He walked hastily across the room to the little window, stood there with his back turned to the room, and beat the window-panes impatiently with his cold hands. "Frederick, why repeat what is already burning in your head and heart?" said Körner, gently. "Why turn the knife once more in the wound, and tell you that your noble, generous love is not appreciated, not honored? The best and fairest princess of the world would have reason to consider herself happy and blessed, if the poet by the grace of God loved her; and yet his noble, generous love is misused by a cold, calculating woman, and made the means of adorning its object for richer suitors." "Proofs!" cried Schiller, imperiously, and he drummed away at the window-panes till they fairly rang. "It is difficult for others to give proofs in such cases," replied Körner, in a low voice. "You cannot prove to the man who is walking onward with closed eyes, that he is on the verge of a precipice; you can only warn him and entreat him to open his eyes, that he may see the danger which menaces. We have only considered it our duty to repeat to you what is known by all Dresden, and what all your acquaintances and friends say: that this Madame von Arnim has come to Dresden to seek a husband of rank and fortune for her daughter, and that she only encourages Frederick Schiller's attentions, because the poet's homage makes the beautiful young lady appear all the more desirable in the eyes of her other suitors." "An infernal speculation, truly!" said Schiller, with derisive laughter. "But where are the proofs? Until they are furnished, I must be permitted to doubt. I attach no importance whatever to the tattle of the good city of Dresden; to the malicious suppositions and remarks of persons with whom I am but slightly acquainted, I am also quite indifferent. But who are the _friends_ who believe in this fable, and who have commissioned you to relate it to me? At least, give me the name of one of them." "I will at least give you the name of a lady friend," said Göschen, sadly; "her name is Sophie Albrecht, my wife's sister." Schiller turned hastily to his friends, and his countenance now wore an alarmed expression. "Sophie Albrecht!" said he, "the sensitive artist--she in whose house I first saw Marie. Is it possible that she can have uttered so unworthy a suspicion?"