“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”:⁠—