“My friends, I am faint with horror! D’Ahlefeld, Lieutenant d’Ahlefeld, the lord chancellor’s son! You know, my dear Randmer, that Frederic—such a dandy! such a fop!”
“Yes,” replied the young baron, “a great dandy! Still, at the last ball at Charlottenburg my costume was in much better taste than his. But what has happened to him?”
“I know whom you mean,” said Lory; “you mean Frederic d’Ahlefeld, lieutenant of Company Three. The men wear blue facings. He neglects his duty sadly.”
“You will not have to complain of him again, Captain Lory.”
“Why not?” said Randmer.
“He is garrisoned at Wahlstrom,” coldly added the old officer.
“Exactly,” said the new-comer; “the colonel has just received a message. Poor Frederic!”
“But what has happened? Captain Bollar, you alarm me.”
Old Lory added: “Nonsense! The popinjay was absent from roll-call, I suppose, and the captain has sent the lord chancellor’s son to prison: that is the misfortune which distresses you so sadly; I am sure it is.”
Bollar clapped him on the shoulder.