There was a pause—­a stillness like that which precedes a tempest.  Every one felt the importance of the moment.  All these wise and great men knew that the young man who stood in their midst, with such proud and calm composure and assurance, held in his hands at this moment the fate of Europe; that the scales would fall on that side to which his sword was consecrated.  The king raised his head, and his eyes wandered searchingly from one to the other of the earnest faces which surrounded him.

“You know, messieurs,” said Frederick, “that Maria Theresa, who calls herself Empress of Germany and of Rome, still makes war against our ally Charles the Seventh.  Her general, Karl von Lothringen, has triumphed over the Bavarian and French army at Semnach:  and Bavaria, left, by the flight of the emperor, without a leader, has been compelled to submit to Maria Theresa, Queen of Hungary.  She has allied herself with England, Hanover, and Saxony.  And these allied powers have been victorious over the army of our ally, King Louis of France, commanded by Marshal Noailles.  These successes have made our enemies imperious.  They have demanded much; they have resolved to obtain all.  Apparently they are the most powerful.  Holland has offered money and ships; Sardinia and Saxony have just signed the treaty made at Worms by England, Austria, and Holland.  So they have troops, gold, and powerful allies.  We have nothing but our honor, our swords, and our good cause.  We are the allies of a land poor in itself, and, what is still worse, governed by a weak and faint-hearted emperor; and of France, whose king is the plaything of courtiers and mistresses.  Our adversaries know their strength, and are acquainted with our weakness.  Look, messieurs, at this letter of George of England to our godmother, Maria Theresa of Hungary; an accident placed it in our hands, or, if you will, a Providence, which, without doubt, watches over the prosperity of Prussia.  Read it, messieurs.”

He handed General Rothenberg a paper, which he read with frowning brow and scarcely suppressed scorn, and then passed it on to Winterfeld.  The king studied the face of every reader, and, the more dark and stormy it appeared, the more gay and happy was the expression of his countenance.

He received the letter again with a friendly smile from the hands of his minister, and pointing to it with his finger, he said:  “Have you well considered these lines where the king says, ’Madame, what is good to take, is also good to return’?  What think you of these words, Prince von Anhalt?”

“I think,” said the silver-haired old warrior, “that we will prove to the English king what Frederick of Prussia once holds cannot be rescued from him.”

“You think, then, that our hands are strong enough to hold our possessions?”

“Yes, your majesty.”

“And you, gentlemen?”

“We share the opinion of the prince.”