“Oh, sire, you do not yet know all.  I have another confession to make, and—­”

A light knock at the door communicating with the antechamber interrupted her, and a voice from the outside exclaimed:  “Sire, a courier with important dispatches from Silesia.”

“Retire to the adjoining apartment, and wait there,” said the king, turning to his sister.

Both ladies left the room.

“Dispatches from Silesia,” whispered the countess.  “The king will now learn all, I fear.”

“Well, if he does,” said the princess, almost defiantly, “we are here to save him, and we will save him.”

A short time elapsed; then the door was violently thrown open, and the king appeared on the threshold, his eyes flashing with anger.

“Madame,” said he, pointing to the papers which he held in his hand, “from these papers I have undoubtedly learned what it was your intention to have communicated to me.  Your son has attempted to escape from prison like a cowardly criminal, a malefactor weighed down with guilt.  In this attempt he has killed and wounded soldiers, disarmed the governor of the fortress, and, in his insolent frenzy, has endeavored to scale the palisades in broad daylight.  Madame, nothing but the consciousness of his own guilt could have induced him to attempt so daring a flight, and he must have had criminal accomplices who advised him to this step—­accomplices who bribed the sentinel on duty before his door; who secretly conveyed money to him, and held horses in readiness for his flight.  Woe to them if I should ever discover the criminals who treasonably induced my soldiers and officers to break their oath of fidelity!”

“I, your majesty, I was this criminal,” said the countess.  “A mother may well dare to achieve the freedom of her son at any price.  It is her privilege to defend him with any weapon.  I bribed the soldiers, placed the horses in readiness, and conveyed money to my son.  It was Trenck’s mother who endeavored to liberate him.”

“And you have only brought him to greater, to more hopeless misery!  For now, madame, there can be no mercy.  The fugitive, the deserter, has forfeited the favor of his king.  Shame, misery, and perpetual captivity will henceforth be his portion.  This is my determination.  Hope for no mercy.  The articles of war condemn the deserter to death.  I will give him his life, but freedom I cannot give him, for I now know that he would abuse it.  Farewell.”

“Mercy! mercy for my son!” sobbed the countess.  “He is so young! he has a long life before him.”

“A life of remorse and repentance,” said the king with severity.  “I will accord him no other.  Go!”

He was on the point of reentering the library.  A hand was laid on his shoulder; he turned and saw the pale countenance of his sister.

“My brother,” said the princess, in a firm voice, “permit me to speak with you alone for a moment.  Proceed, I will follow you.”