It was two in the morning.
He walked disconsolately up and down the platform, wrapped himself shiveringly in his large travelling cloak, smoked his cigar, and looked at the busy proceedings in the railway station.
There was a train with a steaming engine close to the platform; it consisted of only a few carriages, but in the centre there was a large saloon carriage richly gilt, and surmounted by a crown.
"What is that?" asked Herr Beckmann as a busy porter hurried past.
"The king is going to Göttingen," he replied, and hastened on.
Herr Beckmann walked up to the saloon carriage and examined it.
"It is true," he said, "the king must really be starting; but," he added, "it does not look like a flight, the soldiers, at all events, seem to have no mind to fly."
Notwithstanding the late hour the platform grew more and more crowded with people, who waited quietly near the royal train.
Then the large doors of the royal waiting-room opened, and Count Platen, a number of generals, Lex, and Herr Meding appeared. They all seemed grave and silent.
The wheels of other carriages were heard.