not see me, my friends?" he asked, in a gentle but sad voice.
"Do you not look down wonderingly where you saw a cheerful, smiling
king, upon the now bent, shrunken old man, cold and phlegmatic, who
seldom speaks, and then causes every one to yawn? Oh, where have you
fled, beautiful spring-time of life--wherein once we used to enliven our
conversations with the wit of the Athenians, and the jest fluttered
upon our lips as we glided through life in the bold enjoyment of
youth? Banished is the dance, and I creep about, leaning upon my staff,
enfeebled in body, and with saddened heart! Oh, awful change, unhappy
old age! What does it aid me that I am a king? I have won many a battle,
but now I am vanquished by age and death and am alone!" [Footnote: The
king's words.--See "Posthumous Works," vol. x., p. 100.]

A slight breeze rustled through the trees, fanning, caressingly, the
cheeks of the king. The perfume of sweet flowers rose from the terrace,
and below rushed the cascade. The marble groups around the fountain
glistened in the golden rays of the sun, and in the dark foliage
fluttered and sang the merry birds of summer.

Suddenly the wind wafted from the church at Potsdam the clear tones of a
bell, announcing to the king the hour of four, the death of Voltaire.

The king walked along to the rose-arbor, to the temple of friendship,
where the bust of his sister Frederika was placed. He seated himself
near the entrance, listening to the ringing voice of the bell, and
recalling that the death-mass had now commenced in Berlin.

The service sacred to memory! The prayer for the immortal soul! As the
lonely king sat there, calm and bowed down, a solemn prayer and holy
mass rose from his own soul. He bowed lower his head, and, without
realizing it himself, traced letters in the sand at his feet, with no
witness but the blue heavens above him, and Windspiel who curiously eyed
the lines. Thinking of the prayer for Voltaire's undying soul, the king
had written the word of profoundest mystery and revelation, of hope and
prophecy--"Immortality."

The wind gently rustled in the trees, wafting the perfume of flowers.
Sweet stillness reigned around, and lowly sang the birds as if not
to waken the king, who slept by the marble form of his beloved
sister--Windspiel upon his knees, and in the sand at his feet the word
traced by his own hand, "Immortality."

CHAPTER XXIX. CAGLIOSTRO'S RETURN.

Wilhelmine Enke was still living