by, or they look at me with a contemptuous laugh, and fancy themselves miracles of virtue, and free from sin. My only crime is that my father was not a prince, and that I am of low birth. Am I to blame for that--to blame that the man whom I love, and who loves me, cannot marry me and make me his lawful wife?"

"Ho! gee, ho!" cried the driver to his horses. "Get up!" The troops had passed, the highway was now free, and uninterrupted rolled the heavy, creaking wagon into Berlin. Within all was quiet. The two children and nurse were asleep. The driver was half asleep, his head hung shaking about; only now and then he started to give his horses a crack, which the thin, wheezing animals did not heed in the least. Wilhelmine alone slept not; in her soul there was no quiet, no peace. She grumbled at fate, and at mankind. An unspeakable anxiety seized her for the immediate future, and fear of the king's anger. As the sun was setting they reached Berlin, and were entering the town, when the guard, in royal livery, sprang through the gate, calling, in a loud voice, to the wagon, "Halt--halt! Turn out ¢f the way!" Then was heard the call of the sentinel, and the roll of the drums. An equipage, drawn by six black steeds, drove past. A pale, young wife, splendidly attired, leaned back in the carriage, and the little flag-bearer, Prince Frederick William, was by her side; on the seat opposite sat the second son, Prince Louis, and the lord steward. In this beautiful equipage drove the Princess of Prussia; at her side, in a miserable linen-covered wagon, crouching far in the corner, sat Wilhelmine Enke, the rival of the princess; near her, her two children, whose existence condemned her, and stamped her life with dishonor. Like a dream the brilliant apparition rushed past Wilhelmine, and it haunted her through the long streets, to the humble home where she sought a temporary refuge. And when finally alone, in her own room, where no one could spy into her face, nor understand her words, there broke forth from her soul a long- repressed wrong. She stood erect; a proud, insolent smile played around her mouth. "I am his wife, too; I alone am his beloved wife," said she, with a loud, triumphant voice, "and my children are his only truly-beloved children, for they are those of his love. How proudly she drove past me! How beautiful is her pale face, and how interesting her sad smile! She in sunlight, and I in shade! She knows that I am her rival, but she is not mine. No, the Princess of Prussia cannot rival Wilhelmine Enke. I have no fear of her. But the king I have to fear," cried she suddenly, shrinking with terror. In the meeting with the princess she had forgotten him, her anguish, her anxiety for the future. All were forgotten for the moment--to be recalled with renewed terror.

"Thank Heaven," she said, "I have escaped. For the moment I am safe! What will the prince do, when he finds that we have fled from Potsdam? Will he divine where we have gone? Will he come to seek me? If he still loves me--if I am really the happy rival of his wife and every other court lady--yes, then he will come. Then he will know where to find his Wilhelmine. But if it is true, what malicious people have repeated to me, with feigned sympathy, that the prince loves another--that he has withdrawn his love from me, is indifferent and cold--then he will not seek me; then I shall remain here alone!--alone, with my children, this long, fearful night! What, then, if I am alone? No, oh, no! I will not believe that I am forsaken. These are wicked thoughts which haunt me--only the agitation of this dreadful day, which imagination has overwrought. Rise up and be strong! Go to thy children," said she, "and read in their eyes that he can never leave thee!"

Forcing herself to composure, she sought her children; found Louisa humming and singing her little boy to sleep, and her daughter nodding, on a low stool at her feet.

"Come, my child, I will put you to sleep," said the mother, lifting her in her arms. "Your mother will make your bed softly. When you sleep and speak with the angels, intercede for us all."

With tender care she undressed her and bore her gently in her arms to her bed, and, kneeling before it, breathed a prayer over her sleeping child; then bent over the cradle of her son, blessing and kissing him. "Sleep my boy, sleep. I know not that I shall ever see thy beautiful eyes open again--whether I shall ever again press thee to my heart. Who can tell if they may not come this very night to remove me to prison--to punish me for you, my children, my beloved children!--Be calm, be calm! I shall remain here until morning, at least," added she.

She turned to the nurse, who, with anxious face and folded hands, stood at the farthest corner of the room. "Go, now, Louisa--go, and take something to eat. You must be hungry and tired. Buy at the next store what you need; but do not stop to talk with any one or repeat my name. Then return quickly, and take care of the children. Do not trouble yourself about me--I need nothing more."

"But you must eat something, mamselle; you must have some supper!"

Wilhelmine shook her head, refusing, and returned quickly to her own room.

