GOLZ (writes).  Through some mistake the blow should fall
  too soon—­

THE PRINCE (aside to COUNT HOHENZOLLERN in great
  perturbation). 
  Oh, Harry!

HOHENZOLLERN (impatiently). 
  What’s up now?  What’s in your head?

THE PRINCE.  Did you not see?

HOHENZOLLERN.  In Satan’s name, shut up!

MARSHAL (continuing). 
  Shall send an officer of his staff to him;
  Who, mark this well, shall finally transmit
  The order for the charge against the foe. 
  Ere this the trumpets shall not sound the charge.

[The PRINCE gazes dreamily into space.]

Well, have you got it?

GOLZ (writes).  Ere this the trumpets shall not sound the charge.

MARSHAL (in raised tone). 
  Your Highness has it down?

THE PRINCE.  Marshal?

MARSHAL.  I asked
  If you had writ it down?

THE PRINCE.  About the trumpets?

HOHENZOLLERN (aside, with emphatic indignation). 
  Trumpets be damned!  Not till the order—­

GOLZ (in the same tone).  Not
  Till he himself—­

THE PRINCE (interrupting).  Naturally not, before—­
  But then he’ll let the trumpets sound the
  charge.

[He writes.  Pause.]

MARSHAL.  And I desire—­pray note it, Baron Golz—­
  Before the action opens, to confer
  With Colonel Kottwitz, if it can be done.

GOLZ (significantly).  He shall receive your message.  Rest assured.

[Pause.]

ELECTOR (returning). 
  What now, my colonels and my generals! 
  The morning breaks.  Have you the orders down?

MARSHAL.  The thing is done, my liege.  Your battle-plan
  Is in all points made clear to your commanders.

ELECTOR (picking up his hat and gloves). 
  And you, I charge, Prince Homburg, learn control! 
  Recall, you forfeited two victories
  Of late, upon the Rhine, so keep your head! 
  Make me not do without the third today. 
  My land and throne depend on it, no less.

                                     [To the officers.]
  Come!—­Frank!

A GROOM (entering).  Here!

ELECTOR.  Quick there!  Saddle me my gray! 
  I will be on the field before the sun!

[He goes out, followed by generals, colonels and minor officers.]

  SCENE VI

THE PRINCE (coming forward). 
  Now, on thine orb, phantasmic creature, Fortune,
  Whose veil a faint wind’s breathing even now
  Lifts as a sail, roll hither!  Thou hast touched
  My hair in passing; as thou hovered’st near
  Already from thy horn of plenty thou
  Benignantly hast cast me down a pledge. 
  Child of the gods, today, O fugitive one,
  I will pursue thee on the field of battle,
  Seize thee, tear low thy horn of plenty, pour
  Wholly thy radiant blessings round my feet,
  Though sevenfold chains of iron bind thee fast
  To the triumphant chariot of the Swede!