against it and flee its touch? No; just for that very reason would I seek it out–advance to meet it with the determination to do battle with it. But I tell you that you are mistaken in your premises! The Media Nocte is a society devoted to noble pleasures, to pure joys, to the highest, most intellectual enjoyments. All the arts, all the sciences, are fostered by it. All that is great and good, exalted and beautiful, is hailed there with delight, and only pedantry and stupidity are held aloof. Truth and nature are the two sacred laws observed in this society, and the noble, pure, free, and chaste Grecian spirit is the great exemplar of all its members. Therefore they all appear in Greek robes, and all their banquets are solemnized in the Greek style. And this it is which you wise, pedantic people stigmatize as blameworthy and abominable. The unusual fills you with horror, and the genial you call bold because it soars above what is commonplace!”

“Well do I know that your highness looks upon the society in this way,” replied Leuchtmar, regarding with loving glances the handsome, excited countenance of the Prince. “Yes, I know that this is the only view you have had of the society of the Media Nocte, and that you would turn from it with horror and disgust if you were conscious of the license lurking behind its apparent geniality, the coarseness behind the unusual. But I beseech you, Prince, be not blind with your eyes open, close not voluntarily the avenues to light. I swear to you as an honest and a truthful man, that this society is like a plague spot for the noble youth of The Hague. Each one who touches it becomes impregnated with its poison, and sickens in spirit and imagination, and the fearful poison flows into his mind and heart, driving out from them forever truth and freshness, youth and innocence! Had I a son who belonged to this society with full understanding and appreciation of its meaning, I should mourn and lament him as one lost; had I a daughter, and had she even once voluntarily attended a meeting of the Media Nocte and participated in its pleasures, then should I thrust her from me with aversion and disgust–should no longer recognize her as my daughter, but forever expel her from my house in shame and disgust, for–“

“Desist!” cried the Prince, with thundering voice, springing toward Leuchtmar and grasping his shoulders with both hands. Glaring fiercely upon him, he repeated, “Desist, I tell you, Leuchtmar, desist, and recall what you have just said, for it is a libel, a slander!”

“No, it is the truth, Prince!” cried Leuchtmar, emphatically. “The Media Nocte is a society of the honorless and shameless, and the woman who belongs to it is no longer pure!”

“No further, man, or I shall kill you!” said the Prince, in a high-pitched voice stifled by rage, while his arms clutched Leuchtmar’s shoulders yet more firmly. “Only hear this: You know and have long guessed that I love the Princess Ludovicka Hollandine. Well, now, the Princess Ludovicka Hollandine belongs to the society of the Media Nocte!”

“I knew that, Prince,” said Leuchtmar solemnly.

The Prince gave a scream of rage, and a deadly pallor overspread his cheeks. He still retained his grasp upon Leuchtmar’s shoulders, his flashing eyes penetrated like dagger points Leuchtmar’s countenance, and on his brow stood great drops of sweat, which gave witness of his inward tortures.

“You knew that,” he said, with gasping breath and gnashing teeth–“you knew that, and yet you dare to speak so, dare to vilify the maiden whom I love, dare to asperse a pure angel, to call her an outcast! Take back your words, man, if your life is dear to you–recall them, if you would leave this room alive!”

“Kill me, Prince, for I do not recall them!” cried Leuchtmar, tranquilly meeting the flaming glances of the Prince. “No, I do not recall them, and if you take away my life, I shall give it up in your service and for your profit. You see very well I attempt no defense, although I am a strong man, who knows well how to defend his life. But for my own convictions and for you I die gladly. Kill me then!”

“You do not recall them?” shrieked the Prince. “You maintain all to be truth that you have said of the order of the Media Nocte? You knew already before I told you that the Princess Ludovicka Hollandine belongs to it?”

“I knew it, Prince, indeed, I knew it!”

The Prince burst into a wild laugh, and with a sudden jerk thrust Leuchtmar so violently from him that he reeled backward against the wall.

“No,” he said grimly and wrathfully–“no, I will not do you the pleasure to kill you, for that would turn a wretched farce into a tragedy, and make a hero of a comedian! You are a good comedian, and you have played your part well! I can testify to that. Go and claim credit for this with my father and Count Schwarzenberg!”

“I do not understand you, Prince. What does this mean?”

