At that time he certainly possessed the advantage of shedding his blood on the righteous side of the quarrel; but, as for good living, why, if by that be meant light diet, he had that daily. Visionary theories he said he could endure well enough, but visionary dinners were an abhorrence. It often happened that in his own quarters there was not even the _vision_ of a dinner: in that case he had no objection to head a species of _razzia_, and carry off the supplies from the commissariat of the enemy. On one of these occasions the hungry foragers encountered strong opposition, and in the struggle which ensued Dörfling’s lieutenant was shot dead by an arquebusier. He was the most nearly famished of the lot, and had contended for the meal with all the ardour which appetite can give. “Young Naumann is dead,” remarked an aide to Dörfling. “Poor fellow!” rejoined Dörfling, “he would have cared for it less had it only been after he had dined.” The swiftly slain got but scanty epitaphs and shallow graves in those times; and if any mourned the loss of the lieutenant, they found consolation in the fact that his absence from the mess left one share more to be divided among the hungry members. They drank out of the enemies’ flasks to the memory of their ill-fated comrade, who had perished before dinner; and that done, they hurried to a work the issues of which prevented several of them from ever again seeing supper-time. Dörfling however was not among the missing. _He_ was ever active, happy, and energetic; most at home where the fire was thickest and the fray hottest, and too busy to be unhappy, until the Peace of Westphalia, which put so many notched swords that need never have been drawn back into their scabbards, and laid down temporary arrangements, which might have been permanent had the parties concerned used reason before resorting to ramrods.