Such engagements we are now told by the German Chancellor are “scraps of paper!” Only eleven years! It was no archaic instrument which the decay of many decades had rendered obsolete. What had occurred in the meantime to make it invalid? Nothing, absolutely nothing! Yet in spite of the most sacred obligations of the Powers which had pledged themselves to maintain his succession and the rights of his kingdom, two of those very Powers were invading his country to despoil him of his territory, and the rest treacherously and cowardly deserted him. It was a cruel betrayal, and as if to accentuate it by a stroke of bitter irony, France sent General Fleury, the Emperor’s confidential friend, England Lord Wodehouse, on special missions to congratulate the new King on his accession. Fleury, the dandy courtier, passing through Berlin, was handsomely flattered and fooled by Bismarck; Lord Wodehouse carried pouches full of excellent advice from Lord Russell—advice the neglect of which King Christian was assured might lead to dire consequences. The King acted according to Lord Russell’s advice, but none the less, when the great catastrophe came, he was left to his fate. Such, briefly sketched, was the position of the Danish negotiations at the end of 1863 and the beginning of 1864. The details can easily be filled in from our own Blue Books, from Lord Salisbury’s masterly essays, and from the “Origines Diplomatiques de la Guerre de 1870.” I have only tried to say so much as should serve to make intelligible what follows. It must have been about the 9th or 10th of February: I did not note the exact date in my papers: a cruel blizzard, cruel even for St. Petersburg, lasting many hours, had swept the streets clear of all passenger traffic. Only the direst necessity would goad men to face it. As good luck would have it, there was for a wonder no function or entertainment that night, so I hugged my comfort in my rooms and went to bed early, thinking with a sense of superiority tempered by pity of the poor wretches who must be outside wrestling with the bitterness of the weather. Hardly had I laid myself down when there came a violent knocking at my outer door. My servant had long since gone home, so there was nothing for it but to get up and see what was the matter. It was the Chancery messenger, shivering and smothered from head to foot with snow, bringing me a note from my chief, Lord Napier: “Please come at once.”