But the king did not call them, perhaps he had forgotten them. He

walked slowly up and down in his tent, apparently lost in thought.

Suddenly he stood motionless and listened. He heard the tramp of

many horses, and he knew what it meant. He approached the opening of

the tent, and drew back the curtain sufficiently to see without

being seen.

The noise of the horses' hoofs came nearer and nearer. The first

hussars have passed the king's tent, and two more, and again two,

and again, and again; and there in their midst, a pale young man,

with a distracted countenance, with staring eyes, and colorless

lips, which appear never to have known how to laugh, a young

officer, without sword or epaulettes. Is this Trenck, the beautiful,

the young, the light-hearted Trenck, the beloved of a princess, the

darling of all the ladies, the envied favorite of the king? He has

passed the tent of the king; behind him are his servants with his

horses and his baggage; and then again hussars, who close the

procession, the burial-procession of Trenck's happiness and freedom.

The king seemed deeply moved as he stepped back from the curtain.

"Now," he said solemnly, "I have committed my first act of

injustice; for I judged this man in my own conscience, without

bringing him before a court-martial. Should the world condemn me for

this, I can at least say that it is my only fault of the kind."

CHAPTER IX.

THE RETURN TO BERLIN.

Peace was proclaimed. This poor land, bleeding from a thousand

wounds, might now rest, in order to gather strength for new

victories. The husband of Maria Theresa had been crowned as emperor,

and the conditions of peace had been signed at Dresden, by both

Austrians and Prussians. The king and his army returned victorious

to their native land. Berlin had assumed her most joyous appearance,

to welcome her king; even Nature had done her utmost to enliven the

scene. The freshly fallen snow, which covered the streets and roofs

of the houses, glittered in the December sunshine as if strewn with

diamonds. But none felt to-day that the air was cold or the wind

piercing; happiness created summer in their hearts, and they felt

not that it was winter. On every side the windows were open, and

beautiful women were awaiting the appearance of their adored

sovereign with as much curiosity and impatience as the common people

in the streets, who were longing to greet their hero-king.

At length the happy hour came. At length the roar of cannon, the

ringing of bells, the shouts of the crowd, which filled every avenue

leading to the palace, announced that the king had returned to his

capital, which, in the last few days, he had saved by a happy

manoeuvre from being attacked by the Austrians and Saxons. The

people greeted their king with shouts; the ladies in the windows

waved their handkerchiefs, and threw fragrant flowers into the open

carriage in which Frederick and his brothers sat.

As they passed before the gymnasium, the scholars commenced a solemn

song, which was at the same time a hymn, and a prayer for their

king, their hero, and their father. "Vivat, vivat Fredericus! Rex

vivat, Augustus, Magnus, Felix Pater Patriae!" sang the scholars.

But suddenly rising above the voices of the singers, and the shouts

of the people, a voice was heard, crying aloud, "Vivat Frederick the

Great!"

The people who had listened silently to the Latin because they did

not understand it, joined as with one impulse in this cry, the shout

arose as from one throat, "Vivat Frederick the Great!" And this cry

spread like wildfire through all the streets, over all the public

squares; it resounded from every window, and even from the tops of

the houses. To-day Berlin had rebaptized her king. She gave him now

a new name, the name which he will bear through all ages, the name

of Frederick the Great.

The king flushed deeply as he heard this cry. His heart, which had

been sad and gloomy, seemed warmed as by a ray of sunlight. Ambition

throbbed within his breast, and awakened him from his melancholy

thoughts. No, Frederick had now no time to think of the dead; no

time to mourn secretly over the loved, the faithful friends whom he

would no longer find in Berlin. The king must overcome the feelings

of the friend. His people are here to greet him, to welcome his

return, to bestow upon him an immortal name. The king has no right

to withdraw himself from their love; he must meet it with his whole

soul, his whole heart.

Convincing himself that this was necessary, Frederick lifted his

head, a bright color mounted to his chocks, and his eyes flashed as

he bowed graciously to his people. Now he is truly Frederick the

Great, for he has conquered his own heart, and he has poured upon

the open wound of his private sorrows the balm of his people's love.

Now the carriage of the king has reached the palace gate. Frederick

raises his hat once more, and bows smilingly to the people, whose

cries of "Vivat Frederick the Great" still fill the air. When for a

moment there is silence, a single, clear, commanding voice is heard,

"Long live Frederick the Great!"

The king turns hastily; he has recognized the voice of his mother.

She is standing on the threshold of the palace, surrounded by the

princesses of the royal family. Her eyes are more brilliant than the

diamonds which glitter in her hair, and more precious than the

costly pearls upon her bosom are the drops which fall from her eyes,

tears of pride and happiness, shed in this moment of triumph. Again

she repeats the cry taught her by the people, "Long live Frederick

the Great!"

The king knew the first tone of that dear voice, and, springing from

the carriage, hurried forward and threw himself into his mother's

extended arms, and laid his head upon her breast, as he had done

when a child, and wept hot tears, which no one saw, which his mother

alone felt upon her bosom.

Near them stood Elizabeth Christine, the consort of the king, and in

the depths of her heart she repeated the cry of the people, and she

gazed prayerfully toward heaven, as she petitioned for the long and

happy life of her adored husband. But Frederick did not see her; he

gave his arm to his mother, and they entered the palace, followed by

his wife and his sisters and brothers.

"Frederick the Great!" This cry still resounds through the streets,

and the windows of the palace tremble with the ringing of this proud

name. The sound enters the saloons before him; it opens wide the

doors of the White Saloon, and when the king enters, the pictures

and statues of the Hohenzollerns appear to become animate, the dead

eyes flash, the stiffened lips smile, and the motionless heads seem

to bow, for Frederick's new name has called his ancestors from their

graves--this name, which only one other Hohenzollern had borne

before him--this name, which is as rare a blossom on the

genealogical trees of the proudest royal families as the blossoms of

the aloe. The king greets his ancestors with a happy smile, for he

feels that he is no unworthy successor. He has forgotten his grief

and his pain; he has overcome them. In this hour he is only the king

and hero.

But as the shadows of night approach, and Berlin is brilliant with

illuminations, Frederick lays aside his majesty, and becomes once

more the loving man, the friend. He is sitting by the death-bed of

his friend and preceptor, Duhan. The joyous shouts of the people are

still heard without, but the king heeds them not; he hears only the

heavy breathing of his friend, and speaks to him gentle words of

love and consolation.

At length ho leaves his friend, and now a new light springs into his

eyes. He is no longer a king, no longer a mourning friend, he is

only a young man. He is going to spend an hour with his friend

General Rothenberg, and forget his royalty for a while.

Rothenberg seems to have forgotten it also, for he does not come to

welcome his kingly guest. He does not receive him on the threshold.

No one receives him, but the hall and stairway are brilliantly

lighted; and, as he ascends, a door opens, and a woman appears,

beautiful as an angel, with eyes beaming like stars, with lips

glowing as crimson roses. Is it an angel or a woman? Her voice is as

the music of the spheres to the king, when she whispers her welcome

to him, and he, at last, thinks he beholds an angel when he sees

Barbarina.

CHAPTER X.

JOB'S POST.

Berlin shouted, huzzaed, sang, danced, declaimed, illuminated for

three entire days in honor of the conquered peace, and the return of

her great king. Every one but the young Princess Amelia seemed

contented, happy, joyous. She took no part in the glad triumph of

her family, and the loud hosarmas of the people found no echo in her

breast. With heavy heart and misty eyes she walked slowly backward

and forward in her boudoir. For three days she had borne this

terrible torture, this anguish of uncertainty. Her soul was moved

with fearful anticipations, but she was forced to appear gay.

For three days, with trembling heart and lips, she had been

compelled to appear at the theatre, the masquerades, the balls, and

ceremonious dinners of the court. She felt that the stern eye of the

king was ever searchingly and angrily fixed upon her. Several times,

completely overcome and exhausted by her efforts to seem gay and

careless, she sought to withdraw unobserved to her room, but her

ever-watchful brother intercepted her, and led her back to her place

by her royal mother. He chatted and jested merrily, but his

expression was dark and threatening. Once she had not the power to

respond with smiles. She fixed her pleading, tearful eyes upon the

king. He bowed down to her, and said harshly: "I command you to

appear gay. A princess has not the right to weep when her people are

happy."

To-day the court festivities closed. At last Amelia dared hope for

some hours of solitude and undisturbed thought. To-day she could

weep and allow her pale lips to express the wild grief of her heart.

In her loneliness she dared give utterance to the cry of anguish

rending her bosom.

Where was he? where was Trenck? Why had he not returned? Why had she

no news, no love-token, no message from him? She had carefully

examined the list of killed and wounded. He had not fallen in

battle. He was not fatally wounded. He had not returned with the

army, or she would have seen him. Where was he, then? Was he ill, or

had he forgotten her, or did he blush to return without his laurels?

Had he been taken by the Austrians? Was her beloved suffering in a

loathsome prison, while she was laughing, jesting, and adorning

herself in costly array? While she thus thought and spoke, burning

tears blinded her eyes, and sighs and sobs choked her utterance.

"If he is dead," said she, firmly, "then I will also die. If he is

in prison, I will set him at liberty. If he does not come because he

has not been promoted and fears I no longer love him, I will seek

him out, I will swear that I love him, that I desire only his love,

that I will fly with him to some lonely, quiet valley. I will lay

aside my rank, my royalty, forget my birth, abandon all joyously,

that I may belong to him, be his fond and dear-loved wife."

And now a light sound was heard at the door, and she recognized the

voice of her maid asking admittance.

"Ah!" said Amelia, "if the good Marwitz were here, I should not have

to endure this torture, but my brother has unconsciously robbed me

of this consolation. He has sent my friend and confidante home, and

forced upon me a strange and stupid woman whom I hate."

And now a gentle voice plead more earnestly for admittance.

"I must indeed open the door," said the princess, unwillingly

drawing back the bolt. "Enter, Mademoiselle von Haak," said Amelia,

turning her back in order to conceal her red and swollen eyes.

Mademoiselle von Haak gave a soft, sad glance at the young princess,

and in a low voice asked for pardon for her unwelcome appearance.

"Without doubt your reason for coming will justify you," said the

princess. "I pray you, therefore, to make it known quickly. I wish

to be alone."

"Alas! your royal highness is harsh with me," whispered the young

girl. "I was forced upon you. I know it; you hate me because I have

taken the place of Mademoiselle von Marwitz. I assure you I was not

to blame in this. It was only after the written and peremptory

command of his majesty the king that my mother consented to my

appearance at court."

"Have you come, mademoiselle, simply to tell me this?"

"No, your royal highness; I come to say that I love you. Even since

I had the honor of knowing you, I have loved you. In the loneliness

which surrounds me here, my heart gives itself up wholly to you. Oh,

do not spurn me from you! Tell me why you are sad; let me bear a

part of your sorrow. Princess, I offer you the heart of a true

friend, of a sister--will you cast me off?"

The young girl threw herself upon her knees before the princess, and

her cheeks were bathed in tears. Amelia raised and embraced her.

"Oh!" said she, "I see that God has not utterly forsaken me. He

sends me aid and comfort in my necessity. Will you be, indeed, my

friend?"

"Yes, a friend in whom you can trust fully, to whom you can speak

freely," said Mademoiselle von Haak.

"Who knows but that may be more dangerous for you than for me?"

sighed Amelia. "There are fearful secrets, the mere knowledge of

which brings destruction."

"But if I already know the secret of your royal highness?--if I

understand the reason of your grief during these last few days?"

"Well, then, tell me what you know."

The maiden bowed down low to the ear of her mistress. "Your eyes

seek in vain for him whom you love. You suffer, for you know not

where he is."

