Charles’s contemporary, William of Orange, liked dogs--and with reason--for he owed his life to a pet spaniel. It roused him from sleep just in time to escape by one door as the enemy entered the other. [Illustration: FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS SISTER WILHELMINA. (_From the painting by Antoine Pesne._)] Either this dog, or another of the same race, after William was murdered, detected the assassin beneath a pile of rubbish. Having done this act of justice, he refused food, and died upon the corpse of his master. William’s monument at the Hague represents him in armor, reclining under a marble canopy, with the faithful dog at his feet. Bunsen says that as he looked at it he could not help hoping the two friends were buried together. Why not? A monarch who not only liked dogs, but much preferred them to men, was Frederick the Great of Prussia. His grim father, who curtailed all the son’s amusements, his freedom, friendships, and food, was probably unaware of his fondness for animals, or he would have curtailed them also. The moment Frederick became his own master, a crowd of Italian greyhounds began to caper at his side across the historic stage. He was never without a half dozen at the least to divert his leisure moments. When they were not at their sport, they occupied the blue satin chairs and couches in his room. Leather balls were supplied for their amusement, but in spite of this precaution they kept the furniture ragged. “How can I help it?” said the king; “if I should get the chairs mended to-day, they would be as badly torn to-morrow; so it is best to bear with the inconvenience.” He was found one day upon the floor with a platter of fried meat, from which he was feeding his dogs. He kept order among them by means of a little stick--now driving back an over-greedy applicant, and now shoving a choice morsel towards some special favorite. He was apt to dislike any one whom they disliked, and to favor those they favored. If his pets were ill, he sought medical advice, and nothing more enraged him than to find--as he several times did--that the physicians considered it beneath their dignity to prescribe for an animal. The best beloved, the Joseph among his dogs, was Biche. The story goes that when reconnoitering one day during the campaign of 1745, he was pursued by the enemy, and concealed himself under a bridge, with Biche in his arms. Discovery was imminent--the least whine or snuffle would have betrayed them; but the nervous little creature crouched motionless, almost breathless, and the pair escaped.