"We thought, to be sure, they had come to look for some deserter or criminal, and everybody looked about them, but there was no stranger in the church. Just as the service was ended, the officer and some of his men entered. I can't tell you all; it was too dreadful," said Margaret, covering her face. "They took away every able-bodied man—even poor Maurice, the blind widow's son. It was of no use to struggle. Hans Webber did so. His wife was very ill and had a little baby, and he would pot go. He snatched up a club and fought the men who came to take him, and, Philip, they shot him down like a dog, there by the tomb of the Good Lady. No wonder the grass has never grown there. Poor Magdalen has been mad ever since." "No wonder!" said Philip, with a shudder. "Was that what made an innocent of little Fritz?" "Yes, I suppose so. All the women said so." "And that is the reason my mother never comes to the church?" "She has never set her foot in the churchyard till to-day. It was the same in other places, or worse. And all that our landgrave might have money to keep a grand court and buy pictures and build a fine chapel like that yonder at the Schloss, with gold crucifixes, and altar-cloths worked in crystals and pearls, and dressed-up dolls adorned with diamonds!" said Margaret, in a tone of bitter scorn. "Brother Gotthold says the Americans are fighting because they will not have a king or a prince to rule them. I hope they will succeed; and if they do, I will go there and live some day." "Hush, Greta!" said Philip, looking around him. "Think if some one should hear you!" "Let them hear!" "But the mother, sister! You would not add to her troubles? The sun is getting very low," he added; "I think we had better be going home. Where is Gustaf? Here he comes in a hurry. Why, child, what ails you? You are as white as ashes." Gustaf caught hold of his brother and sister, and held them tight. "There is something in the vault by the Good Lady's tomb," said the child, in a choked whisper—"something with glaring green eyes that stared at me when I peeped in." "An owl," said Philip. "You are not afraid of an owl at this time of day, little brother?" "It was not an owl," whispered the child. "It was big and dark. I could just see it huddled in a corner, and it moved and growled fiercely like a big dog." Philip and Margaret looked at each other with pale faces as the same thought occurred to both—that one or more of the wolves who had wrought the mischief might have taken refuge in the vaults. At that moment, the wicket of the churchyard was opened, and the old huntsman Franz appeared, leading one of the great wolf-hounds, of which he had a number under his charge—immensely powerful and savage-looking dogs, but gentle and docile enough with friends. Leo especially was an old playmate of Philip's. The children sprang toward the old man with a feeling of relief.