“Let us hope that this is not so,” said Frederick; “and now, my Lord Marshal, it is your turn to give us a piquant anecdote; or, if you prefer it, an heroic deed from your life, so rich in virtue, magnanimity, truth, and constancy.  Ah, messieurs, let us now be thoughtful, cast down our eyes, and exalt our hearts.  A virtuous man is about to speak:  truly virtue is a holy goddess loved by few, to whom few altars are erected, and who has few priests in her service.  My Lord Marshal is consecrated to her altar; you may well believe this when I assure you of it—­I, who have been so often deceived, and often tempted to believe no longer in the existence of virtue.  My noble Keith has forced me to be credulous.  This faith comforts me, and I thank him.”

With a glance of inexpressible love he gave his hand to his friend, who pressed it to his breast.  The faces of all present were grave, almost stern.  The words of the king were a reproach, and they felt wounded.  Frederick thought not of them; he looked alone upon the noble, handsome face of Lord Marshal, not remembering that the love and consideration manifested for him might excite the envy and jealousy of his other friends.

“Now, my lord, will you commence your history, or are we too impure and sinful to listen to any of the holy mysteries of your pure life?”

“Ah, sire, there are no mysteries in my simple life; it lies like an open book before the eyes of my king, and, indeed, to all the world.”

“In that pure book I am sure that all can learn wisdom and experience,” said Frederick.  “It is a book of rarest value, in which every nobleman can learn how to be faithful to his king in dire misfortune and to the gates of death.  Ah, my lord, there are few men like yourself, who can count it as imperishable fame to have been condemned to the scaffold.  The Pretender must, indeed, be a most noble prince, as you were willing to give your life for him.”

“He was my rightful king and lord, and I owed him allegiance.  That I was condemned for him, and pardoned, and banished from England, I cannot now consider a misfortune, as I have thereby enjoyed the great happiness of being near your majesty.  But you must not think too highly of my constancy to ‘the Pretender;’ it was not pure loyalty, and if I carelessly and rashly cast my life upon a wild chance, it was because the world had but little value for me.  In the despair and anguish of my heart I should have called Death a welcome friend.  Had I been happier I should have been less brave.”

“And will you tell us, my lord, why you were unhappy?”