Frederick laughed heartily.  “Confess, your excellency, that you dare not trust your monks.  You do not know that they are as good Prussians as I have happily found you to be?  Go, then, if it is agreeable to you, and with your own pious hands bring me a glass of wine, I need not say good wine—­you cloistered men understand that.”

Frederick leaned back comfortably in his arm-chair and conversed cheerfully, even merrily, with his young adjutant and the worthy abbot, who hastened here and there, and drew from closets and hiding-places wine, fruit, and other rich viands.  The cloistered stillness, the unbroken quiet which surrounded him, were pleasing to the king; his features were illuminated with that soft and at the same time imposing smile which played but seldom upon his lips, but which, like the sun, when it appeared, filled all hearts with light and gladness.  Several hours passed—­hours which the king did not seem to observe, but the heart of the poor abbot was trembling with apprehension.

“And now,” said the king, “I am rested, refreshed, and strengthened.  Will your excellency conduct me to the tower? then I will return to Frankenstein.”

“There is happily a way to the tower for my use alone,” said the abbot, “where we are certain to be met by no one.  I demand pardon, sire, the way is dark and winding, and we must mount many small steps.”

“Well, abbot, it resembles the way to eternal life; from the power of darkness to light; from the path of sin and folly to that of knowledge and true wisdom.  I will seek after this knowledge from your tower, worthy abbot.  Have you my field-glass, Trenck?”

The adjutant bowed, silently; they passed through the corridor and mounted the steps, reaching at last the platform at the top of the tower.

A wondrous prospect burst upon their view; the horizon seemed bounded by majestic mountains of porphyry—­this third element or place of deposit of the enchanting primeval earth, out of which mighty but formless mass our living, breathing, and beautiful world sprang into creation, and the stars sang together for joy.  In the midst of these mountains stood the “Giant,” with his snow-crowned point, like the great finger of God, reaching up into the heavens, and contrasting strangely with the lofty but round green summits of the range, now gilded by the morning sun, and sparkling in changing rays of light.

The king looked upon this picture with rapture; an expression of prayer and praise was written upon his face.  But with the proud reserve which ever belongs to those who, by exalted rank or genius, are isolated from other men, with the shrinking of a great soul, the king would allow no one to witness his emotion.  He wished to be alone, alone with Nature and Nature’s God; he dismissed the abbot and his adjutant, and commanded them to wait in the rooms below for him.  And now, convinced that no one saw or heard him, the king gave himself up wholly to the exalted and pious feelings which agitated his soul.  With glistening eyes he gazed upon the enchanting landscape, which glowed and shimmered in the dazzling sunshine.