On the other hand, Prussian tradition represents the King as declaring on December 3rd that, contrary to all the rules of war, he would attack Prince Charles’s army wherever he found it, though it was nearly thrice as strong as his own. But whatever be the truth,—whether or no he would have done what he had declined to do on the day before Rossbach, whether or no he knew or guessed the truth that Prince Charles had 80,000 men,—Frederick spared no effort to fill every soldier with his own spirit. Rest and food and drink, the story of Rossbach to chase away the memory of Breslau, all these were showered upon an army which since adversity had purged it of its foreign elements responded with eager loyalty to the touch of the Prussian King. Stripping off his cherished French manners, he was for a brief space the Father of his people. The news flew round the army that the King had bandied rough pleasantries with his grenadiers, that veterans had called him “Thou” and “Fritz,” that he had told the Pomeranians that without them he would not dare to give battle. The effect was magical, and the rank and file caught the glow which warmed the breasts of their superiors. For Frederick had done what he had perhaps never yet deigned to do, save when he quitted his capital in 1740 to grasp Silesia. He had called his officers together and appealed in impassioned phrases to their honour, their loyalty, and their patriotism. “Gentlemen,” he cried, “the enemy stand in their entrenchments armed to the teeth. We must attack them there, and conquer, or remain every one of us on the field. If any of you is unwilling, he may have his discharge at once and go home.” Then he paused. The devoted men were silent, many in tears, only one major cried out: “High time for such wretched scoundrels to be off.” Frederick smiled and declared that he was sure of their faithful service and of victory. He then denounced stern threats against the man or regiment who should fail in the hour of battle. “Farewell, gentlemen,” were his concluding words; “soon we beat the enemy or we see one another no more.” More than twenty years later the rough soldiers wept like children as they told the tale, and those who heard it could not keep back their tears. On Sunday, December 4, 1757, King and army set out for Breslau. From Parchwitz to the walls of the city the distance is some thirty-two miles as the crow flies. The road runs through Neumarkt, about twenty-three miles from Breslau, and Lissa, a little more than nine. That evening Neumarkt was in Prussian hands, and besides the little town 80,000 Austrian rations of bread, welcome in themselves, but far more welcome for the news which they conveyed. “The fox,” cried Frederick, “has crept out of his hole, now I will punish his presumption.”