"Well!" sighed Vendel, summoning all his philosophy; "I must eat the bacon alone, though I shall probably be ill after it."
But Providence had taken care that Vendel should not be ill through this means: the ham was nowhere to be found—only the empty bag lay on the ground.
Fearful spectres floated across the waste of Vendel's brain. "Filax!" he cried, but the poodle did not answer: there was a mine scratched out under the reeds, by which he had probably made his escape.
Vendel burst open the door, and the first thing which met his eye was his faithful dog quietly gnawing the bones of the bacon.
"Alas, alas! I am lost!" cried Vendel, falling on his back in utter despair.
Fortunately, some secret misgiving induced the faithful Hanzli to return about noon with a fresh transport of provisions, otherwise the poor brewer, like King Eu—— (the tartar knows what comes next!), might have been tempted to eat himself up.
"Hanzli, my son! take away the dog, and bring a cat instead; the mice have eaten all my bread, and the dog has carried off the bacon. But what of the hussars, Hanzli?"
"Oh! they are already beyond the frontiers; they made a great noise till early in the morning, when they mounted their horses and galloped off. Since then, they have probably been in battle."
"And Mistress Vicza?"
"They have not carried her off," replied Hanzli with a bitter sigh. "She is going on in a terrible way, looking for you everywhere. She thinks you are after no good, and promises that you shall smart for it when you return."