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 Müller," 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 Müller, 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, Müller, 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 Müller, 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 Müller, 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 Müller. "You must ask what ails

him, and try to comfort him."

The baron mournfully shook his head. "My dear Müller," he said, "have you

ever been in love?"

"No, never!" replied Müller, 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 Müller, 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 Müller 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, Müller, 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 Müller, "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,

Müller, we will to bed, and to sleep."

But, however composedly and resolutely the baron had opposed himself to

the suggestions of his soft-hearted colleague, sleep that night forsook

his eyes, and ever he heard in imagination the Prince's groans and

laments. At times he could hardly repress his longing to get up, to creep

to the Prince's door and listen, that he might discover whether he were

still awake. But the baron forcibly restrained himself, and finally, as

day already began to dawn, he actually fell asleep. He might possibly have

slept a few hours, but his servant approached his couch and roused him.

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

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

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

"Marwitz, the Elector's first chamberlain?" cried the baron. "Quick, my

clothes, quick! Help me to dress myself. Run and tell Baron von Marwitz

that I will be at his service directly. But first tell me whether his

highness is already visible. Has he already ordered his breakfast?"

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

"God be thanked! God be thanked! Now present my compliments to Baron von

Marwitz, and then come quickly and help me."

Ten minutes later Baron Kalkhun von Leuchtmar entered the Prince's

reception room, where the chamberlain, Baron von Marwitz, awaited him. The

two had a long conversation together, Leuchtmar listening with thoughtful

mien to Marwitz's narration of the state of affairs at home.

"Marwitz," he said, at the close of their conversation, "we have been good

and tried friends from our childhood; I know that the electoral house and

our fatherland lie as near to your heart as to my own, and that I can

trust you. I therefore tell you, you have come at a fortunate hour, and

God sends you! The heart of the Prince is wrung by a mighty sorrow, and he

probably knows no way out of his griefs. You will show him one, and if he

is actually the aspiring and noble-hearted Prince, whom God has sent for

the blessing of his house and the hope of his country, then will he

appreciate this way and walk in it. Go to him now, Marwitz, and lay before

him candidly and without reserve, as you have done before me, the

deplorable condition of things in our native land."

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

"No, baron. You must suffer yourself to be announced by the chamberlain,

for the Prince dismissed me yesterday in wrath. Hush, my friend! say not a

word, it is not so bad! The heart of the Prince has reached a crisis in

its history which will soon be past, and then, well then, he will call me

of himself again. But I shall wait for that. I can not intrude upon him

now."

"My friend," sighed Marwitz, "I begin to be afraid. If you do not support

me, I will surely fail in my errand, and, like Schlieben, be forced to

return disappointed to Berlin."

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

your love of country dictate."

"Is the Electoral Prince already up?" he asked of the man in waiting, and,

as he received nothing but a shrug of the shoulders in reply, Leuchtmar

beckoned to him to come nearer, and retired with him into a recess of one

of the windows.

"Well, what is it, old Dietrich? You have seen the Electoral Prince

already, have you not?"

"Yes, baron. He has not been to bed at all, but still has on the clothes

he wore when he went away last night. He is just as pale as a sheet, and

his eyes which usually shine so gloriously are to-day quite dim. He called

me, and I thought he was about to order breakfast, but no! Something quite

different he wanted, and it struck me as peculiarly strange. The Electoral

Prince asked me who was on duty this week, I or the second valet,

Eberhard? I told him Eberhard, for his week began yesterday. Then said the

Electoral Prince: 'Well, Dietrich, I want you to exchange with him this

time, for I would like to have you to wait upon me this week, and Eberhard

shall have a holiday the whole week. I only want to see your old face

about me!' Is not that strange, Sir Baron? Until yesterday Eberhard stood

in such high favor, and my gracious master always preferred being dressed

by him. Only yesterday evening Eberhard must accompany him to the feast,

and now, all at once, my gracious master will not see him! Something must

have happened, for last night Eberhard came home much later than the

Electoral Prince, and asked, as if bewildered, whether his highness had

been back long; and when I told him that the Electoral Prince had bidden

me change with him, he turned deadly pale, trembled in every limb, and

said, 'It is all over with me!' Baron, something surely happened last

night."

