The young man slunk away to the door, but stood without opening it, his head down, and his under-lip hanging out.

"What is the matter?" asked the king, in a milder tone, "why do you not go, Kretzschmar?"

"I cannot go away if your majesty is angry with me," muttered the servant, insolently. "I do not wish to hear or see any thing more for you when your majesty abuses me, and considers me such a mean, base fellow. Your majesty first commanded me to listen, and spy, and now that I am obeying, I am despised and scolded for it. I will have nothing more to do with it, and I wish your majesty to leave me a simple footman rather than to accord me such a mean position."

"I did not mean so badly," said the king. "I mean well enough for you; but you must not permit yourself to be arrogant or disrespectful, otherwise you may go to Tophet! You are no common spy, you are listening about a little because you know I am fond of hearing what the people are saying, and what is going on in Berlin and Potsdam. But take care that they know nothing about it, otherwise they will be careful, and you will hear nothing. Now be off, and in order to see a cheerful face on you, I will make you a present." The king drew from his vest-pocket a purse, well filled with small coin, and gave it to the young man, who took it, though he still looked angry and insolent. "Do not let your under-lip hang down so, for I may step upon it," said the king. "Put the money in your pocket, and hurry off to tell old Pfund to harness quickly, or I shall not arrive in time at the park."

"There is no danger, your majesty, for the miss seems very fond of the promenade; she remained two hours in the park yesterday, always walking in the most quiet places, as if she were afraid to meet any one. She sat a whole hour on the iron seat by the Carp Pond, and then she went to the Philosopher's Walk, and skipped about like a young colt."

"You are a very cunning fellow, and know how to use your eyes well," said the king. "Now be off, and order the carriage."

CHAPTER II.

WILHELMINE ENKE.

The Palace Park was as quiet and deserted as usual. Not a voice, not a sound, disturbed the stillness of those silent walks. For this reason, undoubtedly, a young lady had sought it; at least her whole being expressed satisfaction and delight to wander unobserved through those quiet, shady alleys. She was of slight and elegant proportions, simply attired, without pretension, in a dark dress of some thin silk material. Her black silk mantle was thrown aside upon the stone seat near her, uncovering thus, in solitude, to the sun and birds, her lovely neck and arms, the beauty of which might rival the statues of the ancients. Her face was not of regular beauty, yet it possessed that expression of grace, spirit, and energy, which is oftener a more powerful and more enduring charm than regular beauty. Her large, expressive black eyes possessed a wonderful power, and her red, pouting lips wore a sweet smile; her fine Roman nose lent an air of decision, whilst her high-arched forehead led one to believe that daring, energetic thought lay hidden beneath those clusters of brown curls. She was not in the bloom of youth, but at twenty-five she appeared younger than many beauties at eighteen; and if her form no longer possessed the charm of girlhood, it was attractive from its suppleness and full, beautiful bust.

"Louisa, Louisa, where are you?" cried the young lady, stepping quickly forward toward a side-path, which led from the broad avenue, and at the end of which was a sunny grassplot.

"Here I am, miss; I am coming."

"Miss," murmured the young lady, "how dreadfully it sounds! The blush of shame rises to my face, for it sounds like bitter mockery and contempt, and brings my whole life before me. Yet, I must endure it--and I scarcely wish it were otherwise. Ah, there you are, Louisa, and there is my beautiful boy," she cried, with a glad voice, hastening toward the peasant-woman and bending fondly over her child. "How beautiful and how knowing he looks! It seems as if my little Alexander began to recognize me--he looks so earnest and sensible."

"He knows you, miss," said the nurse, courtesying, "and he knows, like other children, who loves him. Children and dogs know who love them. The children cry, and the dogs hide themselves when people are around who dislike them."

"Nonsense, Louisa!" laughed the young lady, as she bent to kiss her child--"nonsense! did not my little boy cry when his father took him yesterday? And he loves his child most tenderly, as only a father can."