“It means, Mr. Comedian, it means, that already this morning, while you supposed I was sleeping, I have had an interview with Gabriel Nietzel, my mother’s court painter. Ah! now start back and be amazed. Yes, Gabriel Nietzel sat by my bed for more than an hour, and brought me a verbal message from my mother. She had also intrusted him with a letter for me, but on his journey here he has been robbed and the letter taken from him. Oh, I imagine the robbers took much more interest in the letters than in the effects of the painter, and Count Schwarzenberg and yourself both well know their contents. But happily my mother gave good Gabriel Nietzel a message to bring by word of mouth as well, which they could not steal from him, Baron von Leuchtmar. Can you understand now why I call you a comedian, who has studied his part well?”

“No, Electoral Prince of Brandenburg, I can not yet.”

“Well, sir, then I shall tell you. Your virtuous indignation against the Media Nocte, your shameful allegations against a Princess, whom I love, your injurious accusations and slanders–all that was nothing more than a well-studied role prepared for you by my father and his minister. Oh, answer me not, do not deny it. I know what I say. Yes, I know that the Emperor of Germany deigns to interest himself in the marriage of the little Electoral Prince of Brandenburg. I know that his condescension goes so far as to desire to bless me with the hand of an Austrian archduchess. I know that on this account he has given strict orders and injunctions to his devoted servant, who is my father’s all-powerful minister, that I shall be summoned away from The Hague; not, indeed, to reside at my father’s court, but to proceed to the imperial court. But, God be thanked, the walls of the palace of Berlin are not o’er thick, and my mother has quick ears and Gabriel Nietzel is a trusty messenger. Yes, sir, I know you and your plans. I know, too, that the Emperor dreads my union with the Princess Ludovicka; that he has had my father notified that he will never sanction such a union, and that therefore my father and his Catholic minister have dispatched hither messengers and envoys, with strict orders never to suffer a matrimonial alliance with the Princess Ludovicka Hollandine, but to do everything to prevent it. Everything to prevent it! Do you understand me, sir? To calumniate also, and accuse and defame. But all together you shall not succeed. I shall prove to the Emperor, the Elector and his minister that I do not fear their wrath, and that the Electoral Prince of Brandenburg will never, never be the vassal and servant of the German Emperor; that he feels himself to be an independent man, who claims for himself freedom of will and action, and who will only wed in obedience to the dictates of his own heart and his own will. But you, Leuchtmar, I herewith bid you farewell! We part to-day, and forever. That we so part, believe me, is to me a lifelong pain, for never can I forget what I owe you, and how faithful you have otherwise been to me. Leuchtmar, it is dreadful that you have turned against me. Go, we have parted! Go! And when you get home to Berlin, then say to my father’s Austrian minister, that I shall never forgive him for what he has this day done to me, and that the Elector Frederick William will avenge the Electoral Prince. Tell him that I shall never accept an Austrian archduchess, a Catholic, as my wife–never become the humble slave of the Emperor of Germany. This is my farewell!”

And with flaming countenance and eyes flashing with energy and passion, the Prince crossed the apartment, violently pulled open the door, and strode out. Leuchtmar looked after him with a mixture of tenderness and grief. “How angry he was, and yet how glorious to look upon!” he said softly to himself. “A young hero, who one day will perform his vow. He will not bow down as the vassal of the German Emperor!”

A side door was just now easily and cautiously opened, and an older man of venerable aspect, in simple court garb, timidly entered, looking carefully around, as if he dreaded finding some one else in the apartment.

“Baron, for heaven’s sake, what has happened here?” he asked anxiously. “The Electoral Prince has been talking so loudly and so angrily that they heard him all through the house, and now he has stormed out and shouted to have his horse saddled. Almighty God! what has happened?”

Baron Leuchtmar laid his hand upon his friend’s arm, and nodded kindly to him. “My dear Mueller,” he said, with a faint smile, “nothing more has happened than that the Electoral Prince has just dismissed me in anger, and sent me home to Berlin.”

“For pity’s sake, what is that you say?” asked the private secretary, clasping his trembling hands together in painful astonishment. “He has been so ungrateful as to thrust from him his best and truest friend?”

“I tell you yes, my dear Mueller, he has done so, and in wrath. You know well that hastiness of temper is an heirloom of the Brandenburg princes, and Frederick William can not deny that he has the family failing. Yes, he has dismissed me; but then, you know, it was perfectly natural, for he loves the Princess Ludovicka Hollandine, and I ventured to criticise her.”

“It is actually true, then, that he loves her? He has allowed himself to be enticed by the siren! Ah! she is the genuine grandchild of Mary Stuart, and knows how to charm.”

“Hush, Mueller, hush! If the Electoral Prince hears that, he will send you to the devil too!”

“He may do so,” cried the old gentleman indignantly. “If he drives you away, his tutor and his best friend, then I shall reckon it an honor to be sent away likewise.”

