“The fame of my king is not fleeting.  It will live in future years,” cried the general.

The king shrugged his shoulders almost contemptuously.  “Only death stamps fame upon kings’ lives.  For the present, I am content to fulfil my duties to the best of my ability.  To be a true king, a monarch must be willing to resign all personal happiness.  As for me, Rothenberg, on this day, when I, as a king, am peculiarly fortunate, my heart is wrung by the loss of two dear friends.  The man must pay for the happiness of the king.  But,” said the king, after a pause, “this is the dealing of the Almighty; I must submit silently.  Would that my heart were silent!  I will tell you something, my friend.  I fear that I was unjust to Machiavelli.  He was right—­only a man with a heart of iron can be a king, for he alone could think entirely of his people.”

“How suffering and full of grief must my king be to speak thus!  You have lost two dear friends, sire.  I also mourn their loss, but am suffering from a still deeper grief.  I have lost the love of my king.  I have lost faith in the friendship of my Frederick,” said Rothenberg, sighing deeply.

“My Rothenberg,” said the king, with his deep, tender voice, “look at me, and tell me what men call you, when they speak of you and me?”

“I hope they call me your majesty’s most faithful servant.”

“No, they call you my favorite, and what they say is true.  Vox populi vox Dei.  Come to my heart, my favorite.”

“Ah! my king, my prince, my friend,” cried Rothenberg, enthusiastically, as he threw himself into the arms of the king.

They stood long thus, heart pressed to heart; and who that had seen them, the king and the hero, the conquerors of the day, would have imagined that their tears were not the tears of happiness and triumph, but of suffering and love?

“And now,” said Frederick, after a pause, “let me again be king.  I must return to my duties.”

He seated himself at the table, and Rothenberg, after taking from the dispatch-bag a number of documents bearing the state seal, handed the king a daintily perfumed, rose-colored note.  The king would not receive it, although a light flush mounted to his brow and his eyes beamed more brightly.

“Lay that on one side,” he said, “I cannot read it; the notes of the Miserere are still sounding in my heart, and this operatic air would but create a discord.  We will proceed to read the dispatches.”

CHAPTER VIII.

A letter pregnant with fate.

The king was not the only person, in the encampment at Sohr, to whom the courier brought letters from Berlin; the colonel of every regiment had received a securely-locked post-bag containing the letters for the officers and soldiers of his regiment, which it was his duty to deliver.  To avoid errors in the distribution, every post-bag was accompanied by a list, sent from the war department, on which each person to whom a letter was addressed must write a receipt.