"Probably Eberhard has been guilty of some negligence," said Leuchtmar

carelessly. "He has often been negligent of late, as it seems to me. He

has some love affair on hand, has he not?"

"Yes, Sir Baron, he has gotten in with that artful chambermaid of the

Princess Ludovicka, out there at Doornward, and they are engaged to one

another. But people do not say much good of Madame Alice: she is a cunning

French girl and--"

"Do not trouble yourself about what people say," interrupted the baron.

"Do your own duty and rejoice that for this week the Electoral Prince

gives you the preference over Eberhard. Go, now, and announce to his

highness the chamberlain, Baron von Marwitz, from Berlin."

A few minutes later the gentleman announced entered the Prince's drawing

room. Frederick William advanced into the middle of the room to meet him,

and greeted him with grave courtesy.

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

"Your highness was expecting me?" asked the baron, astonished. "Your

highness knew already that I would come?"

"Yes, I knew it, baron. My mother's court painter, Gabriel Nietzel,

arrived yesterday, and through him my gracious mother informed me that the

Elector would send you to me with a very serious and angry message. You

see, I am prepared. Deliver your message now, baron. Let us be seated."

The Prince sat down in the armchair and made the baron sit opposite him.

His large eyes were fixed upon Marwitz, and burned with a strange, sad

light. His noble pale countenance was of touching beauty.

"You hesitate?" asked the Prince quietly, after a pause. "What you have to

say to me is, then, very bad?"

"No, your highness, not therefore did I delay," cried the baron, with

feeling. "Your appearance bewildered me, because it pleased me so much. I

have not seen your highness for three years. You were then hardly fifteen

years old, a noble, promising boy, and now I behold you with rapture and

delight, seeing that all our expectations have been fulfilled, and that

out of the boy has grown a strong, noble, and serious young man. Yes,

Prince, I read it in your countenance, your unhappy fatherland, your

unhappy, much-to-be-pitied Brandenburgers, may look with trust and

confidence to the future, for you will save and rescue them."

"Save them from what? Rescue them from what?" asked the Prince, in cold

and measured phrase. "Why do you call my fatherland unhappy, and why do

you say that the Brandenburgers are to be pitied? Is not my fatherland,

for doubtless you do not mean Germany, but my special fatherland, in which

I have been born and reared, is not the Mark Brandenburg now quite happy

and peaceful, as it has been for some years past, since it is again under

the Emperor's protection and favor, in pleasant neutrality between the two

inimical parties? And as to my good Brandenburgers, I can not imagine how

you can call them so much to be pitied when Count Adam von Schwarzenberg

is still Stadtholder in the Mark--Count Adam von Schwarzenberg, who

certainly must have the good of Brandenburg at heart, since he knows how

much my father loves him and trusts to him. He will always show himself

worthy of confidence, I doubt not, and I have the highest respect for my

father's great and wise minister."

"Ah! your highness mistrusts me," cried Marwitz with an expression of

pain. "Your highness takes me for one of Schwarzenberg's adherents."

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

the Elector of Brandenburg."

"Your highness would thereby say that this messenger and emissary has

consequently received his orders from Count Schwarzenberg, because the

count is really lord of the Mark and the Elector's right hand. I read in

your countenance that you do so, and that therefore you mistrust me. But I

swear to you, Prince, you may believe in my honest, upright

intentions--you may believe that what I say is in solemn earnest."

"I believe it, certainly I believe it," said the Prince. "You have

undertaken the commissions of the Elector and his Minister Schwarzenberg;

naturally you will be in earnest in executing them."

"Prince, I have undertaken the commissions, the behests of the Elector;

but from himself and not from his minister did I obtain them. I have sworn

to execute them, and do you know why?"

