THE TRAITOR.


The sun had just risen, and was shedding its golden rays over the
garden of Sans-Souci, decking the awaking flowers with glittering
dew-drops. All was quiet--Nature alone was up and doing; no one was
to be seen, no sound was to be heard, but the rustling of trees and
the chirping of birds. All was still and peaceful; it seemed as if
the sound of human misery and passion could not reach this spot.
There was something so holy in this garden, that you could but
believe it to be a part of paradise in which the serpent had not yet
exercised his arts of seduction. But no, this is but a beautiful
dream. Man is here, but he is sleeping; he is still resting from the
toils and sorrows of the past day. Man is here--he is coming to
destroy the peacefulness of Nature with his sorrows and complaints.

The little gate at the farthest end of that shady walk is opened,
and a man enters. The dream is at an end, and Sans-Souci is now but
a beautiful garden, not a paradise, for it has been desecrated by
the foot of man. He hastens up the path leading to the palace; he
hurries forward, panting and gasping. His face is colorless, his
long hair is fluttering in the morning wind, his eyes are fixed and
glaring; his clothes are covered with dust, and his head is bare.

There is something terrifying in the sudden appearance of this man.
Nature seems to smile no more since he came; the trees have stopped
their whispering, the birds cannot continue their melodious songs
since they have seen his wild, anxious look. The peacefulness of
Nature is broken. For man--that is to say, misery, misfortune; for
man--that is to say, sin, guilt, and meanness--is there, pouring