THE PALACE REVOLUTION.

1772.

At four o’clock in the morning the little group of conspirators assembled in the apartments of the Queen-Dowager. They were eight in all—Juliana Maria, Prince Frederick, Guldberg, Rantzau, Eickstedt, KÖller, Beringskjold and Jessen—not, at first sight, a powerful list to effect a revolution; but they had the army at their command, and the whole nation at their back. Moreover, some, at least, of them were sustained by the high consciousness that they were doing a righteous work, and the others were desperate men, who had all to gain and nothing to lose. Guldberg rehearsed to each one of the conspirators his separate duty, that nothing might be forgotten. Then, at the request of the Queen-Dowager, all knelt down, and a prayer was offered, invoking the Divine blessing on the undertaking.[19]

When they rose from their knees, all the conspirators, guided by Jessen and headed by the Queen-Dowager, went silently along the dark passages to the apartments of the King. In the ante-chamber they found the King’s valet fast asleep. They roused him, and told him they wished to see his Majesty immediately. Seeing the Queen-Dowager and Prince Frederick, the valet was willing to obey without demur; but the main door of the King’s bed-chamber was locked from within, and they were therefore obliged to go round by the secret staircase. The valet went in front to guide them, and immediately behind him came Guldberg, carrying a candle. The others followed in single line, and soon found themselves in Christian’s bedroom.

The King awoke with a start, and, seeing in the dim light the room full of men, cried out in terror. The Queen-Dowager approached the bed, and said in reassuring accents: “Your Majesty, my dear son, be not afraid. We are not come hither as enemies, but as your true friends. We have come——” Here Juliana Maria broke down, and her voice was stifled by her sobs. Rantzau, who had agreed to explain the plan to the King, hung back. But KÖller thrust him forward, and then he told the King that his Majesty’s brother and stepmother had come to deliver him and the country from the hated yoke of Struensee. By this time the Queen-Dowager had recovered her nerve, and, embracing her stepson, she repeated what Rantzau had said with ample detail. The King, who was almost fainting with excitement and terror, demanded a glass of water, and, when he had drunk it, asked if the commandant of the palace guard were present. Eickstedt stepped forward, and confirmed what the Queen-Dowager and Rantzau had said, and added that the people were in a state of revolt, for a plot was being carried out to depose the King, in which Struensee and the Queen were concerned. When the King heard the Queen’s name, he refused to believe that she had anything to do with it, and said the story must be a mistake. But the Queen-Dowager assured him that Matilda was privy to it, and told him the whole of the supposed plot against his royal authority and person. Guldberg confirmed the Queen-Dowager’s statement in every particular, and declared there was no time to be lost.

The bewildered King, at last half-convinced, asked what was to be done. Rantzau then pulled out of his pocket two written orders, and asked him to sign them. By the first, Eickstedt was made commander-in-chief, and by the second, Eickstedt and KÖller were vested with full powers to take all measures necessary for the safety of the King and the country. Thus the obedience of the army would be assured. When Christian read these orders, he feared a conflict between the people and the military, for he exclaimed: “My God! this will mean rivers of blood.” But Rantzau, who by this time had regained his assurance, replied: “Be of good cheer, your Majesty. With God’s help, I take everything upon myself, and will as far as possible prevent bloodshed.” The King sat up in bed and signed the two orders; Prince Frederick counter-signed them.

Eickstedt took the first and immediately left the room; he placed himself at the head of the picket of dragoons waiting below, and rode to the garrison to inform the officers on duty of his new appointment as commander-in-chief. He promptly strengthened the palace guard, had all the gates of the city closed, and bade the garrison hold itself in readiness for any event.

