"Because you would then know, friend, that there is no consolation for disappointment in love." "You think, then, that the Prince is disappointed in love?" "Certainly, I think so. What other grief can a young Prince of hardly eighteen years have, especially when his heart is engrossed with a glowing passion. The Prince was last night in the Media Nocte, and something peculiar must have occurred there, for he came home unusually early, his custom having been of late not to return home until daybreak, singing and rejoicing." "Only hear, Leuchtmar, how he sobs and groans! And now! Hush! what does he say?" Both gentlemen held their breath, and quite distinctly could be heard within the wailing, tear-choked voice of the Prince: "It is impossible--it is impossible. I can not. No, I can not. The sacrifice is too heavy! My heart will break!" "Hear him well," whispered Müller, amid his tears; "he can not make the sacrifice. He will die of grief. My God! go to him, baron. Tell him he need not make the sacrifice. No one can require of him the impossible. Go to him, man! Be humane. My God! only hear how he laments and groans!" "I hear it, but I can not go in. I do not know his sorrow, and if the Prince needs me he can call me." "You are a savage," said Müller desperately. "Well, if you will not comfort him, then shall I go to him." He stretched out his hand for the door knob, but Baron Leuchtmar held him back, and led the good private secretary back to his own room. "Let us go to bed, friend," he said; "even if we can not sleep, as is probable, yet we can rest, which is needful for our aged limbs. We can not yet help the Prince; and, believe me, he would never forgive us if we were to go to him unsummoned, thereby betraying that we have been privy to his suffering and his pain. He has a grief, there is no question about that; but he is retiringly modest, and at the same time has a stout heart that will admit no one to share with him a burden he has perhaps imposed upon himself. I am glad of this, Müller, and I tell you such hours of solitary grief purify the manly heart; in them the old myth is verified, from the fire and ashes of spent sorrows springs up the new-fledged phoenix. Should we prevent our Prince from passing through his purgatory, that he may emerge from the flames as a phoenix and a victorious hero?" "You may be right," sighed Müller, "but I only know that he is suffering bitterly." Baron Leuchtmar smiled sadly. "May these sufferings steel his heart," he said, "that he may be armed against greater and bitterer trials! Come, Müller, we will to bed, and to sleep."