CHAPTER I.

THE LONELY KING.


"Well, so let it be!" said the king, sighing, as he rose from his
arm-chair; "I must go forth to the strife, and these old limbs must
again submit to the fatigue of war. But what matters it? The life of
princes is passed in the fulfilment of duties and responsibilities,
and rarely is it gladdened with the sunny rays of joy and peace! Let
us submit!

"Yes, let us submit!" repeated the king, thoughtfully, slowly pacing
his cabinet back and forth, his hands folded upon his staff behind
him, and his favorite dog, Alkmene, sleepily following him.

It was a melancholy picture to see this bowed-down old man; his
thin, pale face shaded by a worn-out, three-cornered hat, his dirty
uniform strewn with snuff; and his meagre legs encased in high-
topped, unpolished boots; his only companion a greyhound, old and
joyless as his master. Neither the bust of Voltaire, with its
beaming, intelligent face, nor those of his friends, Lord-Marshal
Keith and the Marquis d'Argens, could win an affectionate glance
from the lonely old king. He whom Europe distinguished as the Great
Frederick, whom his subjects called their "father and benefactor,"
whose name was worthy to shine among the brightest stars of heaven,
his pale, thin lips just murmured, "Resignation!"

With downcast eyes he paced his cabinet, murmuring, "Let us submit!"
He would not look up to those who were gazing down upon him from the