KÖller also took his order, and with the others retired to an ante-chamber, as the King had expressed a wish to get up. By the time Christian was dressed, he was quite convinced that Struensee had plotted against his life, and he was as eager to sign orders as he had at first been reluctant. First of all Juliana Maria impressed upon him that it was necessary to convey the Queen to some place where she could not work any further mischief, and the King, after some hesitation, wrote and signed an almost incoherent message to his consort:—

J’ai trouvÉ À propos de vous envoÏer À Cronbourg, comme vÔtre conduite m’y oblige. J’en suis trÈs fachÉ, je n’en suis pas la cause, et je vous souhaite un repentir sincÉre.[20]

The King then signed orders, drawn up by Guldberg, for the arrest of Struensee, Brandt and fifteen other persons. He did this with alacrity, and seemed delighted at asserting his authority, and the prospect of being freed from the dominion of Struensee and Brandt. The orders which concerned Queen Matilda he copied out himself in full from Guldberg’s drafts; the others he merely signed. The orders concerning the Queen included the order to Rantzau to arrest her, the order to the head of the royal stables to make ready the coaches to convey her to Kronborg, and an order to the commandant of Kronborg to keep her in close confinement. These important matters settled, Juliana Maria persuaded Christian to remove to Prince Frederick’s apartments in another part of the palace. She had much more for him to do, and she was fearful of interruption. For hours the King remained in his brother’s apartments, signing orders, which were to give him, as he thought, freedom and authority, but which were really only forging the links of new chains, and transferring him from the comparatively mild rule of Struensee and Matilda to the strict keeping of the Queen-Dowager.

Meanwhile, in different parts of the palace the King’s orders were being carried out without delay. On quitting the King’s apartments, KÖller went to perform his task of arresting Struensee, accompanied by two or three officers of the palace guard and several soldiers. That KÖller feared resistance may be gathered from the fact that he made the senior officer promise him, in the event of his being killed, to shoot Struensee dead. KÖller had a bitter hatred of Struensee, dating, it was said, a long while back, when the doctor had seduced the object of KÖller’s affections. He had solicited the task of arresting Struensee, and now went to fulfil it with an eagerness born of revenge.

The door of the outer room of Struensee’s apartments was firmly locked, and his favourite valet slept within. The youth was aroused (as he afterwards said from dreams of ill-omen) by the noise of men trying to force the door. On asking who was there, he was commanded to open in the King’s name, under pain of instant death. Taken by surprise, the valet had no time to give his master warning to escape by the private staircase, which led to the apartments of the Queen, but he hurriedly secreted certain jewels and papers, and threw open the door. There he saw KÖller, holding a wax taper and dressed in full uniform, and his companions. Two soldiers pointed pistols at the valet’s head, and a third directed one to his breast. “Have you woke the Count?” KÖller whispered, and, on the trembling youth replying in the negative, KÖller made him give up the key of Struensee’s bedroom, which was also locked. The door was opened as silently as possible, and KÖller, with a drawn sword in his hand, entered the room, followed by three officers.

The voluptuary had furnished his chamber with great luxury. The walls were hung with rich figured damask, the mirrors were of the purest glass, and the washing service was of wrought silver. The bed was canopied with purple velvet and gold, and the canopy was shaped in the form of a royal crown. The carpet was of velvet pile, and the room was scented with costly perfumes. Struensee was sleeping heavily—so heavily that neither the light of the taper nor the entrance of KÖller roused him. He was sleeping with his head on his arm, and the book with which he had read himself to sleep had fallen to the floor.

