ully."

"Hear, Sir Chamberlain," said Dietrich; "the dear Prince recognizes me, he
has his reason, he knows what he sees and says, so you see it is not wine
that--But he says that he suffers fearfully, and I believe it indeed; for
what burns his vitals is--I must go for the physician, Dr. White; he must
try every means; he must know what ails the Prince--what they have done to
him; and he must apply remedies. Stay here, Sir Chamberlain; I will run
for Dr. White."

And old Dietrich hastily started to leave the couch, but the Prince's hand
was laid upon his arm, and held him fast.

"Stay, Dietrich, stay! You, dear Goetz, go you, I beg, for Dr. White and
fetch him here; he must come immediately, for I am really sick. I suffer.
Make haste, dear Goetz. You are younger, brisker than my good old Dietrich;
therefore I choose you."

The chamberlain pressed a kiss upon the Prince's burning, trembling hand.

"Dearest sir, as swiftly as a man's anxious heart can move his feet I
shall hasten to the doctor and bring him here!"

The chamberlain flew on tiptoe from the apartment, and all was still.
Nothing was heard but the low moans and sighs of the Prince, who lay there
with pallid features and shaking limbs, while over him bent weeping his
faithful old servant.

After a while the Prince raised himself a little, slowly opened his eyes,
and cast a sad, sweeping glance around the room.

"Dietrich, are we alone?" he asked, in a hoarse, almost inaudible voice.

"Quite alone, gracious sir."

"Then hear what I have to say to you. Incline your ear close to me, for
you alone must hear me. When the physician comes, take good care not to
repeat to him what you said just now to the chamberlain. He and all the
world must think that it is actually nothing but wine which has made me
sick. He will prescribe medicine for me. Have it prepared forthwith. You
alone must stay with me. Tell them I have ordered it, and Goetz must return
to the banquet and tell them it was nothing but wine. Dietrich, do not
give me the medicine, but throw it away. There is only one kind of physic
for me--milk, only milk, that is my cordial. Give me milk, Dietrich, milk
directly, for the pains are coming on again, so dreadfully, oh, so
dreadfully! But do not tell anybody. Nobody must know what I suffer! It
burns like fire! Milk, Dietrich, milk!"

IX.--LOVE'S SACRIFICE.

As if borne on the wings of the wind, Gabriel Nietzel had flown through
the streets