CHAPTER V.

THE OATH OF FIDELITY.

Long after nightfall the nurse heard her mistress rapidly pacing her room, and talking aloud to herself. Soon, however, Sleep spread her soothing wings over Louisa, and she heard no more the rapid steps and loud talking of her mistress, nor the rolling of a carriage which stopped before the door, and the quick, vigorous steps of a man mounting the stairs. But Wilhelmine heard them. Breathless she stood, listening to the approaching footsteps, for she felt that they had to decide her future--the weal and woe of her children! Was it he, her beloved, the father of her children? or was it the king's bailiff who had followed her, and came to seize her?

Nearer they came; the bell was hastily, violently rung. Wilhelmine uttered a cry of delight. She recognized the voice, the commanding manner, and rushed through the anteroom to open the door. The prince encircled her in his arms, pressed her to his beating heart, and, lifting her up, bore her into the room.

"Why did you leave Potsdam, Wilhelmine? Tell me quickly, why did you do it?" asked the prince, tenderly kissing her, as he sat her upon the divan at his side. Overcome with her tears, she could not answer. "What mean these tears? Has any one dared to wound your feelings or injure you?"

"Yes, Frederick, and he who injures me hazards nothing--for it is the king! I met him in the park at Potsdam this morning. He has crushed me with his scorn and anger. He has threatened me with a fearful punishment--no less than the house of correction at Spandau! He has told me that the spinning-wheel is in readiness for me if I excite his further contempt."

A cry of fury escaped the prince. Springing up, he paced the room with rapid strides. Wilhelmine remained upon the divan, but her tears did not prevent her following the prince with a searching glance--to read his face, pale with rage. "I must bear it," he cried, beating his forehead. "I cannot protect those that I love!"

A ray of joy lighted up Wilhelmine's face as she listened, but it disappeared with the tears which flowed afresh. "I am a poor, unfortunate child," she sobbed, "whom every one despises, and fears not to injure, who has no one to counsel or protect her, and who is lost if God does not have compassion upon her."

The prince rushed to her, seizing both hands. "Wilhelmine, do not drive me mad with sorrow," he cried, trembling with excitement and anger. "Is it my fault that I cannot protect you against him? Have I not defended you from all the rest of the world? Have I ever allowed any one to treat you with contempt?"

"I have never given occasion for it, dearest. I have studiously avoided all men, to escape their contempt and scorn. Shame is hard to bear, fearfully hard. I felt it today, as his beautiful eyes flashed upon me with contempt, as his haughty language crushed me to the earth. This is the yoke, Frederick William, that I and my children must bear to our graves!"

"No, Wilhelmine, not as long as we live--only while he lives! Wait, only wait; let me rise from want and slavery; let the day come which makes me free--which exalts me: my first act will be to lift the yoke from you and our children, and woe to those--a thousand times woe to those who would hold it fast! Only be patient, Wilhelmine, submit, and bear with me the hard and distressing present. Tell me, my child, my loved one, why did you leave Potsdam so suddenly?"

"I was afraid, Frederick. A kind of madness seized me at the thought of the king's bailiffs carrying me off to Spandau; a nameless anxiety confused my mind, and I only realized that I must escape-- that I must conceal myself. I felt in greater security here than at Potsdam for the night."

"And you fled without leaving me any sign or message to tell me whither you had gone! Oh, Wilhelmine, what if I had not divined your hiding-place, and had awaited at Potsdam in painful anxiety?"

"Then I should have fled from here at daybreak, leaving my children, and in some quiet, obscure retreat have concealed myself from every eye--even your own."

"Would you have hidden yourself from me?" cried the prince, encircling her in his arms, and pressing her to his heart.

"Yes, Frederick, when your heart did not prompt you where to find me, then it would have been a proof that you were indifferent to me. When I cannot lean upon your love, then there is no longer any protection or abiding-place for me in the world, and the grave will be my refuge."

"But you see my heart revealed you to me, and I am here," said the prince, smiling.

"Yes, Heaven be praised, you have come to me," she cried, exultingly, throwing her arms about his neck, and kissing him passionately. "You are here; I no longer dread the old king's anger, and his fearful words fall as spent arrows at my feet. You are here, king of my heart; now I have only one thing to dread."

"What is that, Wilhelmine?"

She bent close to his ear, and whispered: "I fear that you are untrue to me; that there is some ground for truth in those anonymous letters, which declare that you would discard me and my children also, for you love another--not one other, but many."