A luxurious bedroom, a white and gilt imitation of Versailles, filled with elegant furniture, fashionable toilet articles and splendid clothes, a bed of white satin and many mirrors–this was what they both saw. All was brilliant, pretty and cheerful. At the foot of the bed stood a beautiful woman, Sophia Dorothea, opulent in charms and happiness; her black hair rolled in curls between a braid of pearls and fell on her soft shoulders. White and crimson mingled ravishingly in her face and her dark eyes were soft, yet sparkling. She wore a gown of white brocade, cut low on the bosom and laced across the muslin shift with a pink cord; the skirt was embroidered with little wreaths of blue roses; the petticoat glimmered with gold thread. The candles were lit. Near her stood a handsome creature, Annette von Arlestein, full of sparkle and daring, in a violet gown; she held a blue quilted cloak. On the peach-coloured lining the candle light flickered up and down. They were both listening … waiting.… “Then you put the cloak on me,” said the Princess, “and we thought we were so safe–_he_ being away–and I went downstairs.” Madame von Arlestein saw it–the lovely figure muffled in the dark cloak, creeping down the wide, dark stairs, while she stood at the head with a candle, ready to put her hand over it at the slightest sound. “Then you followed, Annette, to keep watch. I was a fool to go, but he had to leave soon, and I was mad to see him.” “And the Elector was coming home the next day,” added the old woman. Another scene rose before them: the vast dark kitchens beneath the dining-hall that opened on to the back entrance to the palace. This room was underground, but was lit by the perpetual fire that burnt in the huge grate. And then, to the memory of both, came the most tragic figure in the tragedy. In the glow of the great fire stood a young man, Philip von Königsmarck, one of a wild and unfortunate family; his brother Charles and his sister Aurora were sadly known to fame, but neither had a fate so dark as his.… Wind and rain increased in violence and swept and howled round the towers of Schloss Ahlden and beat in at the draughty window of the Princess’s bedroom. She put her hands over her eyes; memory was becoming so strong that she felt herself back in that moment she had not talked of for thirty-two years. “The kitchen was very large,” she said, “and he stood waiting for me. Do you remember him, Annette?” “_Herr Jesus!_” muttered the old woman. “He had on a great coat–light–and black satins under it and high soft boots and a little useless sword with a steel tassle–and a steinkirk cravat. They were fashionable that year, pulled through the buttonhole of the waistcoat—” The Princess did not move her hand from her eyes; she saw all these details. She saw more; she saw the young Swede’s passionate face, his deep blue eyes, the cluster of his blonde hair on his brow.