"Yes, you are right," cried Amelia. "I suffer the anguish of

uncertainty. If I do not soon learn where he is, I shall die in

despair."

"Shall I tell you, princess?"

Amelia turned pale and trembled. "You will not say that he is in his

grave?" said she, breathlessly.

"No, your highness, he lives and is well."

"He lives, is well, and comes not?"

"He cannot come--he is a prisoner."

"A prisoner! God be thanked it is no worse! The king will obtain his

liberation. My brother cares for his young officers--he will not

leave him in the hands of the Austrians. Oh! I thank you--I thank

you. You are indeed a messenger of glad tidings. And now the king

will be pleased with me. I can be merry and laugh, and jest with

him."

Mademoiselle von Haak bowed her head sadly, and sighed. "He is not

in an Austrian prison," she said, in low tones.

"Not in an Austrian prison?" repeated Amelia, astonished, "where is

he, then? My God! why do you not speak? Where is Trenck? Who has

captured him? Speak! I die with impatience and anxiety."

"In God's name, princess, listen to me calmly, and above all things,

speak softly. I am sure you are surrounded by spies. If we are

heard, we are lost!"

"Do you wish me to die?" murmured the princess, sinking exhausted

upon the divan. "Where is Trenck?"

"He is in the fortress of Glatz," whispered Von Haak.

"Ah! in a Prussian fortress; sent there by the king? He has

committed some small fault in discipline, as once before, and as

this is the second offence, the king punishes him more severely.

That is all! I thank you; you have restored my peace of mind."

"I fear, princess, that you are mistaken. It is said that Baron von

Trenck has been arrested for high treason."

The princess became deadly pale, and almost fainted. She overcame

this weakness, however, quickly, and said smilingly: "He will then

soon be free, for all must know that he is innocent."

"God grant that it may be proved!" said Mademoiselle von Haak. "This

is no time to shrink or be silent. You have a great, strong heart,

and you love him. You must know all! Listen, therefore, princess. I

also love; I also look to the future with hope! My love is calm, for

it is without danger; it has my mother's consent and blessing. Our

only hope is, that my lover may be promoted, and that the king will

give his consent to our marriage. We are both poor, and rely only

upon the favor of the king. He is now lieutenant, and is on duty in

the garrison of Glatz."

"In Glatz! and you say that Trenck is a prisoner in Glatz?"

"Yes, I received letters yesterday from Schnell. He belongs to the

officers who have guard over Trenck. He writes that he feels the

profoundest pity for this young man, and that he will joyfully aid

him in every way. He asks me if I know no one who has the courage to

plead with the king in behalf of this unhappy youth."

"My God! my God! give me strength to hear all, and yet control

myself!" murmured Amelia. "Do you know the nature of his

punishment?" said she, quietly.

"No one knows positively the duration of his punishment; but the

commandant of the fort told the officers that Trenck would be a

prisoner for many years."

The princess uttered one wild cry, then pressed both hands upon her

lips and forced herself to silence.

"What is the charge against him?" she said, after a long pause.

"High treason. A treasonable correspondence has been discovered

between him and his cousin the pandour."

The princess shrugged her shoulders contemptuously. "He will soon

justify himself, in view of this pitiful charge! His judges will

acknowledge his innocence, and set him at liberty. But why is he not

already free? Why has he been condemned? Who were his judges? Did

you not say to me that he was condemned?"

"My lover wrote me that Baron Trenck had written to the king and

asked for a court-martial and trial."

"This proves his innocence; he does not fear a trial! What was the

king's answer?"

"He ordered the commandant to place Trenck in closer confinement,

and to forward no more letters from him. And now, princess, you must

act promptly; use all your power and influence, if you would save

him!"

"I have no influence, I have no power!" cried Amelia, with streaming

eyes. "Oh! you do not know my brother; his heart is of stone. No one

can move him--neither his, mother, his sisters, nor his wife; his

purpose is unchangeable, and what he says is fixed. But I will show

him that I am his sister; that the hot blood of the Hohenzollerns

flows also in my veins. I will seek him boldly; I will avow that I

love Trenck; I will demand that he give Trenck liberty, or give me

death! I will demand--"

The door was hastily opened, and a servant said, breathlessly, "The

king is coming!"

"No, he is already here," said the king, who now stood upon the

threshold of the door. "He comes to beg his little sister to

accompany him to the court-yard and see the reindeer and the

Laplanders, sent to us by the crown princess of Sweden."

The king advanced to his sister, and held out both his hands. But

Amelia did not appear to see this. She made a profound and

ceremonious bow, and murmured a few cold words of greeting. The king

frowned, and looked at her angrily. He saw that she had been

weeping, and his expression was harsh and stern.

"Come, princess!" said he imperiously.

But Amelia had now overcome her terror and her confusion. She was

resolved to act, and know the worst.

"Will your majesty grant me an audience? I have something important,

most important to myself, to say. I would speak more to the heart of

my brother than to the ear of my king. I pray your majesty to allow

me to speak with you alone."

The king's eyes were fixed upon her with a dark and threatening

expression, but she did not look down or tremble; she met his glance

firmly, even daringly, and Frederick hesitated. "She will speak the

whole truth to me," thought the king, "and I shall be forced to act

with severity against her. I cannot do this; I am not brave enough

to battle with a maiden's heart."

"Sister," said he aloud, "if you have indeed something to say to

your brother, and not to the king, I counsel you not to speak now. I

have so much to do and hear as a king, I have no time to act another

part. Is what yon have to say to me truly important? Does it relate

to a rare jewel, or a costly robe?--to some debt, which your pin-

money does not suffice to meet?--in short, to any one of those great

matters which completely fill the heart of a young maiden? If so, I

advise you to confide in our mother. If she makes your wishes known

to me, you are sure to receive no denial. It is decidedly better for

a young girl to turn to her mother with her little wishes and

mysteries. If they are innocent, her mother will ever promote them;

if they are guilty, a mother's anger will be more restrained and

milder than a brother's ever can be."

"You will not even listen to me, my brother?" said the princess,

sobbing violently.

The king threw a quick glance backward toward the door opening into

the corridor, where the cavaliers and maids of honor were assembled,

and looking curiously into the room of the princess.

"No! I will not listen to you," said he, in a low tone; "but you

shall listen to me! You shall not act a drama at my court; you shall

not give the world a cause for scandal; you shall not exhibit

yourself with red and swollen eyes; that might be misinterpreted. It

might be said that the sister of the king did not rejoice at the

return of her brother; that she was not patriot enough to feel happy

at Prussia's release from the burdens of war, not patriot enough to

despise and forget the enemies of her country! I command you to be

gay, to conceal your childish grief. A princess dare not weep, or,

if she does, it must be under the shadow of night, when God only is

with her. This is my counsel and reproof, and I beg you to lay it to

heart. I will not command you to accompany me, your eyes are red

with weeping. Remain, then, in your room, and that the time may not

pass heavily, I hand you this letter, which I have received for

you."

He drew a sealed letter from his bosom, handed it to Amelia, and

left the room.

"Let us go," said he, nodding to his courtiers; "the princess is

unwell, and cannot accompany us."

Mademoiselle von Haak hastened again to the boudoir. "Has your royal

highness spoken to the king?"

She shook her head silently, and with trembling hands tore open the

letter given her by the king. Breathlessly she fixed her eyes upon

the writing, uttered one wild shriek, and fell insensible upon the

floor. This was the last letter she had written to Trenck, and upon

the margin the king had written this one word, "Read." The king then

knew all; he had read the letter; he knew of her engagement to

Trenck, knew how she loved him, and he had no mercy. For this was he

condemned. He had given her this letter to prove to her that she had

nothing to hope; that Trenck was punished, not for high treason

against the state, but because he was the lover of the princess.

Amelia understood all. With flashing eyes, with glowing cheeks, she

exclaimed: "I will set him at liberty; he suffers because he loves

me; for my sake he languishes in a lonely prison. I will free him if

it costs me my heart's blood, drop by drop! Now, King Frederick, you

shall see that I am indeed your sister; that I have a will even like

your own. My life belongs to my beloved; if I cannot share it with

him, I will offer it up to him--I swear this; may God condemn me if

I break my oath! Trenck shall be free! that is the mission of my

life. Now, friend, come to my help; all that I am and have I offer

up. I have gold, I have diamonds, I gave an estate given me by my

father. I will sell all to liberate him; we will, if necessary,

bribe the whole garrison. But now, before all other things, I must

write to him."

"I promise he shall receive your letter," said Mademoiselle von

Haak; "I will send it to Lieutenant Schnell. I will enclose it to my

mother; no one here must know that I correspond with an officer at

the fortress of Glatz."

"No one dare know that, till the day of Trenck's liberation," said

Amelia, with a radiant smile.

CHAPTER XI.

THE UNDECEIVED.

Since the day Joseph Fredersdorf introduced Lupinus to Eckhof, an

affectionate intercourse had grown up between them. They were very

happy in each other, and Fredersdorf asserted that there was more of

love than friendship in their hearts, that Lupinus was not the

friend but the bride of Eckhof! In fact, Lupinus had but little of

the unembarrassed, frank, free manner of a young man. He was modest

and reserved, never sought Eckhof; but when the latter came to him,

his pale face colored with a soft red, and his great eyes flashed

with a wondrous glow. Eckhof could not but see how much his silent

young friend rejoiced in his presence.

He came daily to Lupinus. It strengthened and consoled him in the

midst of his nervous, restless artist-life, to look upon the calm,

peaceful face of his friend; this alone, without a word spoken,

soothed his heart--agitated by storms and passions, and made him

mild and peaceable. The quiet room, the books and papers, the

weighty folios, the shining, polished medical instruments, these

stern realities, formed a strange and strong contrast to the

dazzling, shimmering, frivolous, false life of the stage; and all

this exercised a wondrous influence upon the artiste. Eckhof came

often, weighed down with care and exhaustion, or in feverish

excitement over some new role he was studying, not to speak of his

anxieties and perplexities, but to sit silently near Lupinus and

looked calmly upon him.

"Be silent, my Lupinus," said Eckhof to him. "Let me lay my storm-

tossed, wild heart in the moonlight of thy glance; it will be warmed

and cooled at the same time. Let thy mild countenance beam upon me,

soften and heal my aching heart. Look you, when I lay my head thus

upon your shoulder, it seems to me I have escaped all trouble; that

only far away in the distance do I hear the noise and tumult of the

restless, busy world; and I hear the voice of my mother, even as I

heard it in my childish days, whispering of God, of paradise, and

the angels. Still, still, friend, let me dream thus upon your

shoulder."

He closed his eyes in silence, and did not see the fond and tender

expression with which Lupinus looked down upon him. He did not feel

how violently the young heart beat, how quick the hot breath came.

At other times it was a consolation to Eckhof to relate, in

passionate and eloquent words, all his sorrows and disappointments;

all the strifes and contests; all his scorn over the intrigues and

cabals which then, as now, were the necessary attendants of a stage-

life. Lupinus listened till this wild cataract of rage had ceased to

foam, and he might hope that his soft and loving words of

consolation could find an entrance into Eckhof's heart.

Months went by, and Lupinus, faithful to the promise given to

Eckhof, was still the thoughtful, diligent student; he sat ever in

quiet meditation upon the bench of the auditory, and listened to the

learned dissertations of the professors, and studied the secrets of

science in his lonely room.

But this time of trial was soon to be at an end. Eckhof agreed, that

after Lupinus had passed his examination, he should decide for

himself if he would abandon the glittering career of science for the

rough and stormy path of artist-life. In the next few days this

important event was to take place, and Lupinus would publicly and

solemnly receive his diploma.

Lupinus thought but little of this. He knew that the events of that

day must exercise an important influence upon his future, upon the

happiness or unhappiness of his whole life.

