"Yes; I will gladly do so," exclaimed Schiller, with eagerness. "The poet needs a princely protector! Who knows whether Tasso would ever have written his 'Jerusalem Delivered,' if the Duke of Este had not been his friend--if he had not found an asylum at the court of this prince? If you can, Charlotte, and if you consider me worthy of the honor procure me this introduction, and the patronage of the Duke Charles August. May he, who lets the sun of his friendship shine upon Goethe, send down one little ray of his grace to warm my cold and solitary chamber! I will crave but little, if the Duke would only interest himself in the interdicted 'Robbers.' This alone would be of great service to me." "He will, I hope, do more for you, Schiller. I know the Duke, and also the Landgravine of Hesse! I will give you letters to both of them, and Mr. von Dalberg, toward whom the Duke is graciously inclined, will also do so. Oh, it will succeed, it must succeed! We will draw you forcibly out of the shade and into the light! Not only the German people, but also the German princes, shall love and honor the poet Frederick Schiller; and my hand shall lead him to the throne of a prince." "And let me kiss this fair hand," said Schiller, passionately. "Believe me, Charlotte, all your words have fallen like stars into my heart, and illumined it with celestial splendor!" "May these stars never grow pale!" sighed Charlotte. "May we never be encompassed with the dark night! But now, my friend, go!" "You send me away, Charlotte?" "Yes, I send you away, Schiller. We must deal economically with the beautiful moments of life. Now go!" On the evening of this day of so many varied emotions, Schiller wrote letters, in which he warmly thanked his unknown friends in Leipsic. In writing, he opened his heart in an unreserved history of his life--so poor in joys, and so rich in deprivations and disappointed hopes. He imparted to them all that he had achieved; all his intentions and desires. He told them of his poverty and want; for false shame was foreign to Schiller's nature. In his eyes the want of money was not a want of honor and dignity. He acknowledged every thing to the distant, unknown friends--his homeless feeling, and his longing to be in some other sphere, with other men who might perhaps love and understand him. As he wrote this he hesitated, and it seemed to him that he could see the sorrowful, reproachful look of Charlotte's large, glowing eyes; and it seemed to him that she whispered, "Is this your love, Schiller? You wish to leave me, and yet you know that you will be my murderer if you go!" He shuddered, and laid aside his pen, and arose and walked with rapid strides up and down his room. The glowing words which Charlotte had spoken to him that morning again resounded in his ear, but now, in the stillness of the night, they were no longer the same heavenly music.