dy. But Louis XV. can
form other alliances," said Frederick, ironically. "It may be for his
interest to unite with the house of Austria!"

The duke was much embarrassed.

"Your majesty is not in earnest," said he, anxiously.

"Why not, duke?" said Frederick; "an alliance between France and
Austria--it sounds very natural. If I were in your place, I would
propose this to my court."

He now rose, which was a sign to the duke that the audience was at an
end.

"I must now send a courier at once to my court," said the duke, "and
I will not fail to state that your majesty advises us to unite with
Austria."

"You will do well; that is," said the king, with a meaning smile--"that
is, if you think your court is in need of such advice, and has not
already acted without it. When do you leave, duke?"

"To-morrow morning, sire."

"Farewell, duke, and do not forget that in my heart I am the friend of
France, though we meet as enemies on the battle-field."

The duke bowed reverentially, and, sighing deeply, left the royal
library, "the republic of letters," to hasten to Berlin.

The king looked after him thoughtfully.

"The die is cast," said he, softly. "There will be war. Our days of
peace and quietude are over, and the days of danger are approaching!"

CHAPTER VII. THE TRAITOR.

The sun had just risen, and was shedding its golden rays over the garden
of Sans-Souci, decking the awaking flowers with glittering dew-drops.
All was quiet--Nature alone was up and doing; no one was to be seen,
no sound was to be heard, but the rustling of trees and the chirping of
birds. All was still and peaceful; it seemed as if the sound of human
misery and passion could not reach this spot. There was something so
holy in this garden, that you could but believe it to be a part
of paradise in which the serpent had not yet exercised his arts of
seduction. But no, this is but a beautiful dream. Man is here, but he
is sleeping; he is still resting from the toils and sorrows of the past
day. Man is here--he is coming to destroy the peacefulness of Nature
with his sorrows and complaints.

The little gate at the farthest end of that shady walk is opened, and
a man enters. The dream is at an end, and Sans-Souci is now but a
beautiful garden, not a paradise, for it has been desecrated by the
foot of man. He hastens up the path leading to the palace; he hurries
forward, panting and gasping. His face is colorless, his long hair is
flutt