The day before the examination Lupinus was alone in his room. He

said to himself, "If the faculty give me my diploma, I will show

myself in my true form to Eckhof. I will step suddenly before him,

and in his surprise I will see if his friend Lupinus is more welcome

as--"

He did not complete the sentence, but blushing crimson at his own

thoughts, he turned away and took refuge in his books; but the

excitement and agitation of his soul were stronger than his will;

the letters danced and glimmered before his eyes; his heart beat

joyfully and stormily; and his soul, borne aloft on bold wings,

could no longer be held down to the dusty and dreary writing-desk;

he sprang up, threw the book aside, and hastened to the adjoining

room. No other foot had ever crossed the threshold of this still,

small room; it was always closed against the most faithful of his

friends.

Besides, this little bedroom concealed a mystery--a mystery which

would have excited the merriment of Fredersdorf and the wild

amazement of Eckhof. On the bed lay a vestment which seemed utterly

unsuited to the toilet of a young man; it was indeed a woman's

dress, a glistening white satin, such as young, fair brides wear on

their wedding-day. There, upon the table lay small white, satin

shoes, perfumed, embroidered pocket-handkerchiefs, ribbons, and

flowers. What did this signify? what meant this feminine boudoir,

next to the study of a young man? Was the beloved whom he wished to

adorn with this bridal attire concealed there? or, was this only a

costume in which he would play his first role as an actor?

Lupinus gazed upon all these costly things with a glad and happy

heart, and as he raised the satin robe and danced smilingly to the

great mirror, nothing of the grave, earnest, dignified scholar was

to be seen in his mien; suddenly he paused, and stood breathlessly

listening. It seemed to him some one knocked lightly on the outer

door, then again louder.

"That is Eckhof," whispered Lupinus. He left the mysterious little

room, hastily closed the door, and placed the key in his bosom, then

opened the outer door.

Yes, it was Eckhof. He entered with a beaming face, with a gay and

happy smile. Lupinus had never seen him so joyous. He clasped his

young friend so ardently in his arms, that he could scarcely

breathe; he pressed so glowing a kiss upon his cheek, that Lupinus

trembled, and was overcome by his own emotion.

"See, Lupinus, how much I love you!" said Eckhof. "I come first to

you, that you may sympathize with me in my great joy. Almost

oppressed by the sense of heavenly bliss, which seemed in starry

splendor to overshadow me, I thought, 'I must go to Lupinus; he

alone will understand me.' I am here to say to you, 'Rejoice with

me, for I am happy.' I ran like a madman through the streets. Oh!

friend, you have not seen my sorrow; I have concealed the anguish of

my soul. I loved you boundlessly, and I would not fill your young,

pure soul with sadness. But you dared look upon my rapture; you, my

most faithful, best-beloved friend, shall share my joy."

"Tell me, then, at once, what makes you happy?" said Lupinus, with

trembling lips, and with the pallor of death from excitement and

apprehension.

"And you ask, my innocent and modest child," said Eckhof, laughing.

"You do not yet know that love alone makes a man wretched or

infinitely happy. I was despairing because I did not know if I was

beloved, and this uncertainty made a madman of me."

"And now?" said Lupinus.

"And now I am supremely happy--she loves me; she has confessed it

this day. Oh! my friend, I almost tore this sweet, this heavenly

secret from her heart. I threatened her, I almost cursed her. I lay

at her feet, uttering wild words of rebuke and bitter reproach. I

was mad with passion; resolved to slay myself, if she did not then

and there disclose to me either her love or her contempt. I dared

all, to win all. She stood pallid and trembling before me, and, as I

railed at her, she extended her arms humbly and pleadingly toward

me. Oh! she was fair and beautiful as a pardoning angel, with these

glistening tears in her wondrous, dreamy eyes, fair and beautiful as

a houri of Paradise; when at last, carried away by her own heart,

she bowed down and confessed that she loved me; that she would be

mine--mine, in spite of her distinguished birth, in spite of all the

thousand obstacles which interposed. One wild day I exclaimed, 'Oh!

my God, my God! I am set apart to be an artiste; thou hast

consecrated me by misfortune.' To-day, I feel that only when I am

truly happy can I truly create. From this day alone will I truly be

an artiste. I have now received the heavenly consecration of

happiness."

Eckhof looked down upon his young friend. When he gazed upon the

fair and ashy countenance, the glassy eyes staring without

expression in the distance, the blue lips convulsively pressed

together, he became suddenly silent.

"Lupinus, you are ill! you suffer!" he said, opening his arms and

trying to clasp his friend once more to his breast. But the touch of

his hand made Lupinus tremble, and awakened him from his trance. One

wild shriek rang from his bosom, a stream of tears gushed from his

eyes, and he sank almost insensible to the floor.

"My friend, my beloved friend!" cried Eckhof, "you suffer, and are

silent. What is it that overpowers you? What is this great grief?

Why do you weep? Let me share and alleviate your sorrow."

"No, no!" cried Lupinus, rising, "I do not suffer; I have no pain,

no cause of sorrow. Do not touch me; your lightest touch wounds! Go,

go! leave me alone!""

"You love me not, then?" said Eckhof. "You suffer, and will not

confide in me? you weep bitterly, and command me to leave you?"

"And he thinks that I do not love him," murmured Lupinus, with a

weary smile. "My God! whom, then, do I love?"

"If your friendship for me were true and genuine, you would trust

me," said Eckhof. "I have made you share in my happiness, and I

demand the holy right of sharing your grief."

Lupinus did not reply. Eckhof lifted him gently in his arms, and

laying him upon the sofa, took a seat near him.

He laid his arms around him, placed his head upon his bosom, and in

a soft, melodious voice, whispered words of comfort, encouragement,

and love. The young man trembled convulsively, and wept without

restraint.

Suddenly he raised himself; the agony was over; his lips slightly

trembled, but he pressed them together; his eyes were full of tears,

but he shook his head proudly, and dashed them from him.

"It is past, all past! my dream has dispersed. I am awake once

more!"

"And now, Lupinus, you will tell me all?"

"No, not now, but to-morrow. To-morrow you shall know all.

Therefore, go, my friend, and leave me alone. Go to her you love,

gaze in her eyes, and see in them a starry heaven; then think of me,

whose star is quenched, who is bowed down under a heavy load of

affliction. Go! go! if you love me, go at once!"

"I love you, therefore I obey you, but my heart is heavy for you,

and my own happiness is clouded. But I go; to-morrow you will tell

me all?"

"To-morrow."

"But when, when do we meet again?"

"To-morrow, at ten, we will see each other. At that time I am to

receive my diploma. I pray you, bring Fredersdorf with you."

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

farewell."

"Farewell."

They clasped hands, looked deep into each other's eyes, and took a

silent leave. Lupinus stood in the middle of the room and gazed

after Eckhof till he had reached the threshold, then rushed forward,

threw himself upon his neck, clasped him in his arms, and murmured,

in a voice choked with tears: "Farewell, farewell! Think of me,

Eckhof! think that no woman has ever loved you as I have loved you!

God bless you! God bless you, my beloved!"

One last glowing kiss, one last earnest look, and he pushed him

forward and closed the door; then with a wild cry sank upon the

floor.

How long he lay there, how long he wept, prayed, and despaired, he

knew not himself. The hours of anguish drag slowly and drearily; the

moments given to weeping seem to stretch out to eternity. Suddenly

he heard heavy steps upon the stairs; he recognized them, and knew

what they signified. The door opened, and two men entered: the first

with a proud, imposing form, with gray hair, and stern, strongly-

marked features; the other, a young man, pale and delicate, with a

mild and soft countenance.

The old man looked at Lupinus with a frowning brow and angry glance;

the other greeted him with a sweet smile, and his clear blue eye

rested upon him with an expression of undying love.

"My father!" said Lupinus, hastening forward to throw himself into

his arms; but he waved him back, and his look was darker, sterner.

"We have received your letter, and therefore are we here to-day. We

hope and believe it was written in fever or in madness. If we are

mistaken in this, you shall repeat to us what was written in that

letter, which I tore and trampled under my feet. Speak, then! we

came to listen."

"Not so," said the young man, "recover yourself first; consider your

words; reflect that they will decide the question of your own

happiness, of your father's, and of mine. Be firm and sure in your

determination. Let no thought of others, no secondary consideration

influence you. Think only of your own happiness, and endeavor to

build it upon a sure foundation."

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

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

"That I had been faithful to my oath, and betrayed the secret I

promised you to guard, to no one; that to-morrow I would receive my

diploma; that you had promised, when I had accomplished this I

should be free to choose my own future, and to confess my secret."

"Was that all the letter contained?"

"No--that I had resolved to choose a new career, resolved to leave

the old paths, to break away from the past, and begin a new life at

Eckhof's side." "My child at the side of a comedian!" cried the old

doctor contemptuously. "Yes, I remember that was written, but I

believed it not, and therefore have I come. Was your letter true?

Did you write the truth to Ervelman?"

Lupinus cast his eyes down, and gave his hand to his father. "No,"

said he, "it was not true; it was a fantasy of fever. It is past,

and I have recovered. To-morrow, after I receive my diploma, I will

accompany you home, and you, friend, will go with us."

The next day the students rushed in crowds to the university to

listen to the discourse of the learned and worthy Herr Lupinus. Not

only the students and the professors, but many other persons, were

assembled in the hall to honor the young man, of whom the professors

said that he was not only a model of scholarship, but of modesty and

virtue. Even actors were seen to grace the holy halls of science on

this occasion, and the students laughed with delight and cried

"Bravo!" as they recognized near Fredersdorf the noble and sharp

profile of Eckhof. They had often rushed madly to thee theatre; why

should he not sometimes honor the university?

But Eckhof was indifferent to the joyful greeting of the students;

he gazed steadily toward the door, through which his young friend

must enter the hall; and now, as the hour struck, he stooped over

Fredersdorf and seized his hand.

"Friend," said he, "a wondrous anxiety oppresses me. It seems to me

I am in the presence of a sphinx, who is in the act of solving a

great mystery! I am a coward, and would take refuge in flight, but

curiosity binds me to my seat."

"You promised poor Lupinus to be here," said Fredersdorf, earnestly.

"It is, perhaps, the last friendly service you can ever show him--

Ah! there he is."

A cry of surprise burst from the lips of all. There, in the open

door, stood, not the student Lupinus, but a young maiden, in a white

satin robe-a young maiden with the pale, thoughtful, gentle face of

Lupinus. A man stood on each side of her, and she leaned upon the

arm of one of them, as if for support, as they walked slowly through

the room. Her large eyes wandered questioningly and anxiously over

the audience; and now, her glance met Eckhof's, and a deadly pallor

covered her face. She tried to smile, and bowed her head in

greeting.

"This is the secret from which I wished to fly," murmured Eckhof. "I

guessed it yesterday."

"I knew it long since," said Fredersdorf, sadly; "it was my most

beautiful and cherished dream that your hearts should find and love

each other. Have I not often told you that Lupinus was not your

friend, but your bride; that no woman would ever love you as he did?

You would not understand me. Your heart was of stone, and her

happiness has been crushed by it."

"Poor, unhappy girl!" sighed Eckhof, and tears ran slowly down his

cheeks. "I have acted the part of a barbarian toward you! Yesterday

with smiling lips I pressed a dagger in her heart; she did not

curse, but blessed me!"

"Listen! she speaks!"

