"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
