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.