ELECTOR.  What glove was that?

HOHENZOLLERN.  My sovereign, hear me through! 
  The matter was a jest; and yet, of what
  Deep consequence to him I learned erelong. 
  For when I slip the garden’s postern through,
  Coming upon him as it were by chance,
  And wake him, and he calls his senses home,
  The memory flooded him with keen delight. 
  A sight more touching scarce the mind could paint. 
  The whole occurrence, to the least detail,
  He recapitulated, like a dream;
  So vividly, he thought, he ne’er had dreamed,
  And in his heart the firm assurance grew
  That heaven had granted him a sign; that when
  Once more came battle, God would grant him all
  His inward eye had seen, the laurel-wreath,
  The lady fair, and honor’s linked badge.

ELECTOR.  Hm!  Curious!  And then the glove?

HOHENZOLLERN.  Indeed! 
  This fragment of his dream, made manifest,
  At once dispels and makes more firm his faith. 
  At first, with large, round eye he looks at it: 
  The color’s white, in mode and shape it seems
  A lady’s glove, but, as he spoke with none
  By night within the garden whom, by chance,
  He might have robbed of it—­confused thereto
  In his reflections by myself, who calls him
  Up to the council in the palace, he
  Forgets the thing he cannot comprehend,
  And off-hand in his collar thrusts the glove.

ELECTOR.  Thereupon?

HOHENZOLLERN.  Thereupon with pen and tablet
  He seeks the Castle, with devout attention
  To take the orders from the Marshal’s lips. 
  The Electress and the Princess, journey-bound,
  By chance are likewise in the hall; but who
  Shall gauge the uttermost bewilderment
  That takes him, when the Princess turns to find
  The very glove he thrust into his collar! 
  The Marshal calls again and yet again
  ‘The Prince of Homburg!’ ‘Marshal, to command!’
  He cries, endeavoring to collect his thoughts;
  But he, ringed round by marvels—­why, the thunders
  Of heaven might have fallen in our midst—­

[He pauses.]

ELECTOR.  It was the Princess’ glove?

HOHENZOLLERN.  It was, indeed!

[The ELECTOR sinks into a brown study.]

A stone is he; the pencil’s in his hand,
And he stands there, and seems a living man;
But consciousness, as by a magic wand,
Is quenched within him; not until the morrow,
As down the lines the loud artillery
Already roars, does he return to life,
Asking me:  Say, what was it Doerfling said
Last night in council, that applied to me?

MARSHAL.  Truly, my liege, that tale I can indorse. 
  The Prince, I call to mind, took in no word
  Of what I said; distraught I’ve seen him oft,
  But never yet in such degree removed
  From blood and bone, never, as on that night.