"Sire, the entire royal family are well."
"Your intelligence, then, relates to my friends. Two of them are ill—yes, two. How is Jordan? You do not answer—you weep. How is Jordan?"
"Sire, Jordan is dead."
"Dead!" cried the king, as he sank powerless upon his chair, and covered his face with his hands. "Dead! my best, my dearest friend is dead?"
"His death was as bright and peaceful as his life," said Rothenberg. "His last word was a farewell to your majesty, his last act was to write to his king. Here is the letter, sire."
The king silently received the letter from Rothenberg. Two great tears ran slowly down his checks, and, falling on the letter, obliterated some words of the address. "Jordan's hand wrote these words for the last time; this idle title 'his majesty'—and my tears have washed it away. Jordan! Jordan I am no longer a king, but a poor, weak man who mourns for his lost friend."
He pressed the paper passionately to his lips; then placed it in his bosom, and turned once more to Rothenberg.
"Tell me the rest, my friend; I am resigned to all things now."
"Did you not say, sire, that you had left two friends ill in
Berlin?"
"Jordan and Kaiserling. You do not mean that Kaiserling also—oh, no, no! that is impossible! Jordan is dead, and I knew that he must die; but Kaiserling will recover—I feel, I know it."