For a moment KÖller stood and looked down on his victim; then he shook him roughly by the shoulder, and Struensee awoke to the horror of the situation. He sprang up in the bed, and shouted: “In God’s name, what is this?” KÖller answered roughly: “I have orders to arrest you. Get up at once and come with me.” “Do you know who I am,” said the omnipotent minister of an hour ago haughtily, “that you dare to command me thus?” “Yes,” said KÖller with a laugh; “I know who you are well enough. You are the King’s prisoner.” Struensee then demanded to see the warrant for his arrest, but as KÖller did not yet possess this, he replied shortly that the warrant was with the King, but he would be answerable with his head that he was carrying out the King’s orders. Struensee still refused to move; but KÖller thrust his sword point against his breast, and said: “I have orders to take you either dead or alive. Which shall it be?” Struensee, shivering with terror, sank back on the bed, and asked for time to think; but KÖller told him he must come at once. Struensee then asked that his valet might bring him a cup of chocolate, but KÖller refused this also. “You will at least allow me to dress myself?” said Struensee. KÖller said he would give him two minutes to do so; but he would not suffer either Struensee or the valet to go into the next room for clothes. Struensee was therefore obliged to hurry into the clothes he had worn at the ball, and which lay, where he had thrown them off, on a chair by the bed—breeches of pink silk and a coat and waistcoat of light blue velvet—gay attire especially ill-suited for his melancholy journey.

Struensee’s hands were bound, and he was hurried down to the guard-room, where his legs were bound as well. Here he waited a few minutes, guarded by soldiers with drawn swords and loaded pistols, until the coach was brought round to the door. He was thrust into it, followed by KÖller, and driven under a strong escort to the citadel. On the way he groaned: “My God, what crime have I committed?”—to which his companion vouchsafed no answer. When he got out of the coach he asked that something might be given to the driver, who was one of the royal coachmen. KÖller handed the man a dollar, for which he thanked him, but said in Danish, with a vindictive look at Struensee: “I would gladly have done it for nothing.” There was hardly a menial in the King’s household who would not rejoice over the favourite’s fall.

Struensee was led into the presence of the commandant of the citadel, and formally delivered over to him by KÖller. By this time he had regained something of his self-possession, and said to the commandant, whom he knew well: “I suppose this visit is totally unexpected by you?” “Not at all,” replied the discourteous officer; “I have been expecting to see you here for a long time.” The prisoner was then marched to a small cell, which had previously been occupied by a notorious pirate. On entering this gloomy chamber, Struensee, who had expected to be treated as a state prisoner, with every comfort, if not luxury, started back and said: “Where is my valet?” “I have not seen any valet,” said the jailor shortly. “But where are my things?” “I have not seen them either.” “Bring me my furs. It is cold here. I have no wish to be frozen to death.” But the man did not move. As there was nothing but a wooden stool and pallet bed, Struensee asked for a sofa. “There are no sofas here,” said the man, and backed up his words by a coarse insult. Struensee then lost his self-command, burst out into raving and cursing, and tried to dash out his brains against the wall, but the jailor held him back. When the commandant was informed of the prisoner’s refractory conduct, he ordered him to be fettered hand and foot, which was promptly done. This hurt Struensee’s pride more than all the other treatment, and he broke down and wept, exclaiming: “I am treated en canaille!” Certainly it was a change from the bed of down and the purple velvet hangings of an hour ago.

Brandt was arrested at the same time as Struensee. Colonel Sames, formerly commandant of Copenhagen, who had been deprived of his post by Struensee, accompanied by a guard, went to his apartments, but they found the door locked. For some time Brandt refused to answer, but on Sames threatening to break the door down unless it were opened, he at last turned the key and met his opponents, ready dressed and with a drawn sword. When the soldiers advanced to disarm him, he made no resistance, but said: “This must be a mistake. I have committed no offence for which I can be arrested.” Sames told him it was no mistake, but that he was acting on the King’s order, and it would be better for him to yield. Brandt, who was perfectly self-controlled, said: “Very well, I will follow you quietly.” He was taken down to the guard-room, put into a coach, and conveyed to the citadel, immediately following Struensee. When he entered the presence of the commandant, he said gaily: “I must apologise, sir, for paying you a visit at so early an hour.” “Not at all,” replied the commandant, with elaborate politeness; “my only grief is that you have not come before.” While some formalities were being gone through, Brandt hummed a tune with an air of unconcern, and looking round him, said: “Upon my word, these are mighty fine quarters you have in this castle!” To which the commandant replied: “Yes, and in a minute you will have an opportunity of seeing even finer ones.”

