Whilst the queen spoke, her countenance was illuminated with royal energy and beauty; she was now, indeed, truly imperial, without the aid of diamond coronets. The queen was herself again; she had conquered her womanish fears; she felt herself not only the wife of Frederick, but the sister of the king of England, the mother of the future king.
But Frederick, in what he considered his holy penitential mood, was made angry by her self-possession, her proudly-erected head; he felt that this soul had made itself free from his heavy yoke, and claimed and enjoyed a separate existence; but she should acknowledge him again as her lord, and he bowed down with humble penitence. The queen should become the woman, the obedient wife; had not the Bible said, and "he shall rule over thee"?
"So, then, let our ancestors behold how we try our coffins before them," said the king, placing his hand heavily on the shoulder of the queen; "the world knows that diamonds become you, and that I, in my uniform, am a fine-looking fellow; let us see now how our coffins will clothe us!"
"What do you mean, my king?" said Sophia, fixing her trembling glance upon her husband.
"I mean that we will see if we can take our places with dignity and worthily in our coffins; that we will do to-day in sport what we must hereafter do in solemn earnest."
"This is indeed a cruel jest," said the queen.
"Oh, yes, to the children of this world every thing seems cruel which reminds them of death and the fleeting nature of all earthly joys," said the king, "but such a warning is good and healthy to the soul, and if we would accustom ourselves from time to time to leave the ballroom and rest awhile in our coffins, we would, without doubt, lead more holy and earnest lives. Lay yourself, therefore, in your coffin, Sophia; it will be to your soul's advantage, and my eyes will see a picture which, praised be God, you can never behold. I shall see you in your coffin."
"Oh, you are younger than I, my husband; you will surely see me buried; it is not therefore necessary to put me to this trial."
"Conquer thy soul, and make it quiet and humble," said the king; "we have come hither to try our coffins, and we will try them!"
"The king had a feverish attack of piety to-day. I would not have come if I had known the intentions of your majesty," said the queen.
"You would have come as I willed it," murmured the king, while his cheeks glowed with anger and his eye flashed fire.
Sophia saw these symptoms of a rising storm, and she knew that all restraints would be removed if she resisted longer. She called with a commanding tone to one of her maids of honor, and said proudly:
"Reach me your hand, duchess; I am weary, and will for awhile rest upon this bed, of a new and uncommon form."
With the appearance and nobility of a truly royal soul, she raised her robe a little, lifted her foot over the edge of the coffin, and placed it firmly in the bottom. She stood in the coffin proudly erect, commanding and majestic to behold; then, with inimitable grace, she stooped and lay down slowly. The coffin creaked and groaned, and amongst the crowd of courtiers a murmur of horror and disgust was heard. The king stood near the coffin, and Sophia Dorothea looked at him so steadily, so piercingly, that he had not the courage to meet her glance, and fixed his eyes upon the ground. The queen stood up quietly. The Countess Hacke held out her hand to assist her, but she waved her proudly back.
"No," she said, "kings and queens leave their coffins by their own strength and greatness, and sustained by the hand of History alone." Sophia then stepped over the edge of the coffin, and, bowing profoundly to the king, she said—
"Your majesty, it is now your turn."
The king was confused. He cast a dark, distrustful glance upon the queen. Her simple words had for him a prophetic meaning, and he shuddered as he drew near the coffin. With a powerful effort he overcame himself, stepped into the coffin, and nodded to some of his courtiers to assist him in lying down.
"Ah, I rest well upon this couch," said Frederick. "Here will I soon sleep till it shall please God to wake me at the resurrection!"
"May that time be far removed, my king!" said Sophia earnestly. "Allow me to assist you."
She reached her hand to the king; he seized it with alacrity, and was in the act of rising, when a wild and unaccustomed sound was heard without—a loud, piercing cry, which was many times repeated, then the sound of hasty steps approaching the room! The pallid and awe-struck courtiers whispered to each other.
"What is it?" cried the king, who was still sitting in his coffin.
No one answered. The courtiers whispered confused and wild words, but no one dared to answer.
"I demand to know what has happened," said the king, as with much difficulty he sought to raise himself up.
The major domo stepped forward. "Your majesty, two soldiers are without who held watch in the corridor; they declare that a long, white figure, with a veiled face and black gloves, passed slowly by them the whole length of the corridor, and entered this room; they, believing that some unseemly mask wished to approach your majesty, followed the figure and saw it enter this room. They ran hither to seize the masker, but your majesty knows no such person is here."
"The white lady!" cried the king, and sank powerless and as if broken to pieces in the coffin. "The white lady! veiled and with black gloves! That signifies my death!"
"The white lady!" murmured the courtiers, withdrawing involuntarily from the door through which the evil-omened white lady should enter.
The queen alone was silent. She looked around with a searching glance upon the marble statues of the prince electors, and her soul was far away with her beloved son Frederick.
CHAPTER VII.
THE MAID OF HONOR, AND THE GARDENER.
It was a lovely day in May. The lilacs were in bloom; the birds were singing their sweetest songs; the swans floating upon the tranquil lake, which, bordered with water lilies and other fragrant plants, was one of the chief ornaments in the garden of the prince royal at Rheinsberg. It was still early; the residents of the palace, which was surrounded by this beautiful garden, were sleeping; the windows were closed and curtained, and you heard none of the sounds which usually arose from this gay and charming place. No music fell on the ear but the melting tones of the nightingale and the morning song of the lark.
The prince royal himself was still asleep, for his flute was silent, and that was a sure sign to all who lived in the palace that the lord of the house was not awake, or at least that he had not yet begun the day.
The music of his flute was the morning sacrifice with which the young prince greeted the day; it, like the pillar of Memnon, which gave forth a sound when touched by the rays of the sun, announced to his flattering courtiers that their sun had arisen.
But the flute was silent; the sun had therefore not arisen, although its beams had long been flooding the park in golden light, and drinking from every flower the dew that had fallen during the past sultry night.
Fritz Wendel, the gardener, was already busy with his watering-pot, and was at the same time anxiously selecting and gathering the most beautiful flowers, and concealing them carefully under the various plants and bushes; perhaps to protect them from the heat of the sun, perhaps