"Away with sensitiveness!" said he, almost angrily, "I must accustom myself to be happy on earth without happiness. And if I have no sweetheart, I have friends who love me, and the friendship of a noble soul can well console me for the denied love of a perhaps fickle heart. For he who can call but one soul on earth his friend is blessed, and sits at the round-table of the gods. My poor Posa, I will learn from you, and will infuse into you my own feelings. You had but one friend on earth, and the love you could give to no woman you bestowed upon humanity, upon your people. I also will open my heart to humanity, and one woman I will love above all others, and her name shall be Germania! I will serve her, and belong to her, and love her as long as I live. Hear my vow, ye Muses and gods! Germania is my love. I will be her poet and her servant; on bended knees I will worship her; I will raise her to the skies, and never falter in my devotion, for to her belong the holiest impulses of heart and soul alike. And now, Frederick Schiller, be resolute, be strong and joyful. You are Germania's lover and her son. Determine to do what is good and great, throughout your lifetime, to her honor and renown! Take up the pen, Frederick Schiller! The pen is the sword with which you must fight and conquer!" He took the pen and held it aloft; his eyes sparkled with enthusiasm, and on his smiling lips a silent prayer trembled. The deep silence was again unbroken, save by the rustling of the pen as it glided over the paper. The Muses gathered round the poet and smiled on his labors. CHAPTER IV. JOY AND SORROW. How long he had sat there and written he knew not, he only knew that these had been happy moments of action and creation; that his heart had been full of bliss and his soul overflowing with enthusiasm, and that this high thought had found expression in words. He felt that, like a god, he was creating human beings who lived, moved, and suffered before him. But alas! he was doomed to descend from the serene heights of poetry to the dusty earth; the cares of life were about to recall him from the bright sphere of poetical visions. His door was violently thrown open, and Oswald Schwelm rushed in, pale and breathless. "Help me, for God's sake, Schiller! Hide me! I have recognized him! He has just turned into this street, followed by two constables." "Who? Of whom do you speak? Who pursues you?" exclaimed Schiller, bounding from his seat. "The hard-hearted creditor from Stuttgart. Some one has advised him that I have come to Mannheim, and he has followed me with his warrant, determined to arrest me here. Of this I felt assured when I saw him accompanied by the two constables: but, hoping that I had not been perceived, I ran hastily to your room, and now, Schiller, I implore you to rescue me from my pursuers, from my unmerciful creditor; to preserve my freedom and protect me from arrest."