Brandt was presently conducted to his cell, which was even worse than Struensee’s, and on entering it he said good-humouredly to the jailor: “On my word, the commandant spoke truth!” Brandt bore his privations with firmness, and presently pulled a flute from his pocket and amused himself by playing it. He altogether showed much greater courage and self-control than the miserable Struensee, who did nothing but weep and bemoan his fate.

The arrest of Struensee’s principal confederates quickly followed. Falckenskjold was placed under arrest at the barracks. Justice Struensee and Professor Berger were conveyed to the citadel: General Gahler and his wife were arrested in bed; the lady jumped out of bed in her nightdress, and tried to escape by the back-stairs, but she was captured and removed with her husband to the citadel. Several others, including BÜlow and Reverdil, were placed under “house arrest,” that is to say, they were confined to their houses, and had sentries posted over them. The servants of Struensee and Brandt were imprisoned in the Blue Tower. The morning dawned before all these imprisonments were carried out. The new rulers had reason to congratulate themselves that everything had been effected without bloodshed.

Meanwhile the most dramatic scene of the palace revolution was enacted in the Queen’s apartments of the Christiansborg. Upon retiring from the ball Queen Matilda went to see her infant daughter, and it was nearly four o’clock before she retired to rest. Even then she did not sleep, for the noise made by KÖller in arresting Struensee, whose apartments were beneath, was indistinctly heard by the Queen. But she imagined it was due to the party which she understood was to be held in Countess Holstein’s rooms; she thought it had now been transferred to Struensee’s. She therefore sent one of her servants down to request them to be less noisy in their revels. The woman went, but did not return; and, as the noise ceased, the Queen thought no more about it, and presently fell asleep.

About half an hour later Matilda was aroused by the entrance of one of her women, white and trembling, who said that a number of men were without demanding to see her immediately in the King’s name. In a moment the Queen suspected danger, and her first thought was to warn her lover. She sprang out of bed, and, with nothing on but her nightrobe, rushed barefooted into the next room, with the idea of gaining the secret staircase which led to Struensee’s apartments.

In the ante-chamber the first object that greeted her eyes was Rantzau, seated in a chair and twirling his moustachios: he was dressed in full uniform, and had thrown over his shoulders a scarlet cloak lined with fur. At the Queen’s entrance he rose and bowed with great ceremony, evidently delighting in his part, of which any honest man would have been ashamed. In the ante-chamber beyond were several soldiers and frightened women. When the Queen saw Rantzau, she remembered her undress, and cried: “Eloignez-vous, Monsieur le Comte, pour l’amour de Dieu, car je ne suis pas prÉsentable!” But, as Rantzau did not move, she ran back to her chamber, and threw on some more clothes; the delay was fatal to her.

When she came forth again she found the room full of armed men, and the officer in command opposed her passage. She haughtily ordered him to let her pass, saying that his head would answer for it if he did not. Rantzau retorted that his head would answer for it if he did. The officer, in evident distress, said: “Madame, I only do my duty, and obey the orders of my King.” The Queen then turned to the door, behind which was a staircase leading down to Struensee’s apartments. But the door was closed and a soldier posted before it. “Where is Count Struensee?” she demanded; “I wish to see him.” “Madame,” said Rantzau with elaborate irony, “there is no Count Struensee any more, nor can your Majesty see him.” The Queen advanced boldly towards him, and demanded his authority for these insults. Rantzau handed her the King’s message. She read it through without displaying any alarm, and then threw it contemptuously on the ground.[21] “Ha!” she cried, “in this I recognise treachery, but not the King.” Amazed at the Queen’s fearless air, Rantzau for the moment changed his tone, and implored her to submit quietly to the King’s orders. “Orders!” she exclaimed, “orders about which he knows nothing—which have been extorted from him by terror! No, the Queen does not obey such orders.” Rantzau then said that nothing remained for him but to do his duty, which admitted of no delay. “I am the Queen; I will obey no orders except from the King’s own lips,” she replied. “Let me go to him! I must, and will, see him!” She knew that if she could only gain access to the King she was safe, for she could make him rescind the order and so confound her enemies. Full of this thought she advanced to the door of the ante-chamber, where two soldiers stood with crossed muskets to bar her progress. The Queen imperiously commanded them to let her pass, whereupon both men fell on their knees, and one said in Danish: “Our heads are answerable if we allow your Majesty to pass.” But, despite Rantzau’s exhortations, neither man cared to lay hands on the Queen, and she stepped over their muskets and ran along the corridor to the King’s apartments. They were closed, and, though she beat her hands upon the door, no answer was returned, for, fearing some such scene, the Queen-Dowager had, only a few minutes before, conveyed the King to the apartments of Prince Frederick. The corridor led nowhere else, and failing to gain entrance, the Queen, hardly knowing what she did, went back to her ante-room.