“Well, well my friend, be not so desperate. We know our dear Electoral Prince. He is a lion when angry, a child when his anger is appeased. Let us wait; to-day I shall conceal myself from him, and to-morrow, well, to-morrow he will call for me himself. But did you not say that he had given orders for his horse to be saddled?”

“Yes, indeed, I heard it myself how he commanded them in angry voice to saddle Maurus for him–the wild hunter, you know.”

“Where can he be going so early in the morning?” asked Leuchtmar thoughtfully. “He is so much excited, and love of the Princess will lead him to some rash, ill-advised step; for you are right, friend, she is a siren! But hark! Is not that the voice of the Electoral Prince?”

“Yes, it is indeed. He is below in the court!”

The two men hastened through the apartment to one of the windows, and, hiding themselves behind the curtains, looked cautiously down into the court. The Electoral Prince had just swung himself into the saddle. The horse gave a loud neigh, as if recognizing its master, then reared, but the Prince sat firm. His short, furred mantle was lifted high by the wind, the long white ostrich plumes nodded above his broad-brimmed, gold-laced hat, beneath which floated like a lion’s mane his brown and curly hair. With firm, energetic hand the youth compelled the animal to stand, then pressed his knees into its flanks, and swift as an arrow from the bow the animal flew out of the court gate. Both gentlemen stepped back from the window.

“He is a splendid young man,” sighed the private secretary Mueller, shaking his head.

“Yes,” echoed Leuchtmar, smiling, “I find it very comprehensible that the Princess Ludovicka should gladly have him as consort. But we must not submit to it, but do everything to prevent it, for it is contrary to policy and reasons of state. And I think, too, such an union would not be for the Prince’s welfare, for the Princess–But hush! the Electoral Prince has forbidden me to speak evil of her, and we are here in his room. Let us keep silence with regard to her.”

“But where can he be rushing to now–the Electoral Prince, I mean?”

“I fear that I can guess. To her, to the Princess, and to apologize to her with his looks for the injury which my words have done her. He is just an enthusiastic youth, and it is his first love! Believe me, he is hurrying to her!”

IV.–AN IDYL.

Yes, Leuchtmar was quite right. He was away to her–to Ludovicka. To her he was irresistibly drawn by vehement desire. Yes, she was his first love, and the magic of this delicious sensation held his whole being enthralled, and now drove him onward as on the wings of the hurricane. He thought of nothing and knew nothing but that he must see her, must prove to her how passionately he loved her, how fervently and devoutly he believed in her. The horse dashed on furiously, breathlessly, and yet it seemed to the Electoral Prince as if an eternity had elapsed ere he finally reached Castle Doornward. He breathed a glad sigh of relief, threw the reins to the promptly advancing servants, and vaulted from the horse. His beaming eyes were uplifted to his beloved’s window, and he saluted her with his thoughts and his smile. He thought she must feel it, and his looks and thoughts must bring her to the window. He stopped and looked up–but Ludovicka did not appear at the window; only an orange-colored ribbon was fluttering there in the sunshine and the wind, and Frederick William smiled joyfully, for he took it as a token of good fortune. Then he entered the castle, reverentially greeted by the lackeys, who ventured not to oppose him, as with rapid bounds, like a young deer, he sprang up the steps. Straight to the apartments of the Princess Ludovicka he strode, through the antechamber into the drawing room. But she was not there; she came not to meet him in her enchanting beauty, with that affectionate smile upon her crimson lips. No, Ludovicka was not there, and the chambermaid who officiously hurried from the adjoining room informed the Prince that her most gracious young lady had already been gone an hour on a visit to The Hague, whence she would not return till the next morning. But the sharp, cunning eyes of the Abigail, had meanwhile peered through the door, which the Prince had left open, out into the antechamber, and, finding that no one was there, the Prince having come quite alone, she approached nearer to him.

“Most gracious sir,” she whispered, “I was, however, to have gone into town and handed something for the Electoral Prince to his valet, to whom I am engaged.”

“Now it will be more convenient for you, Alice,” said the Electoral Prince cheerfully. “You need no third party. I am here myself. Give to me personally what you would have given to my valet, your respected betrothed, for me.”

“Here it is,” whispered Alice, drawing from the pocket attached to her girdle by a silver chain a little note, which, with a graceful bow, she handed to the Prince.

“And here is your reward,” he said, taking a gold piece from his purse and handing it to her. She took it, blushing with confusion, and bowed down to the earth.

