might be; for in
the very flood of which the superstitious old dame spoke his only
child, an infant boy, had been lost, with his nurse, whose cottage on
the river-bank below Basle had been swept away by night.

"Was the child quite alone on the roof of the chalet?" he asked in an
agitated tone.

"Yes," said the hostess, "all but an old dog, who seemed to belong to
him."

"That dog must have dragged him up on to the roof, and saved him!"
exclaimed the general; "is he yet alive?"

"Yes, just alive. He must be very old, for he is almost stone blind
and deaf. My good man would have put him out of the way long ago, but
for Carl; and as he shares his meals, and makes his bed with him, I
suppose it is no loss to keep the brute."

"Show me the dog!" said the officer, with authority.

"Here he lies, your excellency," said the dame. "We call him
_Elfen-hund_" (elf-dog).

General Wallenstein bent over the dog, touched him gently, and shouted
in his ear his old name of "Leon." The dog had not forgotten it; he
knew that voice, the touch of that hand. With a plaintive, joyful cry,
he sprang up to the breast of his old master, nestled about blindly for
his hands, and licked them unreproved; then sunk down, as though faint
with joy, to his master's feet. The brave soldier was overcome with
emotion; tears fell fast from his eyes. "Faithful creature," he
exclaimed, "you have saved my child, and given him back to me." And
kneeling down, he laid his hand on the head of the poor old dog and
blessed him.

Just at this moment the door opened and little Carl appeared, toiling
up the steps with his arms full of fagots, his cheerful face smiling
brave defiance to winter winds, and night and snow.

"Come hither, Carl," said the soldier. The boy flung down his fagots
and drew near.

"Dost thou know who I am?"

"Ah no,--the good Christmas King, perhaps," said the little lad,
looking full of innocent wonderment.

"Alas, poor child, how shouldst thou remember me!" exclaimed General
Wallenstein, sadly. Then clasping him in his arms, he said, "But I
remember thee; thou art my boy, my dear, long-lost boy! Look in my
face; embrace me; I am thy father!"

"No, surely," said the child, sorely bewildered, "that cannot be, for
they tell me the Rhine is my father."

The soldier smiled through his tears, and soon was able to convince his
little son that he had a better father than the old river that had
carried him away from his