this
that has brought both France and Russia on him. Madame Pompadour,
who is all powerful, hates Frederick for having made disrespectful
remarks concerning her. The Empress of Russia detests him, for the
same reason. She of Austria has a better cause, for she has never
forgiven the loss of Silesia; and it is the enmity of these women,
as much as the desire to partition Prussia, that is about to plunge
Europe into a war to the full as terrible as that of the thirty
years."

Keith now rung a bell, and a soldier entered.

"Tell Lieutenant Lindsay that I wish to speak to him."

A minute later an officer entered the room, and saluted stiffly.

"Lindsay, this is a young cousin of mine, Fergus Drummond. The king
has appointed him to a cornetcy in the 3rd Royal Dragoon Guards,
but he is going to be one of my aides-de-camp. Now that things are
beginning to move, you and Gordon will need help.

"Take him first to Tautz. I have written a note to the man, telling
him that he must hurry everything on. There is still a spare room
on your corridor, is there not? Get your man to see his things
bestowed there. I shall get his appointment this evening, I expect,
but it will be a day or two before he will be able to get a soldier
from his regiment. He has a horse to sell, and various other
matters to see to. At any rate, look after him, till tomorrow. 'Tis
my hour to go to the king."

Lindsay was a young man of two or three and twenty. He had a merry,
joyous face, a fine figure, and a good carriage; but until he and
Fergus were beyond the limits of the palace, he walked by the lad's
side with scarce a word. When once past the entrance, however, he
gave a sigh of relief.

"Now, Drummond," he said, "we will shake hands, and begin to make
each other's acquaintance. First, I am Nigel Lindsay, very much at
your service. On duty I am another person altogether, scarcely
recognizable even by myself--a sort of wooden machine, ready, when
a button is touched, to bring my heels smartly together, and my
hand to the salute. There is something in the air that stiffens
one's backbone, and freezes one from the tip of one's toes to the
end of one's pigtail. When one is with the marshal alone, one
thaws; for there is no better fellow living, and he chats to us as
if we were on a mountain side in Scotland, instead of in
Frederick's palace. But one is always being interrupted; either a
general, or a colonel, or possibly the king himself, comes in