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

"No, Prince, because I am a faithful servant of my country, and because I

have a heart to feel for her affliction and distress. The Elector has

commanded me to travel to The Hague, and to convey his strict injunction

to the Electoral Prince that he shall immediately set out and return home

to Berlin. The Elector bids me say to your highness that he has committed

to me five thousand dollars to defray the expenses of your journey back

and for the liquidation of the most pressing debts. Should this sum not

suffice, then am I empowered, in the name of his Electoral Highness, to

give security for the payment of the other debts, and your highness is so

to arrange your journey that your suite may follow in the least expensive

way possible. I was to urge on you seriously and decidedly the propriety

of departure, and your father bids me state to you that he has his own

peculiarly strong reasons for esteeming a further sojourn in Holland

neither safe, profitable, nor reputable. I was to assure your highness

that you were not to be recalled, in order to be forced into a repulsive

marriage. At the same time, the Elector desires that you return

unembarrassed by engagements, and that you by no means entangle yourself

by marriage without his knowledge and consent, for to such a union would

the Elector not agree, nor ratify it."[18]

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

silent.

"Prince, it is all I have to say to you in the Elector's name, and I have

herewith executed the commission intrusted to me. But I have something

still to add. I have still to execute the commissions given me by your

future land, by your future subjects. I have to transmit to you the tears

of the wretched, the sighs of the impoverished, the cries of the

despairing, the agonized shriek of all the provinces, all the towns, all

the villages, houses, and huts in the Mark. Prince, from the depth of

their affliction all hearts uplift themselves to you; in the midst of

their despair, the oppressed, the downtrodden, the tormented all venture

to hope in you, and in spirit they kneel before you and with outstretched

hands entreat you, as I do now, 'Pity our distress, future Elector of

Brandenburg, have compassion upon the lands and provinces which shall one

day constitute your state. Turn not a deaf ear to the prayers, the hopes

of your future subjects.'"

Marwitz had sunk upon the floor, and stretched his clasped hands out to

the Prince, who looked thoughtfully into his excited face.

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

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

way possible."

"I?" cried the Electoral Prince, with a mocking smile. "Your wishes and

entreaties, and those of the Brandenburgers, coincide very exactly with my

father's orders!"

"Yes, they do coincide, but spring from different motives. Prince, we

implore, we entreat you to return; no longer give us over to the caprice,

the villainy, the tyranny and avarice of Count von Schwarzenberg. He is

the evil demon of your father, of your country. Come home and frighten him

away!"

The Prince started, and for a moment a deep glow suffused his pale

countenance. His look penetrated deeper into the baron's uplifted,

beseeching eyes, as if through them he would read into the very depths of

his heart.

"Stand up, Marwitz," he said, after a long pause--"stand up, for you are

too old and too venerable to kneel before so young a man as myself. Else,

sit down near me, and explain your words more clearly. What good can my

return home do, and how think you that I can benefit the land? And first

and foremost, why do you call Count Schwarzenberg the evil demon of my

father and his country?"

"Permit me, your highness, to answer the last question first, and thus

will you understand the rest. Count Schwarzenberg is answerable for all

the distress, wretchedness, and misery which envelop the Mark, Prussia,

indeed all parts of your devastated and distracted land, for he acts

contrary to the true interests of the Elector and his land, being wholly

devoted to the interests of his own master, the Emperor of Germany. To

this end all is worked and manoeuvred, with this aim all efforts are

undertaken, to ruin Brandenburg, and take from it all power and

consideration, yea, all hope, in order that it may be rendered dependent

upon the Emperor and empire, and become less dangerous. For the benefit of

the Emperor, and to the detriment of the Elector and his land, has Count

Schwarzenberg concluded the treaty of Prague. Up to that time Brandenburg

was the ally of Sweden, now it is neutral--that is to say, it is the prey

of both parties; it is visited, laid under contribution, and plundered by

the Swedish and Imperialist troops, and can apply for redress to no one,

expect aid from no one. With each day the misery increases more and more.

