“In the second place,” resumed Bollar, “that Lieutenant Frederic d’Ahlefeld, having gone into the mountains three days since to hunt, was captured near Arbar ruins by a monster, who carried him to his lair and there devoured him.” At this, Lieutenant Randmer’s merriment increased. “Oh, how our good Lory swallows your stories! That’s right; keep up a sober face, Bollar. You are wonderfully amusing; but you don’t tell us what this monster, this ogre, this vampire was, that carried off and ate up the lieutenant like a week-old kid!” “I will not tell you,” impatiently answered Bollar; “but I will tell Lory, who is not such an incredulous fool. Lory, my dear fellow, the monster who drank Frederic’s blood was Hans of Iceland.” “The leader of the rebels!” exclaimed the old officer. “Well, Lory,” rejoined the scoffer, “do you think a man who handles his jaw so ably needs to know how to shoulder a musket?” “Baron Randmer,” said Bollar, “you are very like d’Ahlefeld in character; beware lest you meet with the same fate.” “I declare,” cried Randmer, “that Captain Bollar’s immovable gravity amuses me beyond expression.” “And Lieutenant Randmer’s inexhaustible laughter alarms me more than I can say.” At this moment a group of officers, engaged in eager conversation, approached our three speakers. “Zounds!” cried Randmer, “I must amuse them with Bollar’s story.” “Comrades,” he added, advancing to meet them; “have you heard the news? Poor Frederic d’Ahlefeld has been eaten alive by the barbarous Hans of Iceland.” As he said these words, he could not repress a burst of laughter, which, to his great surprise, was received by the new-comers almost with shouts of indignation. “What! can you laugh? I did not think, Randmer, that you would repeat such a dreadful piece of news so lightly. How can you laugh at such a misfortune?” “What!” said Randmer, much confused, “is it really true?” “Why, you just told us of it yourself!” was the general cry. “Don’t you believe your own words?” “But I thought it was one of Bollar’s jokes.” An old officer interposed. “Such a joke would be in very bad taste; but unfortunately it is no joke. Baron Vœthaün, our colonel, has just received the sad news.” “A fearful affair! It is really awful!” repeated a dozen voices. “So we are to fight wolves and bears with human faces,” said one. “We are to be shot down,” said another, “without knowing whence the bullet comes; we are to be picked off one by one, like birds in a cage.” “D’Ahlefeld’s death,” said Bollar, in a solemn tone, “makes me shudder. Our regiment is unlucky. Dispolsen’s murder, that of those poor soldiers found dead at Cascadthymore, d’Ahlefeld’s awful fate,--here are three tragic events in a very short space of time.” Young Baron Randmer, who had been silent, looked up. “It is incredible,” said he; “Frederic, who danced so well!”