“Love is my excuse,” cried Wilhelmine, eagerly. “Oh! my ruler and king, do not shake your noble head so unbelievingly; do not look at me so contemptuously. Oh, Father in heaven, I implore Thee to quicken my mind, that my thoughts may become words, and my lips utter that which is burning in my soul! In all these years of my poor, despised, obscure life, how often have I longed for this hour when I might stand before my king, when I might penitently clasp his knees and implore mercy for myself and my children--those poor, nameless beings, whose existence is my accusation, and yet who are the pride and joy of my life! Oh, sire, I will not accuse, to excuse myself; I will not cast the stone at others which they have cast at me. But it is scarcely charitable to judge and condemn a young girl fourteen years of age, who did but obey the command of her parents, and followed the man who was the first and only one that ever whispered the word of love in her ear.” “I have heard that your parents sold their child to shame. Is it true?” cried the king. “Sire, my father was poor; the scanty income of a chapel musician scarcely sufficed to educate and support four children. The prince promised my father to educate me.” “Bah! The promises of a young man of twenty-five are made without reflection, and rarely ever fulfilled.” “Sire, to the Prince of Prussia I owe all that I know, and all that I am; his promise to my dying father was fully redeemed.” “Indeed, by whom were you taught, and what have you learned?” “Your majesty, the prince wished, before all, that I should learn to speak French. Madame Girard was my French instructress, and taught me to play the guitar and spinet also.” “Oh, I presume you have learned to jabber a little French and drum a little music,” said the king, shrugging his shoulders. “I beg pardon, sire; I have a tolerable knowledge of history and of geography. I am familiar with the ancient and modern poets. I have read a good French translation of Homer, Horace, and Virgil, with a master. I have studied the history of Brandenburg, of Germany, and of America. We have read the immortal works of Voltaire, of Jean Jacques Rousseau, and of Shakespeare, with many of our modern poets. My instructor has read all these works aloud to me, and he was much pleased when I repeated parts of what he had read to me some days afterward.” “You appear to have had a very learned instructor,” remarked the king, sneeringly. “What is his name?” “His name, sire, is Prince Frederick William of Prussia. Yes, it is he who has taught me--he who has made me an intelligent woman. However young he was when he undertook the task, he has accomplished it with fidelity, firmness, and patience. He loved me, and would make me worthy of him, in heart and mind. I shall ever be grateful to him, and only death can extinguish the love and esteem with which he in spires me.”