King Frederick did not reply; he leaned forward and looked down upon the lovely and enchanting woman lying at his feet, and never, perhaps, had her charms appeared so intoxicating as at this moment, but his face was sad, and his eyes, usually so clear and bright, were veiled in tears.  There was a pause.  Barbarina still clung to his knees, and looked up beseechingly, and the king regarded her with an expression of unspeakable melancholy; his great soul seemed to speak in the glance which fixed upon her.  It was eloquent with love, rapture, and grief.  Now their eyes met and seemed immovably fixed.  In the midst of the profound silence nothing was heard but Barbarina’s sighs.  She knew full well the significance of this moment.  She felt that fate, with its menacing and unholy shadow, was hovering over her.  Suddenly the king roused himself, and the voice which broke the solemn silence sounded strange and harsh to Barbarina.

“Farewell, Signora Barbarina,” said the king.

Barbarina’s arms sank down powerless, and a sob burst from her lips.  The king did not regard it; he did not look back.  With a firm hand he opened the door which led into his chamber; entered and closed it.  He sank upon a chair, and gave one long and weary sigh.  A profound despair was written on his countenance, and had Barbarina seen him, she would have appreciated the anguish of his heart.

She lay bathed in tears before his door, and cried aloud:  “He has forsaken me!  Oh, my God, he has forsaken me!” This fearful and terrible thought maddened her; she sprang up and shook the door fiercely, and with a loud and piteous voice she prayed for entrance.  She knew not herself what words of love, of anguish, of despair, and insulted pride burst from her pallid lips.  One moment she threatened fiercely, then pleaded touchingly for pardon; sometimes her voice seemed full of tears—­then cold and commanding.  The king stood with folded arms, leaning against the other side of the door.  He heard these paroxysms of grief and rage, and every word fell upon his heart as the song of the siren upon the ear of Ulysses.  But Frederick was mighty and powerful; he needed no ropes or wax to hold him back.  He had the strength to control his will, and the voice of wisdom, the warning voice of duty, spoke louder than the siren’s song.

“No,” said he, “I will not, I dare not allow myself to be again seduced.  All this must come to an end!  I have long known this, but I had no strength to resist temptation.  Have I not solemnly sworn to have but one aim in life—­to place the good of my people far above my own personal happiness?  If the man and the king strive within me for mastery, the king must triumph above all other things.  I must consider the holy duties which my crown lays upon me; my time, my thoughts, my strength, belong to my people, my land.  I have already robbed them, for I have withdrawn myself.  I have suffered an enchantress to step between me and my