In the morning he was to leave the village of Werst on the road to Kolosvar.

      After visiting the manufacturing towns of Petroseny and Livadzel, Franz’s intention was to stay an entire day at Karlsburg, before stopping some time in the capital of Transylvania. From there the railway would take him across the provinces of Central Hungary, where his journey would end.

      Franz had left the inn, and, walking on the terrace with his field-glass at his eyes, he was examining with deep emotion the outlines of the castle, which the sun was showing up so clearly on the Orgall plateau.

      And his reflections bore on this point:—When he reached Karlsburg, would he keep the promise he had made to the people of Werst? Would he inform the police of what had happened at the Castle of the Carpathians?

      When the young count had undertaken to restore peace to the village, he had no doubt but that the castle was the refuge of some gang of criminals, or, at least of people of doubtful repute, who having some interest in not being sought after, had taken steps to prevent anyone approaching them.

      But since the previous day Franz had been thinking the matter over. A change had come over his thoughts, and he now hesitated.

      For five years the last descendant of the family of Gortz, Baron Rodolphe, had disappeared, and what had become of him no one knew. Doubtless rumour had said he was dead, a short time after his departure from Naples. But was that true? What proof had they of his death? Perhaps the Baron de Gortz was alive; and if he lived, why should he not have returned to the castle of his ancestors? Why should not Orfanik, his only familiar friend, have accompanied him, and why should not this strange physician be the author and manager of these phenomena which caused such terror in the country?

      It will be admitted that this hypothesis appeared somewhat plausible; and if Baron Rodolphe de Gortz and Orfanik had taken refuge in the castle, it was natural that they would try and make it unapproachable, so as to live that life of isolation which was in accordance with their habits and characters.

      If this were the case, what ought the count to do? Was it desirable that he should interfere in the private affairs of the Baron de Gortz? This he was asking himself, weighing the pros and cons of the question, when Rotzko came to rejoin him on the terrace.

      When he had told him of what he had been thinking,—

      “Master,” replied Rotzko, “it is possible that this may be the Baron de Gortz who is giving himself over to every diabolic imagination. Well, if that is so, my advice is not to mix ourselves up with his affairs. The poltroons of Werst will get out of their difficulty in their own way that is their business, and we have no reason for troubling ourselves about bringing peace to this village.”

      “Quite so,” said Franz; “and all things considered, I think you are right, my brave Rotzko.”

      “I think so,” said Rotzko simply.

      “As to Master Koltz and the others, they now know what to do to finish up with the pretended spirits at the castle.”

      “Undoubtedly. All they have to do is to tell the Karlsburg police.”

      “We will start after breakfast.”

      “All will be ready.”

      “But before we return down the valley of the Syl, we will go round towards Plesa.”

      “And why?”

      “I wish to see this Castle of the Carpathians a little nearer, if possible.”

      “For what purpose?”

      “Fancy, Rotzko; a mere fancy, which will not delay us half a day.”

      Rotzko was much annoyed at this decision, which he looked upon as useless. All it could do would be to recall the memory of the past, which he tried his best to avoid. This time he tried in vain, and he had to yield to his master’s inflexible resolution.

      Franz, as if he had become subject to some irresistible influence, felt himself drawn towards the castle. Without his being aware of it, this attraction might be due to the dream in which he had heard the voice of La Stilla murmur the plaintive melody of Stefano.

      But had he been dreaming? Yes, that is what he was asking himself now that he remembered that in this same room of the “King Mathias” a voice had already made itself heard—that voice which Nic Deck had so imprudently defied. In the count’s mental condition there was nothing surprising in his forming the plan of going to the castle, to the foot of its wall, without any thought of entering.