his men out in different directions, into the woods and along the
shore, to see if they could find any traces of the lost ones. He
himself remained near the house, so as to direct the search most
efficiently. After about an hour they came back, one by one, without
being able to find many traces. One had found an empty coffin in a
grave, another a woman's hood, a third had found a scarf. All of these
had endeavored to follow up these traces, but without result. Finally
a man approached who announced the discovery of a body on the shore of
the lake. After him came a party who was carrying the corpse for the
inspection of their captain.

The Baron went to look at it. The body showed a great gap in the
skull. On questioning the men, he learned that they had found it on
the shore, at the bottom of a steep rock, about half-way between the
house and the place where they had first emerged from the woods. His
head was lying pressed against a sharp rock in such a way that it was
evident that he had fallen over the cliff, and had been instantly
killed. The Baron looked at the face, and recognized the features of
Girasole. He ordered it to be taken away and laid in the empty grave
for future burial.

The Baron now became impatient. This was not what he had bargained for
at all. At length he thought that they might have fled, and might now
be concealed in the woods around; and together with this thought there
came to his mind an idea of an effective way to reach them. The
trumpeter could send forth a blast which could be heard far and wide.
But what might, could, would, or should the trumpeter sound forth
which should give the concealed listeners a certainty that the summons
came from friends and not from foes? This the Baron puzzled over for
some time. At length he solved this problem also, and triumphantly.

There was one strain which the trumpeter might sound that could not be
mistaken. It would at once convey to the concealed hearers all the
truth, and gently woo them home. It would be at once a note of
victory, a song of joy, a call of love, a sound of peace, and an
invitation--"Wanderer, come home!"

Of course there was only one tune that, to the mind of the Baron, was
capable of doing this.

And of course that tune was "Yankee Doodle."

Did the trumpeter know it?

Of course he did.

Who does not know it?

All men know that tune. Man is born with an innate knowledge of the
strain of "Yankee Doodle." No one can rem