“Dreams, dreams!” said Fredersdorf, shrugging his shoulders.

“Dreams which I will make realities as soon as you obtain me an audience with the king.”

“Well, we will see what can be done, and whether—­but listen, the king is awake, and has opened his window.  He is playing upon the flute, which is his morning custom.  His morning music is always the barometer of his mood, and I can generally judge what kind of royal weather we will have, whether bright or stormy.  Come with me to the window and listen awhile.”

“Agreed,” said Pollnitz, and he sprang with youthful elasticity from the divan and joined Fredersdorf at the window.  They listened almost breathlessly to the sweet tones which seemed to whisper to them from the upper windows; then mingling and melting with the perfume of the orange-blossoms and the glorious and life-giving morning air, they forced their sweet and subtle essence into the room with the cunning and hardened old courtiers.

Fredersdorf and Pollnitz listened as a sly bat listens to the merry whistling of an innocent bird, and watches the propitious moment to spring upon her prey.  It was an adagio which the king played upon his flute, and he was indeed a master in the art.  Slightly trembling, as if in eternal melancholy, sobbing and pleading, soon bursting out in rapturous and joyful strains of harmony, again sighing and weeping, these melting tones fell like costly pearls upon the summer air.  The birds in the odorous bushes, the wind which rustled in the trees, the light waves of the river, which with soft murmurs prattled upon the shore, all Nature seemed for the moment to hold her breath and listen to this enchanting melody.  Even Fredersdorf felt the power and influence of this music as he had done in earlier days.  The old love for his king filled his heart, and his eyes were misty with tears.

As the music ceased, Fredersdorf exclaimed involuntarily:  “He is, after all, the noblest and greatest of men.  It is useless to be angry with him.  I am forced against my will to worship him.”

“Now,” said Pollnitz, whose face had not for one moment lost its expression of cold attention and sly cunning, “how says the barometer?  May we promise ourselves a clear and sunny day?”

“Yes, Frederick is in one of his soft and yielding moods.  It is probable he has been some hours awake and has written to some of his friends—­perhaps to Voltaire, or Algarotti; this makes him always bright and clear.”

“You think I shall obtain my audience?”

“I think you will.”

“Then, dear friend, I have only to say that I hope you will give me the chocolate for that noble and soul-searching hound, the Signora Biche.”

CHAPTER III.

The morning hours of A king.

King Frederick had finished the adagio, and stood leaning against the window gazing into the garden; his eyes, usually so fierce and commanding, were softened by melancholy, and a sad smile played upon his lips.  The touching air which he had played found its echo within, and held his soul a prisoner to troubled thoughts.  Suddenly he seemed to rouse himself by a great effort to the realities of life, and, hastily ringing the bell, he commanded Jordan, the director of the poor and the almshouse, to be summoned to him.