“Listen, dragoons,” said the king; “if you take off my roof, the snow will fall in my bed to-night, and you do not wish that, do you?”
“No, we do not wish it, sire,” said Fritz Kober, ashamed, slipping softly from the roof; the others followed his example, and prepared to be off, giving melancholy glances at the wood lying on the ground. The king looked thoughtfully after them, and murmured, softly, “Poor fellows, I have deprived them of a pleasure.—Halloo, dragoons,” he cried aloud, “listen!”
The soldiers looked back, frightened and trembling.
“Tell me,” said the king, “what use were you going to make of the wood?”
“Cook noodles, sire,” said Fritz Kober; “Henry Buschman promised to cook noodles for us, and the bacon is already cut; but we have no wood.”
“Well, if the bacon is cut,” said the king, smiling, “and if Henry Buschman has promised to make the noodles, he must certainly keep his word; take the wood away with you.”
“Hurrah! long life to our king and to our good Fritz Kober,” cried the soldiers, and, collecting the wood, they hastened away.
The king stepped back, silently, into the small, low room of the hut. Alone, there once more the smile disappeared, and his countenance became sad and anxious. He confessed to himself what he had never admitted to friend or confidant, that it was a daring and most dangerous undertaking to meet the Austrian army of seventy thousand with his thirty-three thousand men.
“And should I fail,” said the king, thoughtfully, “and lead these brave troops to their death without benefit to my country—should they die an unknown death—should we be conquered, instead of conquering! Oh, the fortune of battles lies in the hands of Providence; the wisest disposition of troops, the most acute calculations are brought to naught by seeming accident. Should I expose my army to the fearful odds, should I hazard so many lives to gratify my ambition and my pride? My generals say it will be wiser not to attack, but to wait and be attacked. Oh, Winterfeldt, Winterfeldt, were you but here, you would not advise this, not you! Why have you been taken from me, my friend? Why have you left me alone among my enemies? I can find, perhaps, resources against my enemies, but I will never find another Winterfeldt.” [Footnote: The king’s own words.—Retzow, vol. i.. p. 220.] The king leaned his head upon his breast, and tears rolled down his cheeks.
“How solitary, how joyless life is! how rich I was once in friends, how poor I am now! and who knows how much poorer I may be to-morrow at this hour—who knows if I shall have a place to lay my head?—I may be a fugitive, without home or country. Verily, I have the destiny of Mithridates—I want only two sons and a Monima. Well,” continued he, with a soft smile, “it is still something to stand alone—misfortunes only strike home. But do I stand alone? have I not an entire people looking to me and expecting me to do my duty? Have I not brave soldiers, who call me father, looking death courageously in the face and hazarding their lives for me? No, I am not alone—and if Mithridates had two sons, I have thirty-three thousand. I will go and bid them good-evening. I think it will refresh my sad heart to hear their cheerful greetings.”