Rantzau now addressed her in the language of menace. Perhaps some memory of the homage he had paid her at Ascheberg, when she was at the zenith of her power, flashed across the Queen. “Villain!” she cried, “is this the language that you dare to address to me? Go, basest of men! Leave my presence!” These words only infuriated Rantzau the more, but he was crippled with gout, and could not grapple with the infuriated young Queen himself, so he turned to the soldiers, and gave them orders to use force. Still the soldiers hesitated. Then an officer stepped forward and touched the Queen on the arm with the intention of leading her back to her chamber. But half beside herself she rushed to the window, threw it open and seemed about to throw herself out. The officer seized her round the waist, and held her back; though no man dared to lay hands on the Queen, it was necessary to defend her against herself. The Queen shrieked for help and struggled wildly; she was strong and rendered desperate by fear and indignation. A lieutenant had to be called forward, but the Queen resisted him as well, though her clothes were partly torn off her in the struggle. At last her strength failed her, and she was dragged away from the window in a half-fainting condition. The officers, who had showed great repugnance to their task, and had used no more force than was absolutely necessary, now carried the Queen back to her chamber, and laid her on the bed, where her women, frightened and weeping, crowded around her, and plied her with restoratives.

Rantzau, who had watched this unseemly spectacle without emotion, nay, with positive zest, now sent a messenger to Osten, and asked him to come and induce the Queen to yield quietly. Although he had threatened to remove her by force, it was not easy to carry out his threat, for the soldiers would not offer violence to the person of the Queen, nor would public opinion, if it came to be known, tolerate it. Rantzau, who was alternately a bully and a coward, had no wish to put himself in an awkward position. He therefore did the wisest thing in sending for the foreign minister. Osten, who at the first tidings of Struensee’s arrest, had hastened to the Christiansborg, was in the Queen-Dowager’s apartments, making his terms with her. This astute diplomatist, though he plotted for the overthrow of Struensee, and was aware of all the facts of the conspiracy, had refrained from taking active part in it until its success was assured. Now that the King had thrown himself into the arms of the Queen-Dowager, and Struensee and Brandt were in prison, he no longer hesitated, but hastened to pay his court to the winning side. He came at once, on receipt of Rantzau’s message. He realised quite as much as Juliana Maria that the revolution could only be carried out thoroughly by Matilda’s removal. She had gained great ascendency over the King, and, if she saw him, that ascendency would be renewed; if she were separated from him, he would speedily forget her. Therefore, it was above all things necessary that the King and Queen should be kept apart.