It was the maiden's father who spoke. In simple phrase he asked

forgiveness of the Faculty, for having dared to send them a

daughter, in place of a son. But it had been his cherished wish to

prove that only the arrogance and prejudice of men had banished

women from the universities. Heaven had denied him a son. He had

soon discovered that his daughter was rarely endowed; he determined

to educate her as a son, and thus repair the loss fate had prepared

for him. His daughter entered readily into his plans, and solemnly

swore to guard her secret until she had completed her studies. She

had fulfilled this promise, and now stood here to ask the Faculty if

they would grant a woman a diploma.

The professors spoke awhile with each other, and then announced to

the audience that Lupinus had been the most industrious and

promising of all their students; the pride and favorite of all the

professors. The announcement that she was a woman would make no

change in her merit or their intentions; that the maiden LUPINA

would be received by them with as much joy and satisfaction as the

youth LUPINUS would have been. The disputation might now begin.

A murmur of applause was heard from the benches, and now the clear,

soft, but slightly trembling voice of the young girl commenced to

read. How strangely did the heavy, pompous Latin words contrast with

the slight, fairy form of the youthful girl! She stood adorned like

a bride, in satin array; not like a bride of earth, inspired by

love, but a bride of heaven, in the act of laying down before God's

altar all her earthly hopes and passions! She felt thus. She

dedicated herself to a joyless and unselfish existence at the altar

of science; she would not lead an idle, useless, musing, cloister-

life. With a holy oath she swore to serve her race; to soothe the

pain of those who suffered; to stand by the sick-beds of women and

children; to give that love to suffering, weeping humanity which she

had once consecrated to one alone, and which had come home, like a

bleeding dove, with broken wings, powerless and hopeless!

The disputation was at an end. The deacon declared the maiden,

Dorothea Christine Lupinus, a doctor. The students uttered wild

applause, and the professors drew near the old Lupinus, to

congratulate him, and to renew the acquaintance of former days.

The fair young Bride of Arts thought not of this. She looked toward

Eckhof; their glances were rooted in each other firmly but

tearlessly. She waved to him with her hand, and obedient to her wish

he advanced to the door, then turned once more; their eyes met, and

she had the courage to look softly upon the friend of her youth,

Ervelman, who had accompanied her father, and say:

"I will fulfil my father's vow--I will be a faithful wife. Look,

you, Ervelman, the star has gone out which blinded my eyes, and now

I see again clearly." She pointed, with a trembling hand, to Eckhof,

who was disappearing.

"Friend," said Eckhof, to Fredersdorf, "if the gods truly demand a

great sacrifice as a propitiation, I think I have offered one this

day. I have cast my Polycrates' ring into the sea, and a part of my

heart's blood was cleaving to it. May fate be reconciled, and grant

me the happiness this pale and lovely maiden has consecrated with

her tears. Farewell, Christine, farewell! Our paths in life are

widely separated. Who knows, perhaps we will meet again in heaven?

You belong to the saints, and I am a poor comedian, who makes a

false show throughout a wild, tumultuous life, with some pompous

shreds and tatters of art and beauty, to whom, perhaps, the angels

in heaven will deny a place, even as the priests on earth deny him a

grave." [Footnote: Eckhof lived to awake respect and love for the

national theatre throughout all Germany. He had his own theatre in

Gotha, where he was born, and where he died in 1778. He performed

the double service of exalting the German stage, and obtaining for

the actors consideration and respect.]

CHAPTER XII.

TRENCK'S FIRST FLIGHT.

"This is, then, the day of his liberation?" said Princess Amelia to

her confidante, Mademoiselle von Haak. "To-day, after five months of

torture, he will again be free, will again enjoy life and liberty.

And to me, happy princess, will he owe all these blessings; to me,

whom God has permitted to survive all these torments, that I might

be the means of effecting his deliverance, for, without doubt, our

work will succeed, will it not?"

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

"Let us reconsider the whole plan, if only to enliven the tedious

hours with pleasant thought. When the commandant of the prison,

Major von Doo, pays the customary Sunday-morning visit to Trenck's

cell, and while he is carefully examining every nook to assure

himself that the captive nobleman has not been endeavoring to make a

pathway to liberty, Trenck will suddenly overpower him, deprive him

of his sword, and rush past him out of the cell. At the door he will

be met by the soldier Nicolai, who is in our confidence, and will

not seem to notice his escape. Once over the palisades, he will find

a horse, which we have placed in readiness. Concealed by the

military cloak thrown over him, and armed with the pistols with

which his saddle-holsters have been furnished, he will fly on the

wings of the wind toward Bohemia. Near the border, at the village of

Lonnschutz, a second horse will await him. He will mount and hurry

on until the boundary and liberty are obtained. All seems so safe,

Ernestine, so easy of execution, that I can scarcely believe in the

possibility of a failure."

"It will not fail," said Ernestine von Haak. "Our scheme is good,

and will be ably assisted--it must succeed."

"Provided he find the places where the horses stand concealed."

"These he cannot fail to find. They are accurately designated in a

little note which my lover, when he has charge of the prison-yard,

will contrive to convey to him. Schnell's known fidelity vouches for

the horses being in readiness. As your royal highness was not

willing that we should enlist accomplices among the soldiers, the

only question that need give us uneasiness is this: Will Trenck be

able to overcome unaided all obstacles within the fortifications?"

"No," said Amelia, proudly; "Trenck shall be liberated, but I will

not corrupt my brother's soldiers. To do the first, is my right and

my duty, for I love Trenck. Should I do the second, I would be

guilty of high treason to my king, and this even love could not

excuse. Only to himself and to me shall Trenck owe his freedom. Our

only allies shall be my means and his own strength. He has the

courage of a hero and the strength of a giant. He will force his way

through his enemies like Briareus; they will fall before him like

grain before the reaper. If he cannot kill them all with his sword,

he will annihilate them with the lightning of his glances, for a

heavenly power dwells in his eyes. Moreover, your lover writes that

he is beloved by the officers of the garrison, that all the soldiers

sympathize with him. It is well that it is not necessary to bribe

them with miserable dross; Trenck has already bribed them with his

youth and manly beauty, his misfortunes and his amiability. He will

find no opposition; no one will dispute his passage to liberty."

"God grant that it may be as your highness predicts!" said

Ernestine, with a sigh.

"Four days of uncertainty are still before us--would that they had

passed!" exclaimed Princess Amelia. "I have no doubts of his safety,

but I fear I shall not survive these four days of anxiety.

Impatience will destroy me. I had the courage to endure misery, but

I feel already that the expectation of happiness tortures me. God

grant, at least, that his freedom is secured!"

"Never speak of dying with the rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes your

highness has to-day," said Mademoiselle von Haak, with a smile.

"Your increasing pallor, caused no doubt by your grief, has given me

much pain. I am no longer uneasy, however, for you have recovered

health and strength, now that you are again hopeful. As for the four

days of expectancy, we will kill them with merry laughter, gayety,

and dancing. Does not the queen give a ball to-day? is there not a

masquerade at the opera to-morrow? For the last five months your

highness has taken part in these festivities because you were

compelled; you will now do so of your own accord. You will no longer

dance because the king commands, but because you are young, happy,

and full of hope for the future. On the first and second day you

will dance and fatigue yourself so much, that you will have the

happiness of sleeping a great deal on the third. The fourth day will

dawn upon your weary eyes, and whisper in your ear that Trenck is

free, and that it is you who have given him his freedom."

"Yes, let us be gay, let us laugh, dance, and be merry," exclaimed

Princess Amelia. "My brother shall be satisfied with me; he need no

longer regard me in so gloomy and threatening a manner; I will laugh

and jest, I will adorn myself, and surpass all the ladies with the

magnificence of my attire and my sparkling eyes. Come, Ernestine,

come. We will arrange my toilet for this evening. It shall be

magnificent. I will wear flowers in my hair and flowers on my

breast, but no pearls. Pearls signify tears, and I will weep no

more."

Joyously she danced through the room, drawing her friend to the

boudoir; joyously she passed the three following days of

expectation; joyously she closed her eyes on the evening of the

third day, to see, in her dreams, her lover kneeling at her feet,

thanking her for his liberty, and vowing eternal fidelity and

gratitude.

Amelia greeted the fourth day with a happy smile, never doubting but

that it would bring her glad tidings. But hours passed away, and

still Mademoiselle von Haak did not appear. Amelia had said to her:

"I do not wish to see you to-morrow until you can bring me good

news. This will, however, be in your power at an early hour, and you

shall flutter into my chamber with these tidings, like the dove with

the olive-branch."

Mademoiselle von Haak has still not yet arrived. But now the door

opens--she is there, but her face is pale, her eyes tearful; and

this pale lady in black, whose noble and beautiful features recall

to Amelia such charming and delightful remembrances--who is she?

What brings her here? Why does she hurry forward to the princess

with streaming eyes? Why does she kneel, raise her hands

imploringly, and whisper, "Mercy, Princess Amelia, mercy!"

Amelia rises from her seat, pale and trembling, gazes with widely

extended eyes at the kneeling figure, and, almost speechless with

terror, asks in low tones, "Who are you, madame? What do you desire

of me?"

The pale woman at her feet cries in heart-rending accents, "I am the

mother of the unfortunate Frederick von Trenck, and I come to

implore mercy at the hands of your royal highness. My son attempted

to escape, but God did not favor his undertaking. He was overtaken

by misfortune, after having overcome almost all obstacles, when

nothing but the palisades separated him from liberty and safety; he

was attacked by his pursuers, disarmed, and carried back to prison,

wounded and bleeding." [Footnote: Trenck's Biography, i., 80.]

Amelia uttered a cry of horror, and fell back on her seat pale and

breathless, almost senseless. Mademoiselle von Haak took her gently

in her arms, and, amid her tears, whispered words of consolation, of

sympathy, and of hope. But Amelia scarcely heeded her; she looked

down vacantly upon the pallid, weeping woman who still knelt at her

feet.

"Have mercy, princess, have mercy! You alone can assist me;

therefore have I come to you; therefore have I entreated

Mademoiselle von Haak with tears until she could no longer refuse to

conduct me to your presence. Regardless, at last, of etiquette and

ceremony, she permitted me to fall at your feet, and to cry to you

for help. You are an angel of goodness and mercy; pity an

unfortunate mother, who wishes to save her son!"

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

"You alone, royal highness, have the power to save my son's life!"

"Tell me by what means, countess, and I will save him, if it costs

my heart's blood."

"Conduct me to the king. That is all that I require of you. He has

not yet been informed of my son's unfortunate attempt. I must be the

first to bring him this intelligence. I will confess that it was I

who assisted my son in this attempt, who bribed the non-commissioned

officer, Nicolai, with flattery and tears, with gold and promises;

that it was I who placed the horses and loaded pistols in readiness

beyond the outer palisade; that I sent my son the thousand ducats

which were found on his person; that I wrote him the letter

containing vows of eternal love and fidelity. The king will pardon a

mother who, in endeavoring to liberate her son, left no means of

success untried."

"You are a noble, a generous woman!" exclaimed the princess, with

enthusiasm. "You are worthy to be Trenck's mother! You say that I

must save him, and you have come to save me! But I will not accept

this sacrifice; I will not be cowardly and timidly silent, when you

have the courage to speak. Let the king know all; let him know that

Trenck was not the son, but the lover of her who endeavored to give

him his freedom, and that--"

"If you would save him, be silent! The king can be merciful when it

was the mother who attempted to liberate the son; he will be

inexorable if another has made this mad attempt; and, above all, if

he cannot punish the transgressor, my son's punishment will be

doubled."

"Listen to her words, princess, adopt her counsel," whispered the

weeping Ernestine. "Preserve yourself for the unfortunate Trenck;

protect his friends by your silence, and we may still hope to form a

better and happier plan of escape."

"Be it so," said the princess with a sigh. "I will bring him this

additional sacrifice. I will be silent. God knows that I would

willingly lay down my life for him. I would find this easier than to

veil my love in cowardly silence. Come, I will conduct you to the

king."

