He is forty years old, of middle height, with lank limbs, and an exceedingly spare frame; he is wrapped in a long, blood-red pelisse, lined with black fur; his complexion, fair by nature is bronzed by the wandering life he has led from childhood; his hair, of that dead yellow peculiar to certain races of the Polar countries, falls straight and stiff down his shoulders; and his thin, sharp, hooked nose, and prominent cheek-bones, surmount a long beard, bleached almost to whiteness.  Peculiarly marking the physiognomy of this man is the wide open eye, with its tawny pupil ever encircled by a rim of white.  This fixed, extraordinary look, exercises a real fascination over animals—­which, however, does not prevent the Prophet from also employing, to tame them, the terrible arsenal around him.

Seated at a table, he has just opened the false bottom of a box, filled with chaplets and other toys, for the use of the devout.  Beneath this false bottom, secured by a secret lock, are several sealed envelopes, with no other address than a number, combined with a letter of the alphabet.  The Prophet takes one of these packets, conceals it in the pocket of his pelisse, and, closing the secret fastening of the false bottom, replaces the box upon a shelf.

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.