“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.”

“He is a Frenchman, and, perhaps, does not understand German.”

“He speaks it, at least as well as you; for at the inn I heard him ask the host for whatever he and the young girls wanted.”

“And did you not again attempt to engage him in conversation?”

“Once only; but I met with such a rough reception, that for fear of making mischief, I did not try again.  Besides, between ourselves, I can tell you this man has a devilish ugly look; believe me, in spite of his gray moustache, he looks so vigorous and resolute, though with no more flesh on him than a carcass, that I don’t know whether he or my mate Giant Goliath, would have the best of it in a struggle.  I know not your plans:  only take care, master—­take care!”

“My black panther of Java was also very vigorous and very vicious,” said Morok, with a grim, disdainful, smile.

“What, Death?  Yes; in truth; and she is vigorous and vicious as ever.  Only to you she is almost mild.”

“And thus I will break this tall old man; notwithstanding his strength and surliness.”

“Humph! humph! be on your guard, master.  You are clever, you are as brave as any one; but, believe me, you will never make a lamb out of the old wolf that will be here presently.”

“Does not my lion, Cain—­does not my tiger, Judas, crouch in terror before me?”

“Yes, I believe you there—­because you have means—­”