"But I have not yet told your royal highness that the king is in his

library, and has ordered that no one should be admitted to his

presence."

"I will be admitted. I will conduct you through the private corridor

and the king's apartments, and not by the way of the grand

antechamber. Come."

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

The king was alone in his library, sitting at a table covered with

books and papers, busily engaged in writing. From time to time he

paused, and thoughtfully regarded what he had written. "I have

commenced a new work, which it is to be hoped will be as great a

success in the field of science as several that I have achieved with

the sword on another field. I know my wish and my aim; I have

undertaken a truly noble task. I will write the history of my times,

not in the form of memoirs, nor as a commentary, but as a free,

independent, and impartial history. I will describe the decline of

Europe, and will endeavor to portray the follies and weaknesses of

her rulers. [Footnote: The king's own words. "OEuvres posthumes:

Correspondance avec Voltaire."] My respected colleagues, the kings

and princes, have provided me with rich materials for a ludicrous

picture. To do this work justice, the pencil of a Hollenbreughel and

the pen of a Thucydides were desirable. Ah! glory is so piquant a

dish, that the more we indulge, the more we thirst after its

enjoyment. Why am I not satisfied with being called a good general?

why do I long for the honor of being crowned in the capitol? Well,

it certainly will not be his holiness the pope who crowns me or

elevates me to the rank of a saint--truly, I am not envious of such

titles. I shall be contented if posterity shall call me a good

prince, a brave soldier, and a good lawgiver, and forgives me for

having sometimes mounted the Pegasus instead of the war horse."

With a merry smile, the king now resumed his writing. The door which

communicated with his apartments was opened softly, and Princess

Amelia, her countenance pale and sorrowful, looked searchingly into

the room. Seeing that the king was still writing, she knocked

gently. The king turned hastily and angrily.

"Did I not say that I desired to be alone?" said he, indignantly.

Perceiving his sister, he now arose, an expression of anxiety

pervading his countenance. "Ah, my sister! your sad face proclaims

you the bearer of bad news," said he; "and very important it must

have been to bring you unannounced to my presence."

"My brother, misfortune has always the privilege of coming

unannounced to the presence of princes, to implore pity and mercy at

their hands. I claim this holy privilege for the unfortunate lady

who has prayed for my intercession in her behalf. Sire, will you

graciously accord her an audience?"

"Who is she?" asked the king, discontentedly,

"Sire, it is the Countess Lostange," said Amelia, in a scarcely

audible voice.

"The mother of the rebellious Lieutenant von Trenck!" exclaimed the

king, in an almost threatening tone, his eyes flashing angrily.

"Yes, it is the mother of the unfortunate Von Trenck who implores

mercy of your majesty!" exclaimed the countess, falling on her knees

at the threshold of the door.

The king recoiled a step, and his eye grew darker. "Really, you

obtain your audiences in a daring manner--you conquer them, and make

the princess your herald."

"Sire, I was refused admission. In the anguish of my heart, I turned

to the princess, who was generous enough to incur the displeasure of

her royal brother for my sake."

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

"Sire, for five months has my son been languishing in prison, and

you ask if there is an urgent necessity for his mother's appeal. My

son has incurred your majesty's displeasure; why, I know not. He is

a prisoner, and stands accused of I know not what. Be merciful--let

me know his crime, that I may endeavor to atone for it."

"Madame, a mother is not responsible for her son; a woman cannot

atone for a man's crimes. Leave your son to his destiny; it may be a

brighter one at some future day, if he is wise and prudent, and

heeds the warning which is now knocking at his benighted heart." At

these words, the king's glance rested for a moment on the

countenance of the princess, as if this warning had also been

intended for her.

"It is, then, your majesty's intention to cheer a mother's heart

with hope? My son will not be long a captive. You will pardon him

for this crime of which I have no knowledge, and which you do not

feel inclined to mention."

"Shall I make it known to you, madame?" said the king, with

severity. "He carried on an imprudent and treasonable

correspondence, and if tried by court-martial, would be found guilty

of high treason. But, in consideration of his youth, and several

extenuating circumstances with which I alone am acquainted, I will

be lenient with him. Be satisfied with this assurance: in a year

your son will be free; and when solitude has brought him to

reflection, and the consciousness of his crime, when he is more

humble and wiser, I will again be a gracious king to him. [Footnote:

Trenck's Memoirs, i., 82.] Write this to your son, madame, and

receive my best wishes for yourself."

"Oh, sire, you do not yet know all. I have another confession to

make, and--"

A light knock at the door communicating with the antechamber

interrupted her, and a voice from the outside exclaimed: "Sire, a

courier with important dispatches from Silesia."

"Retire to the adjoining apartment, and wait there," said the king,

turning to his sister.

Both ladies left the room.

"Dispatches from Silesia," whispered the countess. "The king will

now learn all, I fear."

"Well, if he does," said the princess, almost defiantly, "we are

here to save him, and we will save him."

A short time elapsed; then the door was violently thrown open, and

the king appeared on the threshold, his eyes flashing with anger.

"Madame," said he, pointing to the papers which he held in his hand,

"from these papers I have undoubtedly learned what it was your

intention to have communicated to me. Your son has attempted to

escape from prison like a cowardly criminal, a malefactor weighed

down with guilt. In this attempt he has killed and wounded soldiers,

disarmed the governor of the fortress, and, in his insolent frenzy,

has endeavored to scale the palisades in broad daylight. Madame,

nothing but the consciousness of his own guilt could have induced

him to attempt so daring a flight, and he must have had criminal

accomplices who advised him to this step--accomplices who bribed the

sentinel on duty before his door; who secretly conveyed money to

him, and held horses in readiness for his flight. Woe to them if I

should ever discover the criminals who treasonably induced my

soldiers and officers to break their oath of fidelity!"

"I, your majesty, I was this criminal," said the countess. "A mother

may well dare to achieve the freedom of her son at any price. It is

her privilege to defend him with any weapon. I bribed the soldiers,

placed the horses in readiness, and conveyed money to my son. It was

Trenck's mother who endeavored to liberate him."

"And you have only brought him to greater, to more hopeless misery!

For now, madame, there can be no mercy. The fugitive, the deserter,

has forfeited the favor of his king. Shame, misery, and perpetual

captivity will henceforth be his portion. This is my determination.

Hope for no mercy. The articles of war condemn the deserter to

death. I will give him his life, but freedom I cannot give him, for

I now know that he would abuse it. Farewell."

"Mercy! mercy for my son!" sobbed the countess. "He is so young! he

has a long life before him."

"A life of remorse and repentance," said the king with severity. "I

will accord him no other. Go!"

He was on the point of reentering the library. A hand was laid on

his shoulder; he turned and saw the pale countenance of his sister.

"My brother," said the princess, in a firm voice, "permit me to

speak with you alone for a moment. Proceed, I will follow you."

Her bearing was proud, almost dictatorial. Her sternly tranquil

manner, her clear and earnest brow, showed plainly that she had

formed an heroic determination. She was no longer the young girl,

timidly praying for her lover; she was the fearless woman,

determined to defend him, or die for him. The king read this in her

countenance, it was plainly indicated in her royal bearing; and with

the reverence and consideration which great spirits ever accord to

misfortune, he did homage to this woman toward whom he was so

strongly drawn by sympathy and pity.

"Come, my sister, come," said he, offering his hand.

Amelia did not take his hand; by his side she walked into the

library, and softly locked the door behind her. One moment she

rested against the wall, as if to gather strength. The king hastily

crossed the room, and looked out at the window. Hearing the rustle

of her dress behind him, he turned and advanced toward the princess.

She regarded him fixedly with cold and tearless eyes.

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

"The promise is superfluous, for I will make a future meeting

impossible."

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

"Is it enough if I swear never to write to him again, nevermore to

give him a token of my love?"

"I would not believe this oath. If I set him at liberty he would

compromise you and your family, by boasting of a love which yielded

to circumstances and necessity only, and not to reason and

indifference. I will make you no reproaches at present, for I think

your conscience is doing that for me. But this much I will say: I

will not set him at liberty until he no longer believes in your

love."

"Will you liberate him if I rob him of this belief? If I hurl the

broken bond of my promised faith in his face? If I tell him that

fear and cowardice have extinguished my love, and that I bid him

farewell forever?"

"Write him this, and I promise you that he shall be free in a few

months; but, understand me well, free to go where he will, but

banished from my kingdom."

"Shall I write at once?" said she with an expression of utter

indifference, and with icy tranquillity.

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

She walked composedly to the table and seated herself. When she

commenced writing, a deathly pallor came over her face; her breath

came and went hurriedly and painfully. The king stood near,

regarding her with an expression of deep solicitude.

"Have you finished?" said he, as she pushed the paper aside on which

she had been writing.

"No," said she calmly, "it was only a tear that had fallen on the

paper. I must begin again." And with perfect composure she took

another sheet of paper, and began writing anew.

The king turned away with a sigh. He felt that if he longer regarded

this pale, resigned face, he would lose sight of reason and duty,

and restore to her her lover. He again advanced to the window, and

looked thoughtfully out at the sky. "Is it possible? can it be?" he

asked himself. "May I forget my duties as head of my family, and

only remember that she is my sister, and that she is suffering and

weeping? Must we then all pay for this empty grandeur, this frippery

of earthly magnificence, with our heart's blood and our best hopes?

And if I now deprive her of her dreams of happiness, what

compensation can I offer? With what can I replace her hopes, her

love, the happiness of her youth? At the best, with a little earthly

splendor, with the purple and the crown, and eventually, perhaps,

with my love. Yes, I will love her truly and cordially; she shall

forgive the brother for the king's harshness; she shall--"

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

The king turned from the window; Amelia stood at the escritoire,

holding the paper on which she had been writing in one hand, and

sustaining herself by the table with the other.

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

The princess bowed her head and read:

"I pity you, but your misfortune is irremediable; and I cannot and

will not attempt to alleviate it, for fear of compromising myself.

This is, therefore, my last letter--I can risk nothing more for you.

Do not attempt to write to me, for I should return your letter

unopened. Our separation must be forever, but I will always remain

your friend; and if I can ever serve you hereafter, I will do so

gladly. Farewell, unhappy friend, you deserve a better fate."

[Footnote: Trenck's Memoirs, i., 86.]

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

"That is all, sire."

"And you imagine that he will no longer believe in your love, when

he receives this letter?" said the king, with a sad smile.

"I am sure he will not, for I tell him in this letter that I will

risk nothing more for him; that I will not even attempt to alleviate

his misery. Only when one is cowardly enough to sacrifice love to

selfish fears, could one do this. I shall have purchased his liberty

with his contempt."

"What would you have written if you had been permitted to follow the

promptings of your heart?"

A rosy hue flitted over her countenance, and love beamed in her

eyes. "I would have written, 'Believe in me, trust in me! For

henceforth the one aim of my life will be to liberate you. Let me

die when I have attained this aim, but die in the consciousness of

having saved you, and of having been true to my love.'"

"You would have written that?"

"I would have written that," said she, proudly and joyfully. "And

the truth of that letter he would not have doubted."

"Oh, woman's heart! inexhaustible source of love and devotion!"

murmured the king, turning away to conceal his emotion from his

sister.

"Is this letter sufficient?" demanded the princess. "Shall Trenck be

free?"

"I have promised it, and will keep my word. Fold the letter and

direct it. It shall be forwarded at once."

"And when will he be free?"

"I cannot set him at liberty immediately. It would be setting my

officers a bad example. But in three months he shall be free."

"In three months, then. Here is the letter, sire."

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

"And now, my sister, come to my heart," said he, holding out his

arms. "The king was angry with you, the brother will weep with you.

