"The general's aide-de-camp, Major Thile."
"Let him come in," said the king.
The jingle of spurs, and heavy, weary footsteps were heard approaching; Major von Thile entered. His uniform was covered with dust and mud; his hair hung in wet locks upon his forehead, and there shone in his mustache the snow-flakes with which the stormy night had adorned it.
"Did you arrive now?" asked the king, eying him closely.
"I did, your majesty, and, agreeably to the orders of General von York, have had myself driven directly to the royal palace, for the general deemed it of the highest importance that I should deliver my dispatches as soon as possible to your majesty. Hence I rode night and day, and, my horse breaking down today, I was obliged to take a carriage."
"But the French courier reached Berlin earlier than you did," said the king, gruffly. "How does that happen? Have the French quicker horses or more devoted soldiers?"
"No, your majesty, their road to Berlin was shorter than mine, that is all. As I could not ride across the French camp, I had to take a roundabout road by way of Gumbinnen. This caused a delay of four hours."
"Give me your dispatches," said the king.
Major Thile handed him a large sealed paper. The king extended his hand to take it, but suddenly withdrew it again and started back.
"No," he said, "it does not behoove a king to receive letters from a traitorous subject—a rebellious soldier. Take this dispatch, M. Chancellor; open and read it to me. Give it to his excellency."