"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."

"Love is my excuse," cried Wilhelmine, eagerly. "Oh! my ruler and
king, do not shake your noble head so unbelievingly; do not look at
me so contemptuously. Oh, Father in heaven, I implore Thee to
quicken my mind, that my thoughts may become words, and my lips
utter that which is burning in my soul! In all these years of my
poor, despised, obscure life, how often have I longed for this hour
when I might stand before my king, when I might penitently clasp his
knees and implore mercy for myself and my children--those poor,
nameless beings, whose existence is my accusation, and yet who are
the pride and joy of my life! Oh, sire, I will not accuse, to excuse