s
appearance.

A tall, proud, manly form crossed the antechamber of the king. Power
and energy were visible in his countenance, and his eyes sparkled
with noble excitement. He was going to perform that duty from which
courtiers and flatterers shrank with trembling; and what the bravest
generals did not dare, he was going to undertake. John Gotzkowsky was
going to tell the king the truth. John Gotzkowsky was not afraid to
rouse the anger of a king, when it came to helping the unfortunate or
protecting the oppressed. He had a more noble mission to perform than
to sue for the smiles of a king, or the favor of the great. It was
the higher mission of humanity which impelled him, and, as usual, his
resolution was firm and unwavering. With bold decision he reached
the door which led into the king's chamber. He had the privilege of
entering unannounced, for the king expected him.

He had summoned Gotzkowsky from Berlin, to obtain information as to
the progress of the Berlin industrial works, and the faithful patriot
had, in obedience to the call of his king, come to Leipsic. He had
seen the misery and suffering on this poor, down-trodden town, and,
as he traversed the antechamber, he said to himself, with an
imperceptible smile, "I brought the Russian general to clemency, and
the king will not be harder than he was."

But before he threw off his cloak, he drew out of it a small package,
which he examined carefully. Being satisfied with its appearance, he
took it with him to the cabinet of the king. Frederick did not look at
him at first. He was reclining on the floor, and around him, on silken
cushions, lay his dogs, their bright eyes fixed on a dish which
was placed in the midst of them. The king, with an ivory stick, was
carefully dividing the portion for each dog, ordering the growling,
discontented ones to be quiet, and comforting the patiently waiting
ones with a light jest concerning the next piece. Suddenly he raised
his eyes, and his quick glance rested on Gotzkowsky's smiling, placid
face. "Ah, you laugh," said he, "and in your human conceit you find it
quite beneath one's dignity to occupy one's self with dogs, when there
are so many human beings. Let me tell you, you don't understand any
thing about it! You don't know dogs at all, and perhaps you don't know
men.--Quiet, Biche! leave that piece for Apollo. I gave it to him, and
therefore it belongs to him. One would suppose you had been learning
from men, and in t