“I desire no more,” said Rothenberg, as he hurried off with the bread to the newly-erected tent of the king.

The soldier looked smilingly after him, but suddenly his countenance became overcast, he was seized with a fearful idea—­suppose the general had deceived him, and the bread was not for the king?  He must know, he must convince himself that the statement was true.  He followed the general rapidly, and soon overtook him.  Rothenberg perceived him, and understood instantly why he had followed him.  Smilingly he entered the presence of the king.

“My king, I am here, and bring what you demanded, a piece of bread.”

“Ah, that means renewed strength,” said the king, as he received the bread and commenced eating it with evident satisfaction.  “How did you procure this bread for me, my friend?”

“Sire, I obtained it of a soldier, who refused to sell it, but who gladly gave it to me when he heard it was for the king.  Afterward he conceived a doubt that I had deceived him, and that I had obtained his treasure for my own gratification.  He followed me, and I wager he is standing without longing to know if the king is really eating his bread.”

“I will gratify his desire,” said Frederick, smiling, as he raised the curtain of the tent, and stood in the opening.

There stood the soldier, staring at the tent, but he trembled when he perceived the king.  Frederick nodded to him most kindly, and proceeded to cut the bread which he held in his hand.

“I thank you for your bread,” he said; “my friend, you must ask some favor of me.  Think what you would wish.”

“Oh!  I need not think,” the soldier cried joyfully.  “If I may wish for something, it shall be the position of magistrate in my native land in Prussia.”

“When peace is declared, your wish shall be gratified,” said the king to the delighted soldier, and then bowing graciously, Frederick reentered the tent.

“Now my friend, my Pylades, we will allow ourselves an hour of rest, of recreation; I think we have earned it.  Come and read aloud to me.”

“What shall I read to your majesty?” asked Rothenberg, evidently embarrassed.

“You may read from Horace.”

“Your majesty does not know—­” said Rothenberg, hesitatingly.

“What do I not know?”

“That the pandours have carried off your camp library.”

“What! my books too?” demanded the king, and a cloud darkened his brow.  “What can the pandours and Croats do with my poor books?  Could they not content themselves with my treasure and my silver-ware?  Must they take what is so worthless to them, and so precious to me?”

Then, with bent brows, his hands crossed behind him, he paced back and forth in the narrow tent.  Suddenly arresting his steps, he glanced around the tent, as if in search of something.  “Biche is not here,” he said quietly; “bring Biche to me, my friend.”