duty—­another will than mine finds utterance, influences, and indeed controls my thoughts and actions.  Alas! a king should be old and be born with the heart of a graybeard—­he dare never have a heart of youth and fire if he would serve his people faithfully and honestly!  With a heart of flesh I might have been a happier, a more amiable man, but a weak, unworthy king.  I should have been intoxicated by a woman’s love, and her light wish would have been more powerful than my will.  Never, never shall that be!  I will have the courage to trample my own heart under foot, and the sorrows of the man shall bo soothed and healed by the pomp and glory of the king.”

In the next room Barbarina leaned over against the door, exhausted by her prayers and tears.  “Listen to me, my king,” said she, softly.  “In one hour you have broken my will and humbled my pride forever!  From this time onward Barbarina has no will but yours.  Command me, then, wholly.  Say to me that I am never to dance again, and I swear to you that my foot shall never more step upon the stage; command that all my roles shall be given to the Cochois, I will myself hand them to her and pray her to accept them.  You see, my king, that I am no longer proud—­no longer ambitious.  Have mercy upon me then, sire; open this fearful door; let me look upon your face; let me lie at your feet.  Oh, my king, be merciful, be gracious; cast me not away from you!”

The king leaned, agitated and trembling, against the door.  Once he raised his arm and laid his hand upon the bolt.  Barbarina uttered a joyful cry, for she had heard this movement.  But the king withdrew his hand again.  All was still; from time to time the king heard a low sigh, a suppressed sob, then silence followed.

Barbarina pleaded no more.  She knew and felt it was in vain.  Scorn and wounded pride dried the tears which love and despair had caused to flow.  She wept no more—­her eyes were flaming—­she cast wild, angry glances toward the door before which she had lain so long in humble entreaty.  Threateningly she raised her arms toward heaven, and her lips murmured unintelligible words of cursing or oaths of vengeance.

“Farewell, King Frederick,” she said, at last, in mellow, joyous tones—­“farewell!  Barbarina leaves you.”

She felt that, in uttering these words, the tears had again rushed to her eyes.  She shook her head wildly, and closed her eyelids, and pressed her hands firmly upon them, thus forcing back the bitter tears to their source.  Then with one wild spring, like an enraged lioness, she sprang to the other door, opened it and rushed out.