om those other stormy nights, with their visions of blood and flames,
roar of cannon, and rattle of musketry.

He saw the King standing, no longer the careless good-natured father who
at times surprised him in his bed or crossed the schoolroom with an
encouraging smile, but a stern father, whose expression of annoyance
became more accentuated as he saw them enter. Frederique, without
uttering one word, led the child to the feet of Christian II. and
abruptly kneeling, placed him before her, crossing his little fingers in
her joined hands:--

"The king will not listen to me, perhaps he will listen to you, Zara.
Come, say with me, 'Father.'" The timid voice repeated, "Father."

"'My father! my king! I implore! do not despoil your child. Do not
deprive him of the crown he is to wear one day. Remember that it is not
yours alone; it comes from afar, from God himself, who gave it six
hundred years ago to the house of Illyria. God has chosen me to be a
king, father. It is my inheritance, my treasure; you have no right to
take it from me.'"

The little prince accompanied his fervent murmur with the imploring
looks of a supplicant; but Christian turned away his head, shrugged his
shoulders, and furious though still polite, he muttered a few words
between his teeth: "Exaggeration! most improper; turn the child's head."
Then he tried to withdraw and gain the door. With one bound the Queen
was on her feet, caught sight of the table from which the parchment had
disappeared, and comprehending at once that the infamous deed was
signed, that the king had it in his possession, gave a despairing
shriek:--

"Christian!"

He continued to advance towards the door.

She made a step forward, picking up her dress as if to pursue him; then
suddenly said:--

"Well, be it so."

He stopped short and turned round. She was standing before the open
window, her foot upon the narrow stone balcony, with one arm clasping
her son ready to bear him into death, the other extended menacingly
towards the cowardly deserter. The moon lit up from without this
dramatic group.

"To an operetta King, a Queen of tragedy," she said, stern and terrible.
"If you do not burn this instant what you have just signed, and swear on
the cross that it will never be repeated, your race is ended, crushed,
wife and child, there on the stones."

Such earnestness seemed to inspire her vibrating tone, her splendid
figure bent towards the emptiness of space as though to