“That may be, Count d’Ahlefeld; I do not know him. Who is he?” “What! did not the iron casket which he had in charge fall to your share?” This question seemed to sharpen the robber’s memory. “Stay!” said he; “I do remember that man and his iron casket. It was on Urchtal Sands.” “At least,” rejoined the chancellor, “if you could restore that casket to me, my gratitude would be unbounded. Tell me what has become of that casket, for I am sure it is in your possession.” The noble minister laid such stress upon this request that the brigand was struck by it. “So, then, that iron casket is of the utmost importance to your Grace, my Lord Chancellor?” “Yes.” “What shall my reward be if I tell you where it is?” “Anything that you may desire, my dear Hans.” “Well, I will not tell you.” “Pooh! you are joking! Think what a service you can do me.” “That is exactly what I am thinking.” “I will insure you a vast fortune; I will ask your pardon from the king.” “You had better beg your own from me,” said the bandit. “Look you, Lord Chancellor of Norway and Denmark, the tiger does not devour the hyena. I will permit you to leave my presence with your life, because you are a scoundrel, and every instant that you live, every thought of your heart, causes fresh misery for mankind and fresh crime for yourself. But return not, or I may teach you that my hatred spares no one, not even a villain. As for your captain, do not flatter yourself that it was on your account I slaughtered him; it was his uniform which doomed him, as it did this other wretch, whom I did not murder to gratify you either, I assure you.” With these words, he seized the noble count by the arm and dragged him toward the body lying in the shadow. As he finished his protestations, the light from the lantern fell upon this object. It was a mutilated corpse, and was indeed dressed in the uniform of an officer of the Munkholm Musketeers. The chancellor approached it with a sense of horror. All at once his eye rested on the pallid, blood-stained face of the dead. The livid, half-parted lips, the bristling hair, the discolored cheeks, and lustreless eyes could not disguise that countenance from him. He uttered a fearful shriek: “My God! Frederic! My son!”