All trade and commerce languish; in the country the fields remain

untilled, in the towns the artisans are unemployed, nobody finds work or

wages. Hunger and want, and in their retinue sickness and death, daily

demand hundreds of victims. The Swede has possession of your rightful

heritage, Pomerania, and the Imperialists press to invade the Pomeranian

towns and lay them under contribution, without thinking of leaving the

vanquished cities wherewithal to pay tribute to their Sovereign, the

Elector of Brandenburg. Imperialist is to become the whole Mark, the whole

of Pomerania and Prussia, Westphalia and the duchy of Cleves. Imperialist

and Catholic--that is Count Schwarzenberg's plan, and with cruel

consistency he puts in motion everything that can conduce to its

accomplishment. To prevent the recovery, the prosperity of Prussia and the

Mark is the aim of all his policy. He exhausts the land, and yet more than

the enemy plunders and taxes the towns, enriching himself through the

blood and tears of the tortured citizens and hungry peasantry, living in

luxury and splendor, while the Elector is suffering want, while his land

is starved and unproductive."

"Abominable! horrible!" groaned the Electoral Prince, covering his face

with both his hands, probably to conceal from Marwitz the tears which

stood in his eyes.

"Prince," cried Marwitz joyfully, "you are moved! The afflictions of your

country touch your noble heart! Oh, may God be with you in this hour, and

strengthen you for noble and great resolves!"

"What do you require of me?" asked the Prince, after a pause, slowly

withdrawing his hands from his livid face. "What can I do?"

"You can come home, Prince, come home to the unhappy land whose future

lord you are by the appointment of God. Your mere presence will be a

comfort to the unhappy, a terror to Schwarzenberg. On you rest the hopes

of all patriots. You are the standard around whom they rally, the banner

to which they look up in hope and patience, for which, if needs be, they

will battle to the last drop of their blood. You furnish us all with a

center and support, perhaps even your father himself, who maybe sometimes

fears his own almighty minister, certainly your mother, who longs for her

son as her stay and support! Prince, one more last word. I say it with

hesitation, I would not even intrust it to the air, and yet it must be

spoken--Prince, the power of Count Schwarzenberg over your father's heart

is great, and--and--Count Schwarzenberg is a believing Catholic! It would

be a new pillar to his might if the Elector--"

"Hush, hush!" interrupted the Electoral Prince, jumping up from his seat.

"Not another word! You are right, the very air itself may not hear such

words! Bury them in your heart and never again utter them! These are

fearful tidings, which you have brought me, Marwitz, and my heart is

bitterly, painfully moved by them, so that for an instant I--"

"Oh, my beloved young master," entreated Marwitz, "let not your heart be

merely touched by them, but be inspired and sanctified. Embrace a high

noble decision. Conquer yourself, and--"

With uplifted hand the Electoral Prince beckoned him to be silent, and

with rapid step and head sunk he paced up and down the apartment. Then all

at once he stopped, and, quickly raising his head, asked, "Where is

Leuchtmar? Why did he not come with you?"

"I know not, Prince--he told me he could not dare to appear in your

presence; he--"

"Ah! that is true," said the Prince mournfully; "we have not seen each

other since--I beg of you, Marwitz, to go and fetch Leuchtmar to me."

The baron made haste to execute the Prince's mandate. Frederick William

looked after him until the door closed behind him. Then his large, moist

eyes were slowly upraised to heaven, and his trembling lips murmured: "Oh,

how young I am yet, and how much I have still to learn! Help me, my God,

that I may have the needed strength!"

Again the door opened, and Marwitz entered, followed by Leuchtmar, who

remained standing at the door. The Electoral Prince looked at him with

questioning glances, and ever brighter became his brow, ever more cheerful

his aspect. And all at once he spread out his arms, and in a tone of most

heartfelt love, most tender pleading, called out, "My beloved teacher!

come to my arms!"

Leuchtmar sprang forward with a cry of joy. The Prince tenderly fell on

his neck and pressed him closely to his breast.

"Oh," he murmured softly, "my friend, I have suffered much, and still

suffer. Forgive me on account of my pain!"

