After the first greetings had been exchanged, the general sat down on a couch, and said, laughingly:
“Now, my dear boy, tell me by what trick you have managed to obtain from your new colonel a leave of absence after such a short service in his regiment. I know you of old. What fresh deviltry have you been up to? Come, make a clean breast of it at once, and let us have it over.”
FREDERICK CONFESSES TO HIS FATHER.
“My dear father,” murmured the young man, with downcast eyes, “I am afraid that the confession which I have to make will pain you very much. The fact is, I—I—took French leave.”
“Come, come, that is more serious than I thought,” exclaimed the general, whose genial smile had suddenly given way to a very stern expression. “Surely you are joking. You don't mean to tell me that you are here without the permission of your superiors?”
Frederick bent his head, and did not reply.
“But are you aware that this is nothing less than an act of desertion?” thundered the general, exasperated by his son's silence, and starting to his feet. “You must be bereft of your senses, sir, to dare to tell me that a Count von Waldberg has deserted from his regiment. Speak! Explain. I command you!”
“I was provoked beyond all endurance by my colonel,” replied Frederick, in short, broken sentences. “We quarrelled, and in a moment of blind passion I struck him a blow in the face which felled him to the ground. I was compelled to make my escape in order to avoid a court-martial.”
The general, now as pale as his son, advanced a step toward him, and, laying his hand heavily on the young man's shoulder, said, in a tone of voice which betrayed the most intense emotion: