ering in the morning wind, his eyes are fixed and glaring; his
clothes are covered with dust, and his head is bare.

There is something terrifying in the sudden appearance of this man.
Nature seems to smile no more since he came; the trees have stopped
their whispering, the birds cannot continue their melodious songs since
they have seen his wild, anxious look. The peacefulness of Nature is
broken. For man--that is to say, misery, misfortune; for man--that is
to say, sin, guilt, and meanness--is there, pouring destroying drops of
poison in the golden chalice of creation.

Breathlessly he hurries on, looking neither to right nor left. He
has now reached the terrace, and now he stops for a moment to recover
breath. He sees not the glorious panorama lying at his feet; he is blind
to all but himself. He is alone in the world--alone with his misery, his
pain. Now he hastens on to the back of the palace. The sentinels walking
before the back and the front of the castle know him, know where he is
going, and they barely glance at him as he knocks long and loudly at
that little side window.

It is opened, and a young girl appears, who, when perceiving this pale,
anxious countenance, which is striving in vain to smile at her, cries
out loudly, and folds her hands as if in prayer.

"Hush!" said he, roughly; "hush! let me in."

"Some misfortune has happened!" said she, terrified.

"Yes, Rosa, a great misfortune, but let me in, if you do not wish to
ruin me."

The young girl disappears, and the man hastens to the side door of the
castle. It is opened, and he slips in.

Perfect peace reigns once more in the garden of Sans-Souci. Nature is
now smiling, for she is alone with her innocence. Man is not there! But
now, in the castle, in the dwelling of the castle warder, and in the
room of his lovely daughter Rosa, all is alive. There is whispering, and
weeping, and sighing, and praying; there is Rosa, fearful and trembling,
her face covered with tears, and opposite her, her pale, woe-begone
lover.

"I have been walking all night," said he, with a faint and hollow voice.
"I did not know that Berlin was so far from Potsdam, and had I known it,
I would not have dared to take a wagon or a horse; I had to slip away
very quietly. While by Count Puebla's order my room was guarded, and
I thought to be in it, I descended into the garden by the grape-vine,
which reached up to my window. The gardener had no suspicion of how
I came there,