“By Saint Beelzebub!” cried the soldier, “it is an officer of my regiment. Let me see; can it be Captain Bollar,--from grief at his uncle’s death? Bah! he is the heir. Baron Randmer? He lost his estate at cards yesterday, but he will win it back to-morrow, with his adversary’s castle. Can it be Captain Lory, whose dog was drowned, or Paymaster Stunck, whose wife was unfaithful to him? But, really, I don’t see why he should blow out his brains for that!” The crowd steadily increased. Just at this instant, a young man who was crossing the wharf, seeing the mob of people, dismounted from his horse, handed the bridle to the servant behind him, and entered the Spladgest. He wore a simple travelling dress, was armed with a sword, and wrapped in a large green cloak; a black plume, fastened to his hat by a diamond buckle, fell over his noble face and waved to and fro upon his lofty brow, shaded by chestnut hair; his boots and spurs, soiled with mud, showed that he had come a long distance. As he entered, a short, thick-set man, also wrapped in a cloak and hiding his hands in huge gloves, replied to the soldier. “And who told you that he killed himself? That man no more committed suicide, I’ll be bound, than the roof of your cathedral set itself on fire.” As the double-edged sword makes two wounds, this phrase gave birth to two answers. “Our cathedral!” said Niels; “it is covered with copper now. It was that miserable Hans who set it on fire to make work for the miners, one of whom was his favorite Gill Stadt, whom you see lying yonder.” “What the devil!” cried the soldier, in his turn; “do you dare tell me, the second musketeer in the Munkholm garrison, that that man did not blow out his brains!” “He was murdered,” coldly replied the little fellow. “Just listen to the oracle! Go along with you. Your little gray eyes can see no better than your hands do under the big gloves with which you cover them in the middle of the summer.” The little man’s eyes flashed. “Soldier, pray to your patron saint that these hands may never leave their mark upon your face!” “Oh!--enough of this!” cried the soldier, in a rage. Then, pausing suddenly, he said: “No, there must be no word of a duel before dead men.” The little man growled a few words in a foreign tongue, and vanished. A voice cried out: “He was found on Urchtal Sands.” “On Urchtal Sands?” said the soldier; “Captain Dispolsen was to land there this morning, from Copenhagen.” “Captain Dispolsen has not yet reached Munkholm,” said another voice. “They say that Hans of Iceland haunts those sands just now,” added a fourth. “Then it is possible that this may be the captain,” said the soldier, “if Hans was the murderer; for we all know that the Icelander murders in so devilish a fashion that his victims often seem to be suicides.” “What sort of man is this Hans?” asked some one. “He is a giant,” said one. “He is a dwarf,” said another. “Has nobody seen him, then?” put in a voice.