And he leaned his head on Leuchtmar's shoulder and wept bitterly. A long

pause ensued. No one of the three could interrupt it, for speech remained

locked upon the trembling lips of all, and only their tears, their sighs

spoke. Then the door slowly opened, and the private secretary, Müller,

appeared upon the threshold. For a moment he stood still, and looked with

quivering lips upon the Prince, who was just slowly extricating himself

from Leuchtmar's embrace, then he stepped resolutely forward.

"Your highness," he said, "forgive me for venturing to intrude my presence

here, without having been summoned. But old Dietrich dared not take the

step which I do now, and so the responsibility rests upon myself alone."

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

friend?"

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

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

not sent home!"

"You may be, after all, my old friend," said the Electoral Prince, with a

feeble smile. "But what would you say to me? What sort of responsibility

have you taken upon yourself?"

"Prince, I have taken upon myself the responsibility of admitting into

your cabinet the veiled lady who has just come, and of requesting you to

grant her the audience for which she has been besieging Dietrich with

tears and lamentations. Dietrich, however, would not hear to it, and the

lady continually called for Eberhard to come--Eberhard must lead her to

the Prince. But, as Dietrich says, this is not Eberhard's week of service,

so that he can not enter here. I was attracted to the antechamber by the

loud conversation, and now the lady turned upon me, and pleaded so

touchingly and so eloquently, that I could not refuse to grant her

request. Your highness, I have conducted the lady into your cabinet, and

she awaits you there."

"But, Müller," cried Baron Leuchtmar despairingly, "what have you done?

How could you be so inconsiderate?"

The old man drew himself up, and his mild eye grew angry. "Inconsiderate!

I was not at all inconsiderate, Baron Leuchtmar. On the contrary, I

thought it would be unworthy of a noble Prince to allow a woman to plead

in vain, and I thought, moreover, that Hercules would never have become a

hero if he had not had the valor to meet the women who greeted him at the

crossing of the roads."

"You have done right, Müller," said Frederick William, with a faint smile;

"it will be seen whether Hercules was perhaps my forefather. I shall speak

to the lady. Wait for me here."

He crossed the apartment hastily, and entered his cabinet. In the center

of the room stood a veiled female form. The Prince, however, recognized

her, although her face could not be seen, for he knew her by her pretty

coquettish costume to be the Princess Ludovicka's French chambermaid, and

he stepped quickly up to her.

"I thought that it was you, Alice," he said softly, "and I have therefore

come to tell you to--"

With sudden movement she tore back her veil, and before the pale,

beautiful countenance thereby revealed the Prince stepped back, as pale as

death.

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

"Yes, I, Ludovicka! I come here in my maid's dress," said she, in a voice

trembling with pain and emotion. "I come to you, my beloved, to ask you

whether you will desert me, leaving me in despair, affliction, and

heart-sickness? O Frederick, Frederick! how fearfully have I suffered this

night!"

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

"No," she cried, "you have not suffered as I did, for you love me not as I

love you--you love me not more than your life, your honor, your

fatherland! You will abandon and forsake me, because it is France that has

offered us aid! Oh, you are a cold, heartless man, as all men are, and yet

I love you so much and can not live without you! Frederick William, you

will not go with me to France--well then, I will go with you, wherever you

will. I cleave to you--I will stay with you! Let shame and ignominy be my

fate, let my mother curse me, let all the world despise me and call me

your mistress, I will stay with you, for I love you and can not live

without you!"

Passionately she extended her arms to him, love flaming in her glances.

But a darker shadow flitted across the Prince's face, and he shrank back.

"God forbid, Ludovicka," he said, "that misery and shame should ever come

to you through me, that your mother should curse you for my sake! We are

both yet children, Ludovicka. I felt right painfully last night that the

first duty of children is to obey and reverence their parents. Let us do

our duty, Ludovicka!"

"That is," replied she with swelling rage--"that is to say, you give me

up? They have overcome your opposition, they have brought you back to

obedience, to subjection?"

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

"You? You give me up? Voluntarily? And yet you swore that you loved me and

me alone of all the world?"

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

"And yet you will forsake me?"