In a short time Queen Matilda became more composed, and even recovered sufficiently to dress herself with the aid of her women. When Osten entered her chamber, he found her sitting at the side of the bed, weeping. All defiance had faded away; she only felt herself a betrayed and cruelly injured woman. Osten came to her in the guise of a friend. He had been a colleague of Struensee’s, and had never outwardly broken with him, and the Queen had confidence in his skill and judgment. She therefore listened to him, when he persuaded her that more would be gained by complying with the King’s orders, at this time, than by resisting them. He hinted that her sojourn at Kronborg would only be for a time, and by-and-by the King’s humour would change. Moreover, the people were in a state of revolt against the Queen’s authority, and it was necessary for Matilda’s safety that she should be removed from Copenhagen to the shelter of Kronborg. “What have I done to the people?” the Queen asked. “I know that a good many changes have taken place, but I have done my utmost to further the welfare of the King and country according to my conscience.” Osten merely replied with quiet insistence that she had herself contemplated flight to Kronborg at the time of the tumult of the Norwegian sailors at Hirschholm. Believing the man to be her friend, the Queen yielded to his advice. “I have done nothing; the King will be just,” she said. She signified her willingness to go, provided that her children accompanied her. Here again difficulties were raised, but the Queen was firm, and said she would not budge a step unless her children went with her. Finally, a compromise was arrived at; Osten made her understand that the Crown Prince must not be removed, but she might take the little Princess, whom she was herself nursing. This being settled, the Queen’s preparations for departure were hurriedly made, and FrÄulein MÖsting, one of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting, was ordered to go with her, and one of her bed-chamber women.

The bleak January morning was still dark when Matilda, dressed for the journey, carrying her child in her arms and followed by two of her women, came out of her bedroom, and signified her readiness to start. Rantzau, who was still sitting in the ante-chamber, waiting, rose, and pointing to his gouty foot, said with covert insolence: “You see, Madam, that my feet fail me; but my arms are free, and I offer one to your Majesty to conduct you to your coach.” But she repulsed him with scorn, and exclaimed: “Away with you, traitor! I loathe you!” She walked alone down the stairs to the coaches, which were waiting in the back-yard of the palace. She entered one, but refused to part with the little Princess, whom she placed upon her knees. FrÄulein MÖsting sat by the Queen’s side, and the opposite seat was occupied by an officer with his sword drawn. In the second coach followed the bed-chamber woman, the nurse of the Princess Louise Augusta, and some absolutely necessary luggage. The coaches were guarded by an escort of thirty dragoons, and the cavalcade clattered at a sharp trot through the streets of the still sleeping city, and was soon outside the gates of Copenhagen.

The first part of the journey was in darkness, but, as the day broke, the Queen looked out on the frost-bound roads and the dreary country over which she was hurrying. She had ample time for reflection, and bitter her reflections must have been. A few hours before she had been Queen, vested, it seemed, with unlimited power, and the centre of a brilliant court; now she was a prisoner, stripped of all her power, and nearly all the semblance of her rank—a fugitive, she believed herself to be, fleeing from the vengeance of her people. Yet even now, in this supreme moment of her desolation, her thoughts were not of herself, but of the man who had brought her to such a pass. The road passed by the grounds of Hirschholm, the scene of many happy days, and the memory of them must have deepened the Queen’s dejection; but she said nothing, and throughout the long and tedious journey uttered no word, but sat motionless, the image of despair.

Kronborg, whither the royal prisoner was being hurried, was a gloomy fortress erected by Frederick II. in the latter part of the sixteenth century, and restored, after a fire, by Christian IV., nearly eighty years later. It had changed little with the flight of centuries, and remains much the same to-day. Built strongly of rough-hewn stone, which has taken on itself the colour of the rocks around, the massive and imposing castle springs directly from the sea, on the extreme point of land between the Cattegat and the narrowest part of the Sound, which separates Denmark from Sweden. Its massive walls, turrets and gables frown down upon the little town of Helsingor at its base.[22] Tradition says that deep down in its casemates slumbers Holgar Danske (“the Dane”), who will rise and come forth when his country is in peril.[23] He might have come forth in 1772, for Denmark was never in greater peril than on the eve of the palace revolution.

