But General Rothenberg did not move.

“Well!” exclaimed the king.

“Sire, they have taken Biche with them also.”

“Biche also, my faithful friend, my pet!” cried the king, with much emotion, as he again began his walk.  At length, approaching the general, he placed both hands upon his shoulder and looked tenderly into his eyes.  “I have my friend,” he said gently, “why should I be troubled about my books or my dog?  I will send to Berlin and have the books replaced, and I will ransom Biche.  They cannot refuse to restore the faithful animal to me.”

There was an expression of such anxiety on the king’s features, that Rothenberg was much moved.

“I do not doubt, sire,” he said, “that your favorite will be returned to you.  Your majesty may well trust to that Providence which has vouchsafed you so glorious a victory.”

The king replied, smiling:  “I will tell you a secret, my friend.  I deserved to be overcome in this battle, for I had weakened my army too much by detachments.  Nothing but the skill of my generals and the bravery of my troops saved me from a defeat.  Something is also due to the avarice of the pandours and Croats; a branch of our laurel-wreath belongs justly to Nadasti and Trenck.  It is most fortunate that the courier who brought those last dispatches from Berlin, did not arrive during the battle.  He would certainly have been captured by the pandours, and my dispatches lost.  My friend, do you not see how Providence marks out for me the path of duty?  A king dare not waste a moment in dreams or idle pleasures.  I wished to live an hour for myself, when I should have been reading these dispatches.  We will go to work; here is the key of the dispatch bag; open it and take out the letters.”

The king then seated himself before the common deal table which stood in the centre of the tent, and assorted the papers which Rothenberg handed to him.

“We will first read the letters from our friends,” said the king, placing the dispatches and papers on one side.  “Here are letters from D’Argens, and from Knobelsdorf, but none from Duhan, or Jordan, or Kaiserling.  What does that mean?  I fear that all is not right.  Ah! here is a letter for you, my friend, in the handwriting of Duhan.  He writes to you, and not to me.  Read, Rothenberg, and tell me its contents.”

The king then opened one of his own letters, but it was evident that it did not occupy his attention.  He raised his eyes every few seconds to look at the general, who had become very pale on first opening his letter, and whose countenance now bore an expression of pain.  Frederick could no longer endure this silence.  He arose hastily, and approached Rothenberg.

“My friend,” he said, “Duhan has written something to you that he would not write to me—­something most painful.  I see by your countenance.”

“Your majesty is right; my letters contain most distressing intelligence.”