ago: but where
Keith now is, Keppel cannot form the least guess.

Dumoulin suspects he is with Lord Chesterfield, the English Ambassador
here. A light was seen, for a night or two, in one of the garret-rooms
of Lord Chesterfield's house,--probably Keith reading?--but Keith is not
to be heard of, on inquiry there; and the very light has now gone out.
The Colonel at least, distinguished English Lord is gone to England
in these days; but his German Secretary is not gone: the House is
inviolable, impregnable to Prussia. Who knows, in spite of the light
going out, but Keith is still there, merely with a window shutter to
screen him? One morning, it becomes apparent Keith is not there. One
morning, a gentleman at the seaside is admiring Dutch fishing-skiffs,
and how they do sail, "Pooh, Sir, that is nothing!" answers a man in
multiplex breeches: "the other night I went across to England in one,
with an Excellency's Messenger who could not wait!"--Truth is, the
Chesterfield Secretary, who forbade lights, took the first good night
for conveying Keith to Scheveningen and the seaside; where a Fisher-boat
was provided for him; which carried him, frail craft as it was, safe
across to England. Once there, the Authorities took pity on the poor
fellow;--furnished the modicum of cash and help; sent him with Admiral
Norris to assist the Portuguese, menaced with Spanish war at this time;
among whom he gradually rose to be Major of Horse. Friedrich Wilhelm
cited him by tap of drum three times in Wesel, and also in the Gazettes,
native and Dutch; then, as he did not come, nailed an Effigy of him
(cut in four, if I remember) on the gallows there; and confiscated any
property he had. Keith had more pedigree than property; was of Poberow
in Pommern; son of poor gentlefolks there. He sent no word of himself to
Prussia, for the next ten years; so that he had become a kind of myth
to many people; to his poor Mother among the rest, who has her tragical
surmises about him. He will appear again; but not to much purpose. His
Brother, the Page Keith, is packed into the Fusileer Regiment, at Wesel
here; and there walks sentry, unheard of for the rest of his life.
So much for the Keiths. [Preuss: _Friedrich mit seinen Verwandten und
Freunden,_ pp. 330, 392.--See, on this and the other points, Pollnitz,
_Memoiren, _ ii. 352-374 (and correct his many blunders).]

Other difficulty there is as to the Prison of the Prince. Wesel is a
strong Town; but for o