"Yet I must do so, beloved! I must forsake you, but God alone, who has

witnessed my tortures this past night, knows what I suffer. My father is

solitary, my fatherland calls to me, and the first thing that I sacrifice

on its altar is my love for you. I can not marry you, Ludovicka, and God

forbid that I should accept your love without marriage!"

"Words, nothing but words!" cried she indignantly. "You would palliate

your unfaithfulness, represent your fickleness of mind as magnanimity! But

I hear only one thing in your words--you give me up, you renounce your

love?"

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

"Vengeance upon you for it!" cried she, in flaming wrath. "I, Ludovicka

Hollandine, cry vengeance upon you, for you break my heart!"

"And you will have no compassion? You will not see what I suffer?

Ludovicka, look! Look in my eyes, they wept out last night the pains of a

whole life--see what I suffer! Ludovicka, on my knees I beseech you, if

you really love me, then have pity upon me--for the sake of my agony

forgive me what you suffer!"

And beside himself with emotion, he fell upon his knees, lifting up to her

his clasped hands and his face that was bathed in tears.

But now it was she who shrank back. "No," said she harshly and severely,

"no, no compassion, no forgiveness! I do not love you, I have never loved

you, for you are a foolish boy, and know nothing of the glow of passion!

You are a child! Go away and act like a child, and be an obedient son!

Love rejects you! love turns from you!" And waving him off with both

hands, the Princess turned and walked to the door. Frederick William,

still upon his knees, heard her quickly retreating steps, but did not

rise. Ludovicka had already stretched out her hand to open the door; but

she turned round once more, and in tones of mingled love and grief cried,

"Frederick, will you let me go?"

He did not answer, his head sank lower, and a painful groan forced itself

from his breast. She opened the door--he heard it--he saw the streak of

light that crossed the room through the open door, it vanished--the door

had closed. Then was wrung from the Prince's breast a shriek of agony such

as only issues from the lips of man under the pressure of earth's sharpest

pangs.

The three gentlemen were yet assembled in the Prince's drawing room,

conversing and imparting to one another their fears and hopes. All at once

the door of the cabinet opened and the Electoral Prince entered. Pale as

death, but with firm, determined features, he stepped up to the three

gentlemen, who looked at him with tender, anxious glances.

"Marwitz," he said, "you can this very day set out on your return to

Berlin, for your mission is fulfilled. Say to my father that as an

obedient son I submit to his wishes, and shall forthwith depart for

Berlin."

The three gentlemen only answered him by a single cry of joy, and,

animated by one feeling, one inspiration, sank upon their knees and prayed

aloud, "Bless, O God! bless the Prince, who has conquered himself!"

"What is going on here?" asked a loud manly voice behind them. "What means

this? Three gentlemen on their knees, and my young cousin looking on like

the Knight St. George!"

"And so he is, Prince of Orange," cried Baron Leuchtmar, rising and

advancing to meet the Prince, who had come in unannounced, as was his wont

at the house of his cousin. "Yes, he is a Knight St. George, who has

conquered the dragon. You know, Prince Henry, how sweetly they have

enticed him, with what magic chains they have been encircling him. You

know the Media Nocte and"--added he softly--"the Princess Ludovicka."

"Well, and what more now?" asked the Prince, with eager interest. "Not

much, cousin," said Frederick William, with a melancholy smile. "I must

bid you farewell. I owe it to my parents, to my honor, and my country,

forthwith to leave The Hague!"[19]

"Bravo, cousin, bravo!" cried Henry of Orange. "You flee from danger and

escape from temptation. That is to be called heroism, and herewith you

have as truly conquered a citadel as when I vanquished Breda!"

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

Prince's heroic breast--"believe me, that this victory has cost much blood

and many tears."

One moment he let his head rest on the shoulder of his fatherly friend,

then proudly drew himself up.

"Baron Leuchtmar and you, my trusty private secretary, Müller!" he cried,

with loud voice, "to-day we leave The Hague and proceed to Arnheim, and

thence we set forth to-morrow on our journey home. Marwitz, you travel in

advance. The golden days of our youth are past! Let iron ones follow! I am

prepared for all!"