ere 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.

'Nay, we breed no such men in Poland,' he answered.

'A Frenchman, then?' cried Duroc.

'They say that he came from France.'

'And with red hair?'

'As red as a fox.'

'Yes, yes, it is my man,' cried my companion, quivering all over in his
excitement. 'It is the hand of Providence which has led me here. Who can
say that there is not justice in this world? Come, Monsieur Gerard, for
I must see the men safely quartered before I can attend to this private
matter.'

He spurred on his horse, and ten minutes later we were at the door of
t