“There is no carriage here.  The Herr is not expected after all.  He will now come on to Bukovina, and return tomorrow or the next day, better the next day.”  Whilst he was speaking the horses began to neigh and snort and plunge wildly, so that the driver had to hold them up.  Then, amongst a chorus of screams from the peasants and a universal crossing of themselves, a caleche, with four horses, drove up behind us, overtook us, and drew up beside the coach.  I could see from the flash of our lamps as the rays fell on them, that the horses were coal-black and splendid animals.  They were driven by a tall man, with a long brown beard and a great black hat, which seemed to hide his face from us.  I could only see the gleam of a pair of very bright eyes, which seemed red in the lamplight, as he turned to us.

He said to the driver, “You are early tonight, my friend.”

The man stammered in reply, “The English Herr was in a hurry.”

To which the stranger replied, “That is why, I suppose, you wished him to go on to Bukovina.  You cannot deceive me, my friend.  I know too much, and my horses are swift.”

As he spoke he smiled, and the lamplight fell on a hard-looking mouth, with very red lips and sharp-looking teeth, as white as ivory.  One of my companions whispered to another the line from Burger’s “Lenore”.

“Denn die Todten reiten Schnell.” ("For the dead travel fast.”)

The strange driver evidently heard the words, for he looked up with a gleaming smile.  The passenger turned his face away, at the same time putting out his two fingers and crossing himself.  “Give me the Herr’s luggage,” said the driver, and with exceeding alacrity my bags were handed out and put in the caleche.  Then I descended from the side of the coach, as the caleche was close alongside, the driver helping me with a hand which caught my arm in a grip of steel.  His strength must have been prodigious.

Without a word he shook his reins, the horses turned, and we swept into the darkness of the pass.  As I looked back I saw the steam from the horses of the coach by the light of the lamps, and projected against it the figures of my late companions crossing themselves.  Then the driver cracked his whip and called to his horses, and off they swept on their way to Bukovina.  As they sank into the darkness I felt a strange chill, and a lonely feeling come over me.  But a cloak was thrown over my shoulders, and a rug across my knees, and the driver said in excellent German—­“The night is chill, mein Herr, and my master the Count bade me take all care of you.  There is a flask of slivovitz (the plum brandy of the country) underneath the seat, if you should require it.”