“If it pleases your grace to read here,” whispered she, “I will guard the door.”

He shook his head and rushed out. No, not in that narrow, close room, not in the neighborhood of that tiresome chambermaid could be read the letter of his beloved–that letter which he believed, nay, knew, contained the last decision for sealing his whole future fate. In the open air, under God’s blue sky, in the warm and radiant autumn sun, would he receive the message of his beloved, would he take to his heart what the angel of his life had to communicate to him. As rapidly as he had stormed up he again sprang down the steps, and through the well-known rooms and corridors took the way leading to the park. He was well acquainted with it, for he had often taken it at the side of his aunt, the unfortunate Bohemian Queen and Electress, who had found a refuge here in Holland at the court of her uncle, the Stadtholder Frederick Henry of Orange, and had her little residence at Castle Doornward. He had often walked it with the princesses, her daughters, and very bright and pleasant hours had he passed in that beautiful park with Princess Ludovicka.

On one of those squares, in one of those shady thickets where he had so often sat with her and her sisters, he would now read her message. With hasty step, with glowing cheeks fired by enthusiasm, with head aloft, he strode on, and now entered the woods near the path. They were curtained by festoons of wild grapevine; no one could see how he now took out the little note which he had so long concealed in his hand, how he pressed it to his lips, to his eyes, how he then unfolded it, and again, before reading it, pressed the beloved characters to his lips. The letter contained nothing but the words: “The friends are ready and willing. To-night about one o’clock in the Media Nocte. From there flight. A worthy asylum is waiting, and the priest stands before the altar to bless the couple.”

“To-night she will be mine–to-night we shall be married! To-night we shall make our escape!”

He could think of nothing but this. His heart continually repeated it with loud jubilation, his lips murmured it softly in response, while, knowing nothing, seeing nothing of the outside world, he sped along through the alleys and over the squares of the garden. He knew not whither he went, he had no aim; he only knew that to-night he was to be indissolubly united with his beloved–that he would flee with her. Once he must pause, for the loudly beating heart denied him breath, and once, in the blissful rapture of his soul, he must give a loud shout of joy, otherwise his breast would have burst. A merry, musical laugh rang forth near to him, and as he turned to the side whence the sound had proceeded a lovely and pleasing picture met his astonished gaze. In the midst of the grassplot near which he was stood a great white cow, one of those splendid creatures that are only seen on Dutch pastures. A fine-looking maid, dressed in the national costume of the Dutch peasantry, with the gold-edged cap over the full, luxuriant hair that fell in long braids down her back, sat on a stool beside the cow, and was busied in milking. In melodious, regular cadence the steaming milk flowed over her rosy hands down into the white porcelain bucket which she held between her knees. At her side stood a little girl, in almost the identical costume, only that the wide plaited skirt was of black silk, the bodice of purple velvet trimmed with gold buttons and loops, and the white apron of finest linen edged with point lace. Below the short silk skirt, trimmed with purple velvet, peeped forth blue silk stockings with red tops; shoes with high red heels, ornamented with gold buckles, covered the neat little feet. It was altogether quite the costume of a Dutch peasant girl, only the cap was wanting on the head, and in its stead the hair, which fell in long fair ringlets over the child’s shoulders, was adorned by a thick wreath of the tendrils of the wild grape, into which, in front just over the brow, were woven two beautiful purple asters. She had been busied, it appeared from the quantity of leaves and flowers she carried in her apron, in weaving wreaths, but now let the contents of her apron fall to the ground, and only kept the green wreath already finished, which hung upon her arm, while she sprang laughing over the grassplot.

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

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

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

“Who is Hulda? The smart dairymaid there?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

V.–MEDIA NOCTE.

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

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

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

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

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

“We admit it!” call out all in exulting chorus.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, I will drink, drink, for Venus drinks with me.”

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

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

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

“And you, my heart–will you, too, follow of yourself?”

“Follow of myself and fetch Endymion!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Venus! Venus ever!

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Come, my beloved, sign,” whispered Ludovicka, with pleading voice.

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

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

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

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

“God and ourselves, Ludovicka!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

VI.–THE HARDEST VICTORY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It is impossible–it is impossible. I can not. No, I can not. The sacrifice is too heavy! My heart will break!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The chamberlain, Baron von Marwitz, has arrived from Berlin.”

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

“No, baron, I believe all is still quiet in his highness’s apartments.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I was expecting you, baron,” he said coldly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why? Simply because you are your master’s obedient servant.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hush, hush!” interrupted the Electoral Prince, jumping up from his seat. “Not another word! You are right, the very air itself may not hear such