in this moment of deep and pious emotion, a cold, an icy chill,
seemed to shiver and play like the breath of death over his
features, and the hot blood, like liquid metal, rushed madly through
his veins; he gave a light, short cough; with a quick, abrupt
movement, he released himself from the arms of the king. Withdrawing
a few steps, he turned away, and pressed his handkerchief to his
lips.

"Jordan, you suffer, you are sick," said the king, anxiously.

Jordan turned again to him; his face was calm, and even gay; his
eyes beamed with that strange, mysterious, and touching fire of
consumption which hides the shadow of death under the rosy lip and
glowing cheek; and, less cruel than all other maladies, leaves to
the soul its freshness, and to the heart its power to love and hope.

"Not so, sire," said Jordan, "I do not suffer. How can I be
otherwise than well and happy in your presence?" As he said this he
tried to thrust his handkerchief in his pocket.

The king looked earnestly at this handkerchief. "Jordan, why did you
press that handkerchief so hastily to your lips?"

Jordan forced a smile. "Well," said he, "I was obliged, as your
majesty no doubt saw, to cough, and I wished to make this
disagreeable music as soft as possible."

"That was not the reason," said Frederick; and, stepping hastily
forward, he seized the handkerchief. "Blood! it is drenched in
blood," said he, in a tone so full of anguish, that it was evident