"Then I am willing to take an oath that what I have related was in the letter. I read it myself, for the lieutenant showed it to me." "Bring me the letter." Jaschinsky went, and the king remained alone and thoughtful in his tent. "If he were a traitor, he would surely not have shown the letter to Jaschinsky," said the king, softly; "no, his brow is as clear, his glance as open as formerly. Trenck is no traitor--no traitor to his country--I fear only a traitor to his own happiness. Well, perhaps he has come to his reason, I have warned him repeatedly, and perhaps he has at length understood me.--Where is the letter?" he asked, as Colonel Jaschinsky reentered. "Sire, here it is. At least I think that is it. I did not take time to glance at the paper, in my haste to return to your majesty." "Was he willing to give the letter?" "He said nothing, but drew it instantly from his bosom, and I brought it to your majesty without glancing at it." The king looked searchingly into the countenance of the colonel. Jaschinsky's repeated assurances that he had not looked at the letter surprised the king, and led him to suspect some hidden motive. He received the letter, and opened it slowly and carefully. He again turned his piercing glance upon the countenance of Jaschinsky; he now perceived the rose-colored letter, which lay in the folds of that one from Colonel Trenck, and he immediately understood the words of the count. This little letter was really the kernel of the whole matter, and Jaschinsky preferred to know nothing of it. "Wait outside until I call you. I wish to read this letter carefully," said the king, with perfect composure; but when Jaschinsky had disappeared, he hastily unfolded the paper, and, throwing Trenck's letter on the table, he took the other, and looking carefully at it, he said softly, "It is her writing--yes, it is her writing, and all my trouble has been in vain. They WOULD not understand me. They are lost." And sighing deeply, the king turned again to the letter. "Poor, miserable children, why should I not make them happy? is it impossible to forget prejudice for once, and to allow these two beings to be happy in their own way? So strange a thing is the heart of a woman, that she prefers an orange-wreath to a crown! Why should I force this young girl to be a princess, when she only desires to be a woman? Shall I allow them to fly away into some wilderness, and there create a paradise? But how soon would the serpent creep into this paradise! how soon would satiety, and ennui, and repentance destroy their elysium! No, the daughters of the Hohenzollerns must not stoop for happiness; I cannot change it. Fate condemns them, not I. They are condemned, but the sword which is suspended above them must fall only upon his head. His is the guilt, for he is the man. His stake was immense, and he has lost all."