"Oh!" cried Ludwig, frightened at last. "Where is he? Perhaps he's had a fight with the robber and got killed."
"Not a bit of it," said Peter quietly as he buttoned his stout jacket. "Look under the beds."
They did so. Carl was not there.
Just then they heard a commotion on the stairway. Ben hastened to open the door. The landlord almost tumbled in; he was armed with a big blunderbuss. Two or three lodgers followed; then the daughter, with an upraised frying pan in one hand and a candle in the other; and behind her, looking pale and frightened, the gallant Carl!
"There's your man, mine host," said Peter, nodding toward the prisoner.
Mine host raised his blunderbuss, the girl screamed, and Jacob, more nimble than usual, rolled quickly from the robber's back.
"Don't fire," cried Peter, "he is tied, hand and foot. Let's roll him over and see what he looks like."
Carl stepped briskly forward, with a bluster, "Yes. We'll turn him over in a way he won't like. Lucky we've caught him!"