‘Can you tell me,’ said he, ’whether the man who calls himself the Baron Straubenthal lives in these parts?’

The postmaster shook his head, and we rode upon our way.  I took no notice of this, but when, at the next village, my comrade repeated the same question, with the same result, I could not help asking him who this Baron Straubenthal might be.

‘He is a man,’ said Duroc, with a sudden flush upon his boyish face, ’to whom I have a very important message to convey.’

Well, this was not satisfactory, but there was something in my companion’s manner which told me that any further questioning would be distasteful to him.  I said nothing more, therefore, but Duroc would still ask every peasant whom we met whether he could give him any news of the Baron Straubenthal.

For my own part I was endeavouring, as an officer of light cavalry should, to form an idea of the lay of the country, to note the course of the streams, and to mark the places where there should be fords.  Every step was taking us farther from the camp round the flanks of which we were travelling.  Far to the south a few plumes of grey smoke in the frosty air marked the position of some of our outposts.  To the north, however, there was nothing between ourselves and the Russian winter quarters.  Twice on the extreme horizon I caught a glimpse of the glitter of steel, and pointed it out to my companion.  It was too distant for us to tell whence it came, but we had little doubt that it was from the lance-heads of marauding Cossacks.

The sun was just setting when we rode over a low hill and saw a small village upon our right, and on our left a high black castle, which jutted out from amongst the pine-woods.  A farmer with his cart was approaching us—­a matted-haired, downcast fellow, in a sheepskin jacket.

‘What village is this?’ asked Duroc.

‘It is Arensdorf,’ he answered, in his barbarous German dialect.

‘Then here I am to stay the night,’ said my young companion.  Then, turning to the farmer, he asked his eternal question, ’Can you tell me where the Baron Straubenthal lives?’

‘Why, it is he who owns the Castle of Gloom,’ said the farmer, pointing to the dark turrets over the distant fir forest.

Duroc gave a shout like the sportsman who sees his game rising in front of him.  The lad seemed to have gone off his head—­his eyes shining, his face deathly white, and such a grim set about his mouth as made the farmer shrink away from him.  I can see him now, leaning forward on his brown horse, with his eager gaze fixed upon the great black tower.

‘Why do you call it the Castle of Gloom?’ I asked.

‘Well, it’s the name it bears upon the countryside,’ said the farmer.  ’By all accounts there have been some black doings up yonder.  It’s not for nothing that the wickedest man in Poland has been living there these fourteen years past.’

‘A Polish nobleman?’ I asked.