“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. Yesterday, as if I had fallen in with them by chance, I followed them to the place where they stopped for the night. I spoke in German to the tall old man, accosting him, as is usual with wayfarers, ‘Good-day, and a pleasant journey, comrade!’ But, for an answer, he looked askant at me, and pointed with, the end of his stick to the other side of the road.”
“He is a Frenchman, and, perhaps, does not understand German.”
“He speaks
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