“Hallberg never mentioned the name in his letters,” answered Edward, with less candor than usual.

“I thought not.  Besides D’Effernay was very much attached to him, and mourned his death.”

“Indeed!”

“I assure you the morning that Hallberg was found dead in his bed so unexpectedly, D’Effernay was like one beside himself.”

“Very extraordinary.  But as we are on the subject, tell me, I pray you, all the circumstances of my poor Ferdinand’s illness, and awful sudden death.”

“I can tell you all about it, as well as any one, for I was one of the guests at that melancholy wedding.  Your friend, and I, and many others were invited.  Hallberg had some idea of not going; he was unwell, with violent headache and giddiness.  But we persuaded him, and he consented to go with us.  The first day he felt tolerably well.  We hunted in the open field; we were all on horseback, the day hot.  Hallberg felt worse.  The second day he had a great deal of fever; he could not stay up.  The physician (for fortunately there was one in the company) ordered rest, cooling medicine, neither of which seemed to do him good.  The rest of the men dispersed, to amuse themselves in various ways.  Only D’Effernay remained at home; he was never very fond of large societies, and we voted that he was discontented and out of humor because his betrothed bride was not with him.  His room was next to the sick man’s, to whom he gave all possible care and attention, for poor Hallberg, besides being ill, was in despair at giving so much trouble in a strange house.  D’Effernay tried to calm him on this point; he nursed him, amused him with conversation, mixed his medicines, and, in fact, showed more kindness and tenderness, than any of us would have given him credit for.  Before I went to bed I visited Hallberg, and found him much better, and more cheerful; the doctor had promised that he should leave his bed next day.  So I left him and retired with the rest of the world, rather late, and very tired, to rest.  The next morning I was awoke by the fatal tidings.  I did not wait to dress, I ran to his room, it was full of people.”

“And how, how was the death first discovered?” inquired Edward, in breathless eagerness.

“The servant, who came in to attend on him, thought he was asleep, for he lay in his usual position, his head upon his hand.  He went away and waited for some time; but hours passed, and he thought he ought to wake his master to give him his medicine.  Then the awful discovery was made.  He must have died peacefully, for his countenance was so calm, his limbs undisturbed.  A fit of apoplexy had terminated his life, but in the most tranquil manner.”

“Incomprehensible,” said Edward, with a deep sigh.  “Did they take no measures to restore animation?”

“Certainly; all that could be done was done, bleeding, fomentation, friction; the physician superintended, but there was no hope, it was all too late.  He must have been dead some hours, for he was already cold and stiff.  If there had been a spark of life in him he would have been saved.  It was all over; I had lost my good lieutenant, and the regiment one of its finest officers.”