Come, Amelia, come to your brother's heart."

Amelia did not throw herself in his arms; she stood still, and

seemed not to have heard, not to have understood his words.

"I pray that your majesty will allow me to retire," said she. "I

think we have finished--we have to other business to transact."

"Oh! my sister," said Frederick, mournfully, "think of what you are

doing; do not harden your heart against me. Believe me, I suffer

with you; and if the only question were the sacrifice of my personal

wishes, I would gladly yield. But I must consider my ancestors, the

history of my house, and the prejudices of the world. Amelia, I

cannot, I dare not do otherwise. Forgive me, my sister. And now,

once more, let us hold firmly to each other in love and trust. Let

me fold you to my heart."

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

"Allow me to remind your majesty that a poor unhappy woman is

awaiting a word of consolation in the next room, and that this woman

is Trenck's mother. She, at least, will be happy when I inform her

that her son will soon be free. Permit me, therefore, sire, to take

my leave, and bear her this good news."

She bowed formally and profoundly, and walked slowly across the

room. The king no longer endeavored to hold her back. He followed

her with a mournful, questioning glance, still hoping that she would

turn and seek a reconciliation. She reached the door, now she

turned. The king stepped forward rapidly, hut Princess Amelia bowed

ceremoniously and disappeared.

"Lost! I have lost her," sighed the king. "Oh, my God! must I then

part from all that I love? Was it not enough to lose my friends by

death? will cruel fate also rob me of a loved and living sister? Ah!

I am a poor, a wretched man, and yet they call me a king."

Frederick slowly seated himself, and covered his face with his

hands. He remained in this position for a long time, his sighs being

the only interruption to the silence which reigned in the apartment.

"Work! I will work," said he proudly. "This is at least a

consolation, and teaches forgetfulness."

He walked hurriedly to his escritoire, seated himself, and regarded

the manuscripts and papers which lay before him. He took up one of

the manuscripts and began to read, but with an impatient gesture he

soon laid it aside.

"The letters swim before my eyes in inextricable confusion. My God,

how hard it is to do one's duty!"

He rested his head on his hand, and was lost in thought for a long

time. Gradually his expression brightened, and a wondrous light

beamed in his eyes.

"Yes," said he, with a smile, "yes, so it shall be. I have just lost

a much-loved sister. Well, it is customary to erect a monument in

memory of those we love. Poor, lost sister, I will erect a monument

to your memory. The king has been compelled to make his sister

unhappy, and for this he will endeavor to make his people happy. And

if there is no law to which a princess can appeal against the king,

there shall at least be laws for all my subjects, which protect

them, and are in strict accordance with reason, with justice, and

the godly principle of equality. Yes, I will give my people a new

code of laws. [Footnote: Rodenbeck, Diary, p. 137.] This, Amelia,

shall be the monument which I will erect to you in my heart. In this

very hour I will write to Cocceji, and request him to sketch the

outlines of this new code of laws."

The king seized his pen and commenced writing. "The judges," said

he, hastily penning his words, "the judges must administer equal and

impartial justice to all without respect to rank or wealth, as they

expect to answer for the same before the righteous judgment-seat of

God, and in order that the sighs of the widows and orphans, and of

all that are oppressed, may not be visited upon themselves and their

children. No rescripts, although issued from this cabinet, shall be

deemed worthy of the slightest consideration, if they contain aught

manifestly incompatible with equity, or if the strict course of

justice is thereby hindered or interrupted; but the judges shall

proceed according to the dictates of duty and conscience."

The king continued writing, his countenance becoming more and more

radiant with pleasure, while his pen flew over the paper. He was so

completely occupied with his thoughts that he did not hear the door

open behind him, and did not perceive the merry and intelligent face

of his favorite, General Rothenberg, looking in.

The king wrote on. Rothenberg stooped and placed something which he

held in his arms on the floor. He looked over toward the king, and

then at the graceful little greyhound which stood quietly before

him. This was no other than the favorite dog of the king, which had

been lost and a captive. [Footnote: The greyhound had fallen into

the hands of the Austrians at the battle of Sohr, and had been

presented by General Nadasti to his wife as a trophy. When this lady

learned that Biche had been a pet of the king, she at first refused

to give it up: and only after several demands, and with much

difficulty, could she be induced to return it. Rodenbeck, Diary, p.

126.]

The little Biche stood still for a moment, looking around

intelligently, and then ran lightly across the apartment, sprang

upon the table and laid its forepaw on the king's neck.

"Biche, my faithful little friend, is it you?" said Frederick,

throwing his pen aside and taking the little animal in his arms.

Biche began to bark with delight, nestle closely to her master, and

look lovingly at him with her bright little eyes. And the king--he

inclined his face on the head of his faithful little friend, and

tears ran slowly down his cheeks. [Footnote: Muchler, "Frederick the

Great," p. 350. Rodenbeck, Diary, p. 137.]

"You have not forgotten me, my little Biche? Ah, if men were true,

and loved me as you do, my faithful little dog, I should be a rich,

a happy king!"

General Rothenberg still stood at the half-opened door. "Sire, said

he, "is it only Biche who has the grandes and petites entrees, or

have I also?"

"Ah, it was then you who brought Biche?" said Frederick, beckoning

to the general to approach.

"Yes, sire, it was I, but I almost regret having done so, for I

perceive that Biche is a dangerous rival, and I am jealous of her."

"You are my best gentleman-friend, and Biche is my best lady-

friend," said the king, laughing. "I shall never forget that Biche

on one occasion might have discovered me to the Austrians, and did

not betray me, as thousands of men would have done in her place. Had

she barked at the time when I had concealed myself under the bridge,

while the regiment of pandours was passing over, I should have been

lost. But she conquered herself. From love to me she renounced her

instincts, and was silent. She nestled close to my side, regarding

me with her discreet little eyes, and licking my hand lovingly. Ah,

my friend, dogs are better and truer than mankind, and the so-called

images of God could learn a great deal from them!"

CHAPTER XIII.

THE FLIGHT.

Two months had passed since Trenck's last attempted escape; two

months of anguish, of despair. But he was not depressed, not

hopeless; he had one great aim before his eyes--to be free, to

escape from this prison. The commandant had just assured him he

would never leave it alive.

This frightful picture of a life-long imprisonment did not terrify

him, did not agitate a nerve or relax a muscle. He felt his blood

bounding in fiery streams through his veins. With a merry laugh and

sparkling eye he declared that no man could be imprisoned during his

whole life who felt himself strong enough to achieve his freedom.

"I have strength and endurance like Atlas. I can bear the world on

my shoulders, and shall I never be able to burst these doors and

gates, to surmount these miserable fortress walls which separate me

from liberty, the world of action, the golden sunshine? No, no,

before the close of this year I shall be free. Yes, free! free to

fly to her and give her back this letter, and ask her if she did

truly write it? if these cold words came from her heart? No, some

one has dared to imitate her writing, and thus deprive me of the

only ray of sunshine which enters my dark prison. I must be free in

order to know this. I will believe in nothing which I do not see

written in her beautiful face; only when her lips speak these

fearful words, will I believe them. I must be free, and until then I

must forget all other things, even this terrible letter. My

thoughts, my eyes, my heart, my soul, must have but one aim--my

liberty!"

Alas! the year drew near its close, and the goal was not reached;

indeed, the difficulties were greatly increased. The commandant, Von

Fouquet, had just received stern orders from Berlin; the watch had

been doubled, and the officers in the citadel had been peremptorily

forbidden to enter the cell of the prisoner, or in any way to show

him kindness or attention.

The officers loved the young and cheerful prisoner; by his fresh and

hopeful spirit, his gay laugh and merry jest, he had broken up the

everlasting monotony of their garrison-life; by his powerful

intellect and rich fancy he had, in some degree, dissipated their

weariness and stupidity. They felt pity for his youth, his beauty,

his geniality, his energetic self-confidence; his bold courage

imposed upon them, and they were watching curiously and anxiously to

see the finale of this contest between the poor, powerless,

imprisoned youth, and the haughty, stern commander, who had sworn to

Trenck that he should not succeed in making even an attempt to

escape, to which Trenck had laughingly replied:

"I will not only make an attempt to escape, I will fly in defiance

of all guards, and all fortress walls, and all commandants. I inhale

already the breath of liberty which is wafted through my prison. Do

you not see how the Goddess of Liberty, with her enchanting smile,

stands at the head of my wretched bed, sings her sweet evening songs

to the poor prisoner, and wakes him in the early morning with the

sound of trumpets? Oh, sir commandant, Liberty loves me, and soon

will she take me like a bride in her fair arms, and bear me off to

freedom!"

The commandant had doubled the guard, and forbidden the officers,

under heavy penalty, to have any intercourse with Trenck. Formerly,

the officers who had kept watch over Trenck, had been allowed to

enter, to remain and eat with him; now the door was closed against

them, the major kept the key, and Trenck's food was handed him

through the window. [Footnote: Trenck's Memoirs.] But this window

was large, and the officer on guard could put his head in and chat

awhile with the prisoner. The major had the principal key, but the

officer had a night-key, and, by this means, entered often in the

evenings and passed a few hours with the prisoner, listening with

astonishment to his plans of escape, and his dreams of a happy

future.

But they did not all come to speak of indifferent things, and to be

cheered and brightened by his gay humor. There were some who truly

loved him, and wished to give him counsel and aid. One came because

he had promised his beloved mistress, his bride, to liberate Trenck,

cost what it would. This was Lieutenant Schnell, the bridegroom of

Amelia's maid of honor. One day, thanks to the night-key, he entered

Trenck's cell.

"I will stand by you, and assist you to escape. More than that, I

will fly with you. The commandant, Fouquet, hates me--he says I know

too much for an officer; that I do not confine myself to my military

duties, but love books, and art, and science. He has often railed at

me, and I have twice demanded my dismissal, which he refused, and

threatened me with arrest if I should again demand it. Like

yourself, I am not free, and, like you, I wish to fly from bondage.

And now let us consult together, and arrange our plan of escape."

"Yes," said Trenck, with a glowing countenance, and embracing his

new-found friend, "we will be unconquerable. Like Briareus, we will

have a hundred arms and a hundred heads. When two young and powerful

men unite their wills, nothing can restrain them--nothing withstand

them. Let us make our arrangements."

The plan of escape was marked out, and was, indeed, ripe for action.

On the last day of the year, Lieutenant Schnell was to be Trenck's

night-guard, and then they would escape. The dark shadows of night

would assist them. Horses were already engaged. There was gold to

bribe the guard, and there were loaded pistols for those who could

not be tempted. These had been already smuggled into Trenck's cell,

and concealed in the ashes of the fireplace.

And now it was Christmas eve. This was a grand festal day even for

all the officers of the citadel. With the exception of the night-

watch, they were all invited to dine with the commandant. A day of

joy and rejoicing to all but the poor prisoner, who sat solitary in

his cell, and recalled, with a sad heart, the happy days of his

childhood. "The holy evening" had been to him a golden book of

promise, and a munificent cornucopia of happiness and peace.

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

"Comrade, we are betrayed!" said he breathlessly. "Our plan of

flight has been discovered. The adjutant of the commander has just

secretly informed me that when the guard is changed I am to be

arrested. You see, then, we are lost, unless we adopt some rash and

energetic resolution."

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

"If you think that possible, so be it!" said Schnell. He drew a

sword from under his mantle, and handed it to Trenck. "Swear to me

upon this sword, that come what may, you will never allow me to fall

alive into the hands of my enemies."

"I swear it, so truly as God will help me! And now, Schnell, take

the same oath."

"I swear it! And now friend, one last grasp of the hand, and then

forward. May God be with us! Hide your sword under your coat. Let us

assume an indifferent and careless expression--come!"

