“Why did you try to run away?” he furiously asked.

“Because,” said Frederick, firmly, “you have not treated me like your son, but like a base slave.”

“You are an infamous deserter, and have no honor.”

“I have as much as you,” retorted the prince.  “I have done no more than I have heard you say a hundred times that you would do if you were in my place.”

This answer so incensed the old tyrant that he drew his sword in fury from its scabbard, and would have run the boy through had not General Mosel hastily stepped between, and seized the king’s arm.

“If you must have blood, stab me,” he said; “my old carcass is not good for much; but spare your son.”

These words checked the king’s brutal fury.  He ordered them to take the boy away, and listened with more composure to the general, who entreated him not to condemn the prince without a hearing, and not to commit the unpardonable crime of becoming his son’s executioner.

Events followed rapidly upon this discovery.  Frederick contrived to despatch a line in pencil to Keith.  “Save yourself,” he wrote; “all is discovered.”  Keith at once fled, reached the Hague, where he was concealed in the house of Lord Chesterfield, the English ambassador, and when searched for there, succeeded in escaping to England in a fishing-boat.  He was hung in effigy in Prussia, but became a major of cavalry in the service of Portugal.

Katte was less fortunate.  He was warned in time to escape, and the marshal who was sent to arrest him purposely delayed, but he lost precious time in preparation, and was seized while mounting his horse.

His arrest filled the queen with terror.  Numerous letters were in his possession which had been written by herself and her daughter to the prince royal.  In these they had often spoken with great freedom of the king.  It might be ruinous should these letters fall into his hands.

Some friend sent the portfolio supposed to contain them to the queen.  It was locked, corded, and sealed.  The trouble about the seal was overcome by an old valet, who had found in the palace garden one just like it.  The portfolio was opened, and the queen’s fears found to be correct.  It contained the letters, not less than fifteen hundred in all.  They were all hastily thrown into the fire,—­too hastily, for many of them were innocent of offence.

But it would not do to return an empty portfolio.  The queen and her daughter immediately began to write letters to replace the burned ones, taking paper of each year’s manufacture to prevent discovery.  For three days they diligently composed and wrote, and in that period fabricated no less than six or seven hundred letters.  These far from filled the portfolio, but the queen packed other things into it, and then locked and sealed it, so that no change in its appearance could be perceived.  This done, it was restored to its place.

We must hasten over what followed.  On the king’s return his first greeting to his wife was, “Your good-for-nothing son is dead.”  He immediately demanded the portfolio, tore it open, and carried away the letters which had been so recently concocted.  In a few minutes he returned, and on seeing his daughter broke out into a fury of rage, his eyes glaring, his mouth foaming.