“‘To my dear son, the Electoral Prince Frederick William,’” read the count, with loud voice.  “You see, I was not mistaken.  It is the Electress’s handwriting, and it is directed to the Electoral Prince.”

“And I have solemnly sworn to give it into no other hands than his,” murmured the painter.

“You shall keep your oath, Master Gabriel.  Now go into the antechamber.  My chamberlain awaits you there, and perhaps your fair Rebecca is also there already!”

“But my letter, your excellency—­shall I not have my letter again?”

“Certainly, master, you shall have it again.  In a half hour I shall come out myself and give it to you.  Oh, fear nothing.  The Prince will not suspect that any strange hand has touched it.  Indeed, it concerns me very nearly that the Electoral Prince should put confidence in you, and be convinced of your honesty and good faith.  Go now, master, I shall bring the secret epistle back to you unscathed, and put it again into your left breast pocket.”

When Master Gabriel Nietzel had crept out slowly and sorrowfully, the count hastened to his writing table, took up flint, tinder, and steel, and made the sparks fly until one fired the tinder and made it glow.  Now he held a splinter of wood to the glowing tinder, and by its flame lighted the wax taper in the golden candlestick.  Then he quickly fetched, from a secret drawer of his writing table, a small knife with a fine thin blade, heated this at the light, and carefully and adroitly slipped it under the great electoral seal, which he carefully detached from the letter.  He laid it carefully upon a small marble slab, and opened the letter.  It was a very long, confidential communication from the Electress to her beloved son.  With closest attention the count read it twice, and then with great pains folded it up again.

“It is just as I thought,” he said softly to himself:  “the Electress wishes the longer absence of her son.  She intimates to him that she will not be displeased if he marries there, and even promises that she will soften his father’s wrath.  She counsels him not to come here, and warns him against the evil spirit who has ensnared his father’s heart, and surely aims at the life of her dear and noble son.  Well, it must be confessed, the Electress is on the right trail.  Her mother’s instinct gives her insight into the future, and makes her a prophetess.  I know it very well, Electress:  we two have never loved one another, and have carried on a bitter warfare against each other for twenty years, in which, however, God be thanked, Schwarzenberg has always come off victorious.  I hope, too, it will continue to be so, and this letter will furnish me with a good weapon.  I shall take a copy of it.  Who knows what use I may make of it one of these days, and out of this paper fashion a dagger which may turn against the writer and against the receiver, if it reaches the hands of the Electoral Prince.  Yes,