Arm in arm, the two young men left the prison door. They appeared

calm and cheerful; each one kept a hand in his bosom, and this hand

held a loaded pistol.

The guard saluted the officer of the night-watch, who passed by him

in full uniform. In passing, he said: "I am conducting the prisoner

to the officers' room. Remain here--I will return quickly."

Slowly, quietly, they passed down the whole length of the corridor;

they reached the officer's room, and opened the door. The guard

walked with measured step slowly before the open door of Trenck's

cell, suspecting nothing. The door closed behind the fugitives--the

first step toward liberty was taken.

"And now, quickly onward to the side door. When we have passed the

sentry-box, we will be at the outer works. We must spring over the

palisades, and woe to the obstacle that lies in our path!--advance!

forward!"

They reached the wall, they greeted fair Freedom with golden smiles,

but turning a corner, they stood suddenly before the major and his

adjutant!

A cry of horror burst from Schnell's lips. With one bold leap, he

sprang upon the breastworks, and jumped below. With a wild shout of

joy Trenck followed him. His soul bounded with rapture and gladness.

He has mounted the wall, and what he finds below will be liberty in

death, or liberty in life.

He lives! He stretches himself after his wondrous leap, and he is

not injured--he recovers strength and presence of mind quickly.

But where is his friend? where is Schnell? There--there; he lies

upon the ground, with a dislocated ankle, impossible to stand--

impossible to move.

"Remember your oath, friend--kill me! I can go no farther. Here is

my sword--thrust it into my bosom, and fly for your life!"

Trenck laughed gayly, took him in his arms as lovingly and tenderly

as a mother. "Swing yourself on my back, friend, and clasp your arms

about my neck, and hold fast. We will run a race with the reindeer."

"Trenck! Trenck! kill me Leave me here, and hasten on. Escape is

impossible with such a burden."

"You are as light as a feather, and I will die with you rather than

leave you."

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

of the earth.

"Trenck, Trenck, do you not hear the alarm--guns thundering from the

citadel? Our pursuers are after us."

"I hear the cannon," said Trenck, hastening on. "We have a half

hour's start."

"A half hour will not suffice. No one has ever escaped from Glatz

who did not have two hours' advance of pursuit. Leave me, Trenck,

and save yourself."

"I will not leave you. I would rather die with you. Let us rest a

moment, and gather breath."

Gently, carefully, he laid his friend upon the ground. Schnell

suppressed his cries of pain, and Trenck restrained his panting

breath--they rested and listened. The white, soft mist settled more

thickly around them. The citadel and the town was entirely hidden

from view.

"God is with us," said Trenck. "He covers us with an impenetrable

veil, and conceals us from our enemies."

"God is against us--our flight was too soon discovered. Already the

whole border is alarmed. Listen to the signals in every village. The

three shots from the citadel have announced that a prisoner has

escaped. The commanding officers are now flying from point to point,

to see if the peasants are doing duty, and if every post is strictly

guarded. The cordon is alarmed; the whole Bohemian boundary has been

signalled. It is too late--we cannot reach the border."

"We will not go then, friend, in the direction our enemies expect

us," said Trenck, merrily. "They saw us running toward the Bohemian

boundary, and they will follow in that direction through night and

fog. We will fly where they are not seeking us--we will cross the

Reise. Do you see there a line of silver shimmering through the fog,

and advancing to meet us? Spring upon my back, Schnell. We must

cross the Reise!"

"I cannot, Trenck, I suffer agony with my foot. It is impossible for

me to swim."

"I can swim for both."

He knelt down, took his friend upon his back, and ran with him to

the river. And now they stood upon the shore. Solemnly, drearily,

the waves dashed over their feet, sweeping onward large blocks of

ice which obstructed the current.

"Is the river deep, comrade?"

"In the middle of the stream, deep enough to cover a giant like

yourself."

"Onward, then! When I can no longer walk, I can swim. Hold fast,

Schnell!"

Onward, in the dark, ice-cold water, bravely onward, with his friend

upon his back! Higher and higher rose the waves! Now they reached

his shoulder!

"Hold fast to my hair, Schnell, we must swim!"

With herculean strength he swam through the dark, wild waters, and

dashed the ice-blocks which rushed against him from his path.

Now they have reached the other shore. Not yet safe--but safe from

immediate danger. The blessed night conceals their course, and their

pursuers seek them on the other shore.

Suddenly the fog is dispersed; a rough bleak wind freezes the

moisture in the atmosphere, and the moon rose in cloudless majesty

in the heavens. It was a cold, clear December night, and the wet

clothes of the fugitives were frozen stiff, like a harness, upon

them. Trenck felt neither cold nor stiff; he carried his friend upon

his shoulders, and that kept him warm; he walked so rapidly, his

limbs could not stiffen.

Onward, ever onward to the mountains! They reached the first hill,

under whose protecting shadows they sank down to rest, and take

counsel together.

"Trenck, I suffer great agony; I implore you to leave me here and

save yourself. In a few hours you can pass the border. Leave me,

then, and save yourself!"

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

He took up his comrade and pressed on. The moon had concealed

herself behind the clouds; the cold, cutting winds howled through

the mountains. Stooping, Trenck waded on through the snow. He was

scarcely able now to hold himself erect. Hope inspired him with

strength and courage--they had wandered far, they must soon reach

the border.

Day broke! the pale rays of the December sun melted the mountain

vapors into morning. The two comrades were encamped upon the snow,

exhausted with their long march, hopefully peering here and there

after the Bohemian boundary.

"Great God! what is that? Are not those the towers of Glatz? and

that dark spectre which raises itself so threateningly against the

horizon, is not that the citadel?"

And so it was. The poor fugitives have wandered round and round the

whole night through, and they are now, alas! exactly where they

started.

"We are lost," murmured Schnell; "there is no hope!" "No, we are not

lost!" shouted Trenck; "we have young, healthy limbs, and weapons.

They shall never take us alive."

"But we cannot escape them. Our appearance will instantly betray us;

I am in full uniform, and you in your red coat of the body-guard,

both of us without hats. Any man would know we were deserters."

"Woe to him who calls us so! we will slay him, and walk over his

dead body. And now for some desperate resolve. We cannot go

backward, we must advance, and pass right through the midst of our

enemies in order to reach the border. You know the way, and the

whole region round about. Come. Schnell, let us hold a council of

war."

"We must pass through that village in front of us. How shall we

attempt to do so unchallenged?"

Half an hour later a singular couple drew near to the last house of

the village. One was a severely wounded, bleeding officer of the

king's body-guard; his face was covered with blood, a bloody

handkerchief was bound about his brow, and his hands tied behind his

back. Following him, limped an officer in full parade dress, but

bareheaded. With rude, coarse words he drove the poor prisoner

before him, and cried for help. Immediately two peasants rushed from

the house.

"Run to the village," said the officer, "and tell the judge to have

a carriage got ready immediately, that I may take this deserter to

the fortress. I succeeded in capturing him, but he shot my horse,

and I fear I broke a bone in falling; you see, though, how I have

cut him to pieces. I think he is mortally wounded. Bring a carriage

instantly, that I may take him, while yet alive, to the citadel."

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

his hut.

Stumbling and stammering out words of pain, the wounded man followed

him; cursing and railing, the officer limped behind him. On entering

the room, the wounded man sank upon the floor, groaning aloud. A

young girl advanced hastily, and took his wounded head in her arms;

while an old woman, who stood upon the hearth, brought a vessel of

warm milk to comfort him.

The old peasant stood at the window, and looked, with a peculiar

smile, at the officer, who seated himself upon a bench near the

fire, and drank the milk greedily which the old woman handed him.

Suddenly the old man advanced in front of the officer and laid his

hand on his shoulder.

"Your disguise is not necessary, Lieutenant Schnell, I know you; my

son served in your company. There was an officer from the citadel

here last night, and informed us of the two deserters. You are one,

Lieutenant Schnell, and that is the other. That is Baron Trenck."

And now, the wounded man, as if cured by magic, sprang to his feet.

The sound of his name had given him health and strength, and healed

the wound in his forehead. He threw the handkerchief off, and rushed

out, while Schnell with prayers and threats held back the old man,

and entreated him to show them the nearest way to the border.

Trenck hastened to the stable--two horses were in the stalls. The

young girl, who had held his head so tenderly, came up behind him.

"What are you doing, sir?" she said anxiously, as Trenck released

the horses. "You will not surely take my father's horses?--if you

do, I will cry aloud for help."

"If you dare to cry aloud, I will murder you," said Trenck, with

flaming eyes, "and then I will kill myself! I have sworn that I will

not be taken alive into the fortress. Have pity, beautiful child--

your eyes are soft and kindly, and betray a tender heart. Help me--

think how beautiful, how glorious is the world and life and liberty

to the young! My enemies will deprive me of all this, and chain me

in a cell, like a wild beast. Oh, help me to escape!"

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

"Give me saddles and bridles for these horses, in order that I may

flee. I swear to you, by God and by my beloved, that they shall be

returned to you!"

"You have then a sweetheart, sir?"

"I have--and she weeps day and night for me."

"I will give you the saddles in remembrance of my own beloved, who

is far away from me. Come, saddle your horse quickly--I will saddle

the other."

"Now, farewell, Mariandel--one kiss at parting--farewell,

compassionate child! Schnell, Schnell, quick, quick to horse, to

horse!"

Schnell rushed out of the hut, the peasant after him. He saw with

horror that his horses were saddled; that Schnell, in spite of his

foot, had mounted one, and Trenck was seated upon the other.

"My God! will you steal my horses? Help! help!"

Mariandel laid her hand upon her father's lips, and suppressed his

cries for help. "Father, he has a bride, and she weeps for him!--

think upon Joseph, and let them go."

The fugitives dashed away. Their long hair fluttered in the wind,

their cheeks glowed with excitement and expectation. Already the

village lay far behind them. Onward, over the plains, over the

meadows, over the stubble-fields!

"Schnell. Schnell, I see houses--I see towns. Schnell, there lies a

city!"

"That is Wunschelburg, and we must ride directly through it, for

this is the nearest way to Bohemia."

"There is a garrison there, but we must ride through them. Aha! this

is royal sport! We will dash right through the circle of our

enemies. They will be so amazed at our insolence, that they will

allow us to escape. Hei! here are the gates--the bells are ringing

for church. Onward, onward, my gallant steed, you must fly as if you

had wings!"

Huzza! how the flint strikes fire! how the horses' hoofs resound on

the pavement! how the gayly-dressed church-goers, who were advancing

so worthily up the street, fly screaming to every side! how the lazy

hussars thinking no harm, stand at the house doors, and fix their

eyes with horror upon these two bold riders, who dash past them like

a storm-wind!

And now they have reached the outer gate--the city lies behind them.

Forward, forward, in mad haste! The horses bow, their knees give

way, but the bold riders rein them up with powerful arms, and they

spring onward.

Onward, still onward! "But what is that? who is this advancing

directly in front of us? Schnell, do you not know him? That is

Captain Zerbtz!"

Yes, that is Captain Zerbtz, who has been sent with his hussars to

arrest the fugitives; but he is alone, and his men are not in sight.

He rode on just in front of them. When near enough to be heard, he

said, "Brothers, hasten! Go to the left, pass that solitary house.

That is the boundary-line. [Footnote: Trenck's Memoirs.] My hussars

have gone to the right."

He turned his horse quickly, and dashed away. The fugitives flew to

the left, passed the lonely house, passed the white stone which

marked the border, and now just a little farther on.

"Oh, comrade, let our horses breathe! Let us rest and thank God, for

we are saved--we have passed the border!"

"We are free, free!" cried Trenck, with so loud a shout of joy that

the mountains echoed with the happy sound, and reechoed back, "Free,

free!"

