“I fear that he is strongly bound, and that the gordian knot of love can withstand even the king’s sword.  Frederick, ordinarily so unapproachable, so inexorable in his authority and self-control, endures with a rare patience the proud, commanding bearing of Barbarina.  Even yesterday evening when the king did me the honor to sup with me in the society of the Barbarina, in spite of her peevishness and ever-changing mood, he was the most gallant and attentive of cavaliers.”

“And you think the king has not seen the signora since that time?”

“I do not know; let us ask the guard.”

The gentlemen ascertained from the guard that Barbarina had left the king’s room in the morning, deadly pale, and with her eyes inflamed by weeping.

“You see that I was right,” said Algarotti; “this love-affair has reached a crisis.”

“In which I fear the king will come to grief,” said Rothenberg.  “Believe me, his majesty loves Barbarina most tenderly.”

“Not the king! the man loves Barbarina.  But listen! did you not hear a noise?”

“Yes, the low tone of a flute,” said Fredersdorf.  “Let us approach the door.”

Lightly and cautiously they stepped to the door, behind which the king had carried on this fierce battle with himself, a battle in which he had shed his heart’s best blood.  Again they heard the sound of the flute:  it trembled on the air like the last sigh of love and happiness; sometimes it seemed like the stormy utterance of a strong soul in extremest anguish, then melted softly away in sighs and tears.  Never in the king’s gayest and brightest days had he played with such masterly skill as now in this hour of anguish.  The pain, the love, the doubt, the longing which swelled his heart, found utterance in this mournful adagio.  Greatly moved, the three friends listened breathlessly to this wondrous development of genius.  The king completed the music with a note of profound suffering.

Algarotti bowed to Rothenberg.  “Friend,” said he, “that was the last song of the dying swan.”

“God grant that it was the last song of love, not the death-song of the king’s heart!  When a man tears love forcibly from his heart, I am sure he tears away also a piece of the heart in which it was rooted.”

“Can we not think of something to console him?  Let us go in the morning to Barbarina; perhaps we may learn from her what has happened.”

“Think you we can do nothing more to-day to withdraw the king from his painful solitude?”

“I think the king is a warrior and a hero, and will be able to conquer himself.”

While the king, in solitude, strengthened only by his genius, struggled with his love, Barbarina, with all the passion of her stormy nature, endured inexpressible torture.  She was not alone—­her sister was with her, mingled her tears with hers, and whispered sweet words of hope.

“The king will return to you; your beauty holds him captive with invisible but magic bonds.  Your grace and fascinations will live in his memory, will smile upon him, and lure him back humble and conquered to your feet.”