'A Russian canister-shot shattered my hand in the last engagement,' answered Arwed, 'and I was compelled to have it taken off at the wrist.'
'My poor son!' exclaimed the sympathizing uncle. 'That is a great misfortune. The laurels of victory are some compensation for wounds received in battle; but to be crippled in a miserable unimportant skirmish, is the most dreadful thing imaginable.'
'It is indeed, uncle!' cried Arwed; 'and I can now say with the king of France at Pavia, that I have lost every thing but honor!'
'You are right,' replied the old man with a tremulous voice, his thoughts recurring to his fugitive daughter. 'Happy they who can say as much!' and with a deep sigh his white head sank upon his laboring bosom.
New footsteps in the court yard interrupted the sad pause, and immediately afterwards Megret entered the hall, with a face yet more gloomy than Arwed's.
'I have returned once more,' said he, in a singular tone, as he greeted the uncle and nephew.
'I am glad to see you, colonel,' answered the governor. 'Gyllensten has become very lonesome and desolate, and I am glad you have once more obtained a furlough in these warlike times.'
'The queen's grace has given me leave of absence forever,' answered Megret with bitterness. 'I am dismissed the service.'
'Dismissed the service!' repeated the governor. 'It must be as major general then. I congratulate you.'
'I cannot accept your congratulations,' said Megret.