CHAPTER XIV.

I WILL.

Swiftly, noiselessly, and unheeded the days of prosperity and peace

passed away. King Frederick has been happy; he does not even

remember that more than two years of calm content and enjoyment have

been granted him--two years in which he dared lay aside his sword,

and rest quietly upon his laurels. This happy season had been rich

in blessings; bringing its laughing tribute of perfumed roses and

blooming myrtles. Two years of such happiness seems almost

miraculous in the life of a king.

Our happy days are ever uneventful. True love is silent and

retiring; it does not speak its rapture to the profane world, but

hides itself in the shadows of holy solitude and starry night. Let

us not, then, lift the veil with which King Frederick had concealed

his love. These two years of bloom and fragrance shall pass by

unquestioned.

When the sun is most lustrous, we turn away our eyes, lest they be

blinded by his rays; but when clouds and darkness are around about

us, we look up curiously and questioningly. King Frederick's sun is

no longer clear and dazzling, dark clouds are passing over it; a

shadow from these clouds has fallen upon the young and handsome face

of the king, quenched the flashing glance of his eye, and checked

the rapid beating of his heart.

What was it which made King Frederick so restless and unhappy? He

did not know himself, or, rather, he would not know. An Alp seemed

resting upon his heart, repressing every joyful emotion, and making

exertion impossible. He sought distraction in work, and in the early

morning he called his ministers to council, but his thoughts were

far away; he listened without hearing, and the most important

statements seemed to him trivial. He mistrusted himself, and

dismissed his ministers. It was Frederick's custom to read every

letter and petition himself, and write his answer upon the margin.

This being done, he turned to his ordinary studies and occupations,

and commenced writing in his "Histoire de Man Temps." Soon, however,

he found himself gazing upon the paper, lost in wandering thoughts

and wild, fantastic dreams. He threw his pen aside, and tried to

lose himself in the beautiful creations of his favorite poet, all

things in nature and fiction seemed alike vain.

Frederick threw his book aside in despair. "What is the matter with

me?" he exclaimed angrily. "I am not myself; some wicked fairy has

cast a spell about me, and bound my soul in magic fetters. I cannot

work, I cannot think; content and quiet peace are banished from my

breast! What does this signify? and why--" He did not complete his

sentence, but gazed with breathless attention to the door. He had

heard one tone of a voice without which made his heart tremble and

his eyes glow with their wonted fire.

"Announce to his majesty that I am here, and plead importunately for

an audience," said a soft, sweet voice.

"The king has commanded that no one shall be admitted."

"Announce me, nevertheless," said the petitioner imperiously.

"That is impossible!"

Frederick had heard enough. He stepped to the door and threw it

open. "Signora, I am ready to receive you; have the goodness to

enter." He stepped abruptly forward, and, giving his hand to

Barbarina, led her into his cabinet.

Barbarina greeted him with a sweet smile, and gave a glance of

triumph to the guard, who had dared to refuse her entrance.

The king conducted her silently to his boudoir, and nodded to her to

seat herself upon the divan. But Barbarina remained standing, and

fixed her great burning eyes upon his face.

"I see a cloud upon your brow, sire," said she, in a fond and

flattering tone. "What poor insect has dared to vex my royal lion?

Was it an insect? Was it--"

"No, no," said Frederick, interrupting her, "an angel or a devil has

tortured me, and banished joy and peace from my heart. Now tell me,

Barbarina, what are you? Are you a demon, come to martyr me, or an

angel of light, who will transform my wild dreams of love and bliss

into reality? There are hours of rapture in which I believe the

latter, in which your glance of light and glory wafts my soul on

golden, wings into the heaven of heavens, and I say to myself, 'I am

not only a king, but a god, for I have an angel by my side to

minister to me.' But then, alas! come weary times in which you seem

to me an evil demon, and I see in your flashing eyes that eternal

hatred which you swore to cherish in the first hour of our meeting."

"Alas! does your majesty still remember that?" said Barbarina, in a

tone of tender reproof.

"You have taken care that I shall not forget it. You once told me

that from hatred to love was but a small step. If you have truly

advanced so far, how can I be assured but you will one day step

backward?"

"How can you be assured?" said she, pointing a rosy finger with

indescribable grace at the king. "Ah. sire! your divine beauty, your

eyes, which have borrowed lightning from Jove and glory from the

sun--your brow, where majesty and wisdom sit enthroned, and that

youthful and enchanting smile which illuminates the whole--all these

make assurance doubly sure! I will not allude to your throne, and

its pomp and power! What is it to me that you are a king? For me you

are a man, a hero, a god. Had I met you as a shepherd in the fields,

I should have said, 'There is a god in disguise!' The fable is

verified, and 'Apollo is before me!' Apollo, I adore, I worship you!

let one ray from your heavenly eyes fall upon my face!" She knelt

before him, folding her hands, extended them pleadingly toward the

king, and looked upon him with a ravishing smile.

The king raised her, and pressed her--in his arms, then took her

small head in his hands, and turning it backward, gazed searchingly

in her face.

"Oh! Barbarina," said he, sadly, "to-day you are an angel, why were

you a demon yesterday? Why did you martyr and torture me with your

childish moods and passionate temper? Why is your heart, which can

be so soft and warm, sometimes cold as an iceberg and wholly

pitiless? Child! child! do you not know I have been wounded by many

griefs, and that every rough word and every angry glance is like a

poisoned dagger to my soul? I had looked forward with such delight

to our meeting yesterday at Rothenberg's! I expected so much

happiness, and I had earned it by a diligent and weary day's work.

Alas! you spoiled all by your frowning brow and sullen silence. It

was your fault that T returned home sad and heartless. I could not

sleep, but passed the night in trying to find out the cause of your

melancholy. This morning I could not work, and have robbed my

kingdom and my people of the hours which properly belong to them;

weak and powerless, I have been swayed wholly by gloom and

discontent. What was it, Barbarina, which veiled your clear brow

with frowns, and made your sweet voice so harsh and stern?"

"What was it?" said Barbarina, sadly; and resting on the arm of the

king, she leaned her head back and looked up at him with half-closed

eyes. "It was ambition which tortured me. But I did wrong to conceal

any thing from you. I should, without sullen or angry looks, have

made known the cause of my despair. I should have felt that I had

only to breathe my request, and that the noble and magnanimous heart

of my king would understand me. I should have known that the man who

had won laurels in the broad fields of science and on the bloody

battle-field, would appreciate this thirst for renown; this glowing,

burning hate toward those who cross our paths and wish to share our

fame!"

"Jealous? you are jealous, then, of some other artiste," said the

king, releasing Barbarina from his arms.

"Yes, sire, I am jealous!--jealous of your smiles, of your applause;

of the public voice, of the bravos, which like a golden shower have

fallen upon me alone, and which I must now divide with another!"

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

She threw her head back proudly, a crimson blush blazed upon her

cheeks, and her eyes sparkled angrily.

"Why has this Marianna Cochois been engaged? Why has Baron von

Swartz put this contempt upon me?" said she fiercely. "To engage

another artiste is to say to the world, that Barbarina no longer

pleases, that she no longer has the power to enrapture the public,

that her triumphs are over, and her day is past! Oh! this thought

has made me wild! Is not Barbarina the first dancer of the world?

Can it be that another prima donna, and not the Barbarina, is

engaged for the principal role in a new and splendid ballet? Does

Barbarina live, and has she not murdered the one who dared to do

this, to bring this humiliation upon her?"

Tears gushed from her eyes, and sobbing loudly, she hid her face in

her hands. The king gazed sadly upon her, and a weary smile played

upon his lip.

"You are all alike--all," said he, bitterly, "and the great artiste

is even as narrow-minded and pitiful as the unknown and humble; you

are all weak, vain, envious, and swayed by small passions; and to

think that you, Barbarina, are not an exception; that the Barbarina

weeps because Marianna Cochois is to play the principal role in the

new ballet, 'Toste Galanti.'"

"She shall not, she dare not," cried Barbarina; "I will not suffer

this humiliation; I will not be disgraced, dishonored in Berlin; I

will not sit unnoticed in a loge, and listen to the bravos and

plaudits awarded to another artiste which belong to me alone! Oh,

sire, do not allow this shame to be put upon me! Command that this

part, which is mine, which belongs to me by right of the world-wide

fame which I have achieved, be given to me! I implore your majesty

to take this role from the Cochois, and restore it to me."

"That is impossible, Barbarina. The Cochois, like every other

artiste, must have her debut. Baron Swartz has given her the

principal part in 'Toste Galanti,' and I cannot blame him."

"Oh! your majesty, I beseech you to listen. Is it not true--will you

not bear witness to the fact that Barbarina has never put your

liberality and magnanimity to the test; that she has never shown

herself to be egotistical or mercenary? I ask nothing from my king

but his heart, the happiness to sit at his feet, and in the sunshine

of his eyes to bathe my being in light and gladness. Sire, you have

often complained that I desired and would accept nothing from you;

that diamonds and pearls had no attraction for me. You know that not

the slightest shadow of selfishness has fallen upon my love! Now,

then, I have a request to-day: I ask something from my king which is

more precious in my eyes than all the diamonds of the world. Give me

this role; that is, allow me to remain in the undisturbed possession

of my fame." She bowed her knee once more before the king, but this

time he did not raise her in his arms.

"Barbarina," said he, sadly and thoughtfully, "put away from you

this unworthy and pitiful envy. Cast it off as you do the tinsel

robes and rouge of the stage with which you conceal your beauty. Be

yourself again. The noble, proud, and great-hearted woman who shines

without the aid of garish ornament, who is ever the queen of grace

and beauty, and needs not the borrowed and false purple and ermine

of the stage. Grant graciously to the Cochois this small glory, you

who are everywhere and always a queen in your own right!"

Barbarina sprang from her knees with flashing eyes. "Sire," said

she, "you refuse my request--my first request--you will not order

that this part shall be given to me?"

"I cannot; it would be unjust."

"And so I must suffer this deadly shame; must see another play the

part which belongs to me; another made glad by the proud triumphs

which are mine and should remain mine. I will not suffer this! I

swear it! So true as my name is Barbarina I will have no rival near

me! I will not be condemned to this daily renewed struggle after the

first rank as an artiste. I will not bear the possibility of a

comparison between myself and any other woman. I am and I will

remain the first; yes, I will!"

She raised herself up defiantly, and her burning glance fell upon

the face of the king, but he met it firmly, and if the bearing of

Barbarina was proud and commanding, that of King Frederick was more

imposing.

"How!" said he, in a tone so harsh and threatening that Barbarina,

in spite of her scorn and passion, felt her heart tremble with fear.

"How! Is there another in Prussia who dares say, 'I will?' Is it

possible that a voice is raised in contradiction to the expressed

will of the king?"

Barbarina turned pale and trembled. The countenance of Frederick

expressed what she had never seen before. It was harsh and cold, and

a cutting irony spoke in his glance and a contemptuous smile played

upon his lip.

"Mercy, mercy!" cried she, pleadingly; "have pity with my passion.

Forget this inconsiderate word which scorn and despair drew from me.

Oh! sire, do not look upon me so coldly, unless you wish that I

should sink down and die at your feet; crush me not in your anger,

but pardon and forget."

With her lovely face bathed in tears and her arms stretched out

imploringly; she drew near the king, but he stood up erect and

stepped backward.

"Signora Barbarina, I have nothing to forgive, but I cannot grant

your request. The Cochois keeps her role, and if you have any

complaint to make, apply to your chief, Baron Swartz; and now,

signora, farewell; the audience is ended."

He bowed his head lightly and turned away; but Barbarina uttered one

wild cry, sprang after him, and with mad frenzy she clung to his

arm.