This scene occurs about four o’clock in the afternoon, in the White Falcon, the only hostelry in the little village of Mockern, situated near Leipsic, as you come from the north towards France.

After a few moments, the loft is shaken by a hoarse roaring from below.

“Judas! be quiet!” exclaims the Prophet, in a menacing tone, as he turns his head towards the trap door.

Another deep growl is heard, formidable as distant thunder.

“Lie down, Cain!” cries Morok, starting from his seat.

A third roar, of inexpressible ferocity, bursts suddenly on the ear.

“Death!  Will you have done,” cries the Prophet, rushing towards the trap door, and addressing a third invisible animal, which bears this ghastly name.

Notwithstanding the habitual authority of his voice—­notwithstanding his reiterated threats—­the brute-tamer cannot obtain silence:  on the contrary, the barking of several dogs is soon added to the roaring of the wild beasts.  Morok seizes a pike, and approaches the ladder; he is about to descend, when he sees some one issuing from the aperture.

The new-comer has a brown, sun-burnt face; he wears a gray hat, bell crowned and broad-brimmed, with a short jacket, and wide trousers of green cloth; his dusty leathern gaiters show that he has walked some distance; a game-bag is fastened by straps to his back.

“The devil take the brutes!” cried he, as he set foot on the floor; “one would think they’d forgotten me in three days.  Judas thrust his paw through the bars of his cage, and Death danced like a fury.  They don’t know me any more, it seems?”

This was said in German.  Morok answered in the same language, but with a slightly foreign accent.

“Good or bad news, Karl?” he inquired, with some uneasiness.

“Good news.”

“You’ve met them!”

“Yesterday; two leagues from Wittenberg.”

“Heaven be praised!” cried Morok, clasping his hands with intense satisfaction.

“Oh, of course, ’tis the direct road from Russia to France, ’twas a thousand to one that we should find them somewhere between Wittenberg and Leipsic.”

“And the description?”

“Very close:  two young girls in mourning; horse, white; the old man has long moustache, blue forage-cap; gray topcoat and a Siberian dog at his heels.”

“And where did you leave them?”

“A league hence.  They will be here within the hour.”

“And in this inn—­since it is the only one in the village,” said Morok, with a pensive air.

“And night drawing on,” added Karl.

“Did you get the old man to talk?”

“Him!—­you don’t suppose it!”

“Why not?”

“Go, and try yourself.”

“And for what reason?”

“Impossible.”

“Impossible—­why?”

“You shall know all about it.  Yesterday, as if I had fallen in with them by chance, I followed them to the place where they stopped for the night.  I spoke in German to the tall old man, accosting him, as is usual with wayfarers, ‘Good-day, and a pleasant journey, comrade!’ But, for an answer, he looked askant at me, and pointed with, the end of his stick to the other side of the road.”