"Oh, there is another reason for that," said the nurse. "He has just passed his first stupid three months, and he begins to hear and see what passes around him, and it was the first man's face that he had seen. But only look, miss, what a beautiful little dog is coming up the path." It was indeed a lovely greyhound, of the small Italian race, which came bounding joyfully toward them, and as he saw the woman barked loudly.

"Be quiet, Alkmene, be quiet!" cried a loud, commanding voice.

"Oh, Heaven! it is the king!" whispered the young lady, turning pale, and, as if stunned, retreated a few steps.

"Yes, it is really the king," cried the nurse, "and he is coming directly from the grass-plot here."

"Let us go as quickly as possible, Louisa. Come, come," and she hastily threw her mantle around her, drawing the hood over her curly head. She had only proceeded a few steps, when a loud voice bade her to remain--to stand still. She stood as if rooted to the spot, leaning upon her nurse for support; her knees sank under her, and it seemed as if the whole world turned around with her. After the first tumult of anxiety and fear, succeeded an insolent determination, and, forcing herself to calmness, she said: "It is the turning-point of my life; the next few minutes will either crush me or assure my future; let me struggle for the future, then. I will face him who approaches me as my judge." Forcing herself to composure, slowly and with effort she turned toward the king, who, approaching by the side path, had entered the avenue, and now stood before her. But as she encountered the fiery glance of the king's eye, she quailed before it, casting down her own, covered with confusion.

"Who are you?" demanded the king, with stern authority, keeping his eagle eye fixed upon her. Silent and immovable she stood; only the quick, feverish breathing and the heaving bosom told the storm that was raging within.

"Who are you?" repeated the voice, with still more severity--"who permit themselves to use my park as a nursery? What child is that? and who are its parents? They should be of high position at court, who would dare to send their child and nurse to the royal park; and with what joy they must regard the offspring of their conjugal tenderness! Tell me to whom does this child belong?"

Sobbing convulsively, the lady sank, kneeling, with uplifted arms, imploring for mercy. "Sire, annihilate me with your anger, but do not crush me with your scorn!"

"What language do you permit yourself to hold?" asked the king.

"Sire, it is the language of an unhappy, despairing woman, who knows that she stands before that great monarch whose judgment she fears more than that of her God, who sees into her heart, and reads the tortures and reproaches of her conscience; who knows what she suffers, and knows, also, that she is free from self-interest, and every base desire. I believe that God will forgive what I fear your majesty will not."

"You speak presumptuously, and remind me of the theatre princesses who represent a grand scene with a pathetic exit. Let me inform you, I despise comedians--only high tragedy pleases me. Spare yourself the trouble to act before me, but answer me--who are you? Whose child is that?"

"Sire, only God and my king should hear my reply--I beg the favor to send away the nurse and child." The king assented, slightly nodding his head, at the same time bidding her not to kneel to him as to an image.

The lady rose and sought the nurse, who, from fright, had withdrawn into the shrubbery, and stood staring at the king with wide-open eyes. "Go home, Louisa, and put the child to sleep," said she, quickly.

The nurse obeyed promptly, and when alone, the king demanded again, "Who are you? and to whom does the child belong?"

"Your majesty, I am the daughter of your chapel musician Enke, and the child is the son of Prince Frederick William of Prussia," she replied, in a firm and defiant manner.

The king's eyes flashed as he glanced at the bold speaker. "You say so, but who vouches for the truth of it? You permit yourself to use a high name, to give your child an honorable father! What temerity! what presumption! What if I should not believe you, but send you to the house of correction, at Spandau, as a slanderer, as guilty of high-treason, as a sinner and an adulteress?"

"You could not do it, sire--you could not," cried Wilhelmine Enke, "for you would also send there the honor and the name of your successor to the throne."

"What do you mean?" cried the king, furiously.

"I mean, your majesty, that the prince has holy duties toward me. I am the mother of that child!"

"You acknowledge your shame, and you dare confess it to me, your king, that you are the favorite, the kept mistress of the Prince of Prussia, who has already a wife that has borne him children? You do not even seek to deny it, or to excuse yourself?"

"I would try to excuse myself, did I not feel that your majesty would not listen to me."

"What excuse could you offer?--there is none."