Both pages, in suits of gold-embroidered velvet, rushed into the little antechamber, and quickly returned, each one bearing a pretty, shallow basket in his hand.  Behind them came the chamberlain, who threw across the count’s shoulders his ermine-lined velvet mantle, and put into his hand his plumed hat, trimmed with gold lace, and his embroidered gloves.  The count hastily placed the tall, pointed hat with its nodding plumes upon his dark, curly hair, in which showed here and there a few silver streaks, and grasped the long gloves firmly in his right hand, sparkling with brilliant rings.

“Open the doors!” he said authoritatively, and the chamberlain flew before him, and tore open both halves of the folding doors.  The two halberdiers, who stood near the door on the other side, raised their halberds, and proclaimed with thundering voices, “His excellency and grace, count of the empire and Stadtholder in the Mark!”

Through the two long apartments, on both sides of which was ranged a dense crowd of people of all sorts—­men and women, venerable magistrates in solemn robes of office, and soldiers in their uniforms, poorly clad citizens and fine-dressed gentlemen, bold-looking young ladies and respectable matrons in white garbs of widowhood—­through both these long apartments flew, as it were, one sigh, one joyful breath of relief and surprise, and all faces, the sad and bright, the eyes reddened by wine and night watches, as well as those sparkling with avarice and passion, all turned toward the lofty, full form of the Stadtholder, who, so proud and so brilliant, so august and self-conscious, stood upon the threshold of the door.  He gave no salutation; not in the least did he incline his head, but with one sharp look let his large, gray eyes glide up and down on both sides; and this look sufficed to cause all heads to sink in reverence, to bow the proud and humble necks, so deeply, so reverentially, that high and low, old and young, poor and rich were now all one and the same—­the petitioners of the electoral minister, the almighty Stadtholder in the Mark!

He now strode forward, followed by the two pages with their empty baskets.  But these baskets were soon filled, for at each step forward a hand was stretched out to the count, handing him a written petition, and the count took it smilingly, and with distinguished indifference cast it into one of the proffered baskets.  But before those who had come without written requests, and entreated a gracious personal hearing, the Stadtholder paused, and they began hurriedly, and with embarrassment, because they feared being heard by their neighbors, to state their wishes.  It seldom happened, however, that the count allowed them to speak to the end, interrupting them in the midst of their speech with a hasty, “Commit it to writing! commit it to writing!” and striding on with the same lofty bearing, the same proud, imperturbable equanimity.  Only when he neared the spot where stood the delegates of the citizens of Berlin and Cologne a cloud overshadowed his brow, and a flash of anger shot from his eyes.