Kronborg was distant some twenty-four miles from Copenhagen, and the journey was covered in less than three hours. The day had broken when the melancholy cavalcade clattered through the street of Helsingor, and pulled up under the storm-beaten walls of Kronborg. At the outermost gate the officer in command of the Queen’s escort produced the King’s letter to the commandant, which gave his consort into his charge, and ordered her to be kept a strict prisoner. The commandant of Kronborg must have been much surprised at this communication, but he was a stern soldier, not given to questioning, and he obeyed his instructions to the letter. The outer gate was thrown open, and the little procession passed over the drawbridge, which spanned the green water of the moat, to the guard-house, where the escort from Copenhagen remained. The soldiers of the fortress then took charge of the two coaches, and they wound their way up the incline under the castle walls. They crossed another drawbridge, spanning a deep, dry ditch, and passed through the rough-hewn, tunnel-like entrance of stone, and out into the gloomy courtyard of the castle—a place where it would seem the sun never shines. Here the Queen, still carrying her child in her arms, alighted, and was hurried to a doorway on the left of the courtyard, up the winding stone stairs, and through a large room into the chamber set apart for her. This was a low, circular apartment in a tower, not more than ten feet high, and very small, with four windows, iron-barred, looking out upon the sea. The grey waves broke directly beneath the windows, and were separated from the walls only by a strip of rampart, on which cannon were placed.[24]

The unhappy Queen looked round the narrow walls of this room, which was almost a cell, with astonishment not unmixed with indignation. She had hardly realised until now that she was a prisoner, for the crafty Osten had conveyed to her the idea that she was going to Kronborg more for her own safety than as a captive. But the iron-barred windows, and the guard outside her door, brought home to her her unfortunate condition. At least she, the daughter of kings, the wife of a king, and the mother of a king to be, had the right to be treated with the respect due to her rank and dignity. Whatever offences were charged against her nothing was yet proved. Even if she were a prisoner, she was at least a state prisoner, and though her liberty might be curtailed, every effort should have been made to study as far as possible her comfort and convenience. But locked into this little room, barely furnished and without a fire, she found herself treated more like a common criminal than the reigning Queen, and when she protested against these indignities, the commandant told her that he was only obeying his strict orders. The Queen, whose spirit was for the moment broken by fatigue and excitement, and who was nearly frozen from the cold of the long journey, sank down upon the pallet bed, and burst into bitter weeping. Her women endeavoured in vain to comfort her, and it was only at last, when they reminded her of her child, that she was roused from the abandonment of her grief. “You are here too, dear innocent!” she exclaimed. “In that case, your poor mother is not utterly desolate.”

For two days the Queen remained inconsolable, and did little but sit in a state of stupor, looking out upon the waves; nor could she be prevailed upon to take any rest, or food, or even to lie down upon the bed. It was true that the food offered her was such that she could not eat it, unless compelled by the pangs of hunger, for she was given at first the same food as that served out to the common prisoners. In these first days it was a wonder that she did not die of hunger and cold. It was a bitter winter, violent gales blew across the sea, and the wind shrieked and raged around the castle walls; but there was no way of warming the little room in which the Queen was confined. In her hurried departure from Copenhagen she had brought with her very few clothes. No others were sent her, and she had hardly the things necessary to clothe herself with propriety, or protect herself against the severity of the weather. She was not allowed to pass the threshold of her room, not even to the large room beyond, where there was a fire. This room was occupied by soldiers, who acted as her jailors, and the women who passed in and out of the Queen’s room were liable to be searched.

This treatment of the Queen, for which there was no excuse, must be traced directly to Juliana Maria; it was she who caused instructions to be sent to the commandant as to how he was to treat his royal prisoner. The King was too indifferent to trouble one way or another, and the commandant would not have dared to inflict such indignities on the King’s consort unless he had received strict orders to do so from those in authority—nor would he have wished to do so. Later the Queen acquitted him from all responsibility in this respect. After the first few days, when she had recovered from the shock of recent events, Queen Matilda accepted her imprisonment more patiently, and bore her hardships with a dignity and fortitude which enforced respect even from her jailors, and proved that she was no unworthy daughter of the illustrious house from which she sprang.