The king walked along to the rose-arbor, to the temple of friendship, where the bust of his sister Frederika was placed. He seated himself near the entrance, listening to the ringing voice of the bell, and recalling that the death-mass had now commenced in Berlin. The service sacred to memory! The prayer for the immortal soul! As the lonely king sat there, calm and bowed down, a solemn prayer and holy mass rose from his own soul. He bowed lower his head, and, without realizing it himself, traced letters in the sand at his feet, with no witness but the blue heavens above him, and Windspiel who curiously eyed the lines. Thinking of the prayer for Voltaire’s undying soul, the king had written the word of profoundest mystery and revelation, of hope and prophecy--“Immortality.” The wind gently rustled in the trees, wafting the perfume of flowers. Sweet stillness reigned around, and lowly sang the birds as if not to waken the king, who slept by the marble form of his beloved sister--Windspiel upon his knees, and in the sand at his feet the word traced by his own hand, “Immortality.” CHAPTER XXIX. CAGLIOSTRO’S RETURN. Wilhelmine Enke was still living at her villa at Charlottenburg. She was, as formerly, the “unmarried” daughter of the hautboy-player, the favorite and friend of the crown prince; the same as two years previous, when he presented her before the Bavarian campaign, with this house and There was no change in her outward circumstances; her life passed regularly and calmly. The once fresh and beautiful cheek had lost somewhat of its youthful, roseate hue, and the smile of the ruby lips was less haughty, and the warmth of those brilliant eyes was subdued. This was the only perceptible difference wrought by the little vexations and troubles incident to her position. She had found some bitter drops in the golden goblet which the prince in his love pressed to her lips--drops which were uncongenial to lips accustomed to the sweets of life. To-day she had awaited him at dinner, and had just received a very friendly but laconic letter, excusing himself until the following morning. This was an unpalatable drop. Wilhlemine paced back and forth the solitary, gloomy path, at the foot of the garden, re-reading this letter, and examining every word to search out its hidden meaning. “They have brought this about,” she murmured, tearing the letter into little pieces, which lighted upon the shrubbery like butterflies. “Yes, it is their work. They have sought by all possible means to draw him into their power, and away from me. And they will succeed, as there are two of them, and the princess sustains them; and I am alone, unsupported. I am entirely alone--alone!” “If you are alone, then, it is surely your own fault,” said an earnest, solemn voice, and at the same instant a tall form approached from the shrubbery which bordered the side of the garden.