"Letters from my sister Wilhelmina, from Italy," said the king,
joyfully breaking the seal, and unfolding the papers.

There were several sheets of paper closely written, and between them
lay a small, white packet. The king kept the latter in his hand, and
commenced reading eagerly. As he read, the dark, stern expression
gradually left his countenance. His brow was smooth and calm, and a
soft, beautiful smile played about his lips. He finished the letter,
and throwing it hastily aside, tore open the package. In it was a
laurel-branch, covered with beautiful leaves, which looked as bright
and green as if they had just been cut. The king raised it, and
looked at it tenderly. "Ah, my friend," said he, with a beaming
smile, "see how kind Providence is to me! On this painful day she
sends me a glorious token, a laurel-branch. My sister gathered it
for me on my birthday. Do you know where, my friend? Bow your head,
be all attention; for know that it is a branch from the laurel-tree
that grows upon Virgil's grave! Ah, my friend, it seems to me as if
the great and glorious spirits of the olden ages were greeting me
with this laurel which came from the grave of one of their greatest
poets. My sister sends it to me, accompanied by some beautiful
verses of her own. An old fable says that these laurels grew
spontaneously upon Virgil's grave, and that they are indestructible.
May this be a blessed omen for me! I greet you, Virgil's holy
shadow! I bow down before you, and kiss in all humility your ashes,
which have been turned into laurels!"

Thus speaking, the king bowed his head, and pressed a fervent kiss
upon the laurel. He then handed it to Winterfeldt. "Do likewise, my
friend," said he; "your lips are worthy to touch this holy branch,
to inhale the odor of these leaves which grew upon Virgil's grave.