Alone on these dun-coloured roads, in the fall of the long winter evening, a peasant's sledge, without bells, might have been seen gliding along through that featureless, semi-obscure wilderness towards Kárpáthy Castle.
In the rear of the sledge sat a man wrapped in a simple mantle; in front, a peasant, in a sheepskin bunda, was driving the two lean horses.
The sitter behind frequently stood up in the sledge, and swept the plain on every side, as if he were in search of something. The preserves of the Kárpáthy estate loomed darkly before him, and by the time they reached a ramshackle old wooden bridge, the visitor perceived what he sought.
"Those are pine-trees, are they not?" he inquired of the coachman.
"Yes, young sir; one can recognize them from a distance, for they are still green when the others have shed their leaves."
They were the only trees of the sort in the whole region. They had all been planted in Squire John's time.
"Here we will stop, old comrade. You return to the wayside csárda; I will take a turn about here alone. I shall not be longer than an hour away."
"It would be as well were I to accompany you, young sir, if you mean to take a stroll, for wolves are wont to wander hither."
"It is not necessary, my good friend, I am not afraid."