"Not so, your highness; the tragedy is to be performed on this occasion
by public actors, and not by amateurs."

"You are right," said Amelia, suddenly becoming grave; "at that time
we were amateurs, lovers of the drama; our dreams are over--we live in
realities now."

"Mademoiselle von Marwitz, have the goodness to bring the manuscript my
brother wishes; it is partly written by Voltaire's own hand. You will
find it in the bureau in my dressing-room."

Mademoiselle Marwitz withdrew to get the manuscript; as she left the
room, she looked back suspiciously at Pollnitz and, as if by accident,
left the door open which led to the dressing-room.

Mademoiselle Marwitz had scarcely disappeared, before Pollnitz sprang
forward, with youthful agility, and closed the door.

"Princess, this commission of Prince Henry's was only a pretext. I took
this order from the princess's maitre d'hotel in order to approach your
highness unnoticed, and to get rid of the watchful eyes of your Marwitz.
Now listen well; Weingarten, the Austrian secretary of Legation, was
with me to-day."

"Ah, Weingarten," murmured the princess, tremblingly; "he gave you a
letter for me; quick, quick, give it to me."

"No, he gave me no letter; it appears that he, who formerly sent
letters, is no longer in the condition to do so."

"He is dead!" cried Amelia with horror, and sank back as if struck by
lightning.

"No, princess, he is not dead, but in great danger. It appears that
Weingarten is in great need of money; for a hundred louis d'or, which
I promised him, he confided to me that Trenck's enemies had excited the
suspicions of the king against him, and declared that Trenck had designs
against the life of Frederick."

"The miserable liars and slanderers!" cried Amelia, contemptuously.

"The king, as it appears, believes in these charges; he has written to
his resident minister to demand of the senate of Dantzic the delivery of
Trenck."

"Trenck is not in Dantzic, but in Vienna."

"He is in Dantzic--or, rather, he was there."

"And now?"

"Now," said Pollnitz, solemnly, "he is on the way to Konigsberg;
from that point he will be transported to some other fortress; first,
however, he will be brought to Berlin."

The unhappy princess uttered a shriek, which sounded like a wild
death-cry. "He is, then, a prisoner?"

"Yes; but, on his way to prison, so long as he does not cross the
threshold of the fortress, it is possible to deliver him. We