Where did you get him?” demanded the youth, in a
      querulous and husky tone of voice, as he became instantly aware
      that the mysterious steed in the tapestried chamber was the very
      counterpart of the furious animal before his eyes. “He is your own property, sire,” replied one of the equerries,
      “at least he is claimed by no other owner. We caught him flying,
      all smoking and foaming with rage, from the burning stables of
      the Castle Berlifitzing. Supposing him to have belonged to the
      old Count’s stud of foreign horses, we led him back as an estray. But the grooms there disclaim any title to the creature; which is
      strange, since he bears evident marks of having made a narrow
      escape from the flames. “The letters W. V. B. are also branded very distinctly on his
      forehead,” interrupted a second equerry, “I supposed them, of
      course, to be the initials of Wilhelm Von Berlifitzing—but all at
      the castle are positive in denying any knowledge of the horse.”

      “Extremely singular!” said the young Baron, with a musing air,
      and apparently unconscious of the meaning of his words. “He is,
      as you say, a remarkable horse—a prodigious horse! although, as
      you very justly observe, of a suspicious and untractable
      character; let him be mine, however,” he added, after a pause,
      “perhaps a rider like Frederick of Metzengerstein, may tame even
      the devil from the stables of Berlifitzing.”

      “You are mistaken, my lord; the horse, as I think we mentioned,
      is _not_ from the stables of the Count. If such had been the
      case, we know our duty better than to bring him into the presence
      of a noble of your family.”

      “True!” observed the Baron, dryly, and at that instant a page of
      the bedchamber came from the palace with a heightened color, and
      a precipitate step. He whispered into his master’s ear an account
      of the sudden disappearance of a small portion of the tapestry,
      in an apartment which he designated; entering, at the same time,
      into particulars of a minute and circumstantial character; but
      from the low tone of voice in which these latter were
      communicated, nothing escaped to gratify the excited curiosity of
      the equerries. The young Frederick, during the conference, seemed agitated by a
      variety of emotions. He soon, however, recovered his composure,
      and an expression of determined malignancy settled upon his
      countenance, as he gave peremptory orders that a certain chamber
      should be immediately locked up, and the key placed in his own
      possession. “Have you heard of the unhappy death of the old hunter
      Berlifitzing?” said one of his vassals to the Baron, as, after
      the departure of the page, the huge steed which that nobleman had
      adopted as his own, plunged and curvetted, with redoubled fury,
      down the long avenue which extended from the château to the
      stables of Metzengerstein. “No!” said the Baron, turning abruptly toward the speaker, “dead! say you?”

      “It is indeed true, my lord; and, to a noble of your name, will
      be, I imagine, no unwelcome intelligence.”

      A rapid smile shot over the countenance of the listener. “How
      died he?”

      “In his rash exertions to rescue a favorite portion of his
      hunting stud, he has himself perished miserably in the flames.”

      “I-n-d-e-e-d-!” ejaculated the Baron, as if slowly and
      deliberately impressed with the truth of some exciting idea. “Indeed;” repeated the vassal. “Shocking!” said the youth, calmly, and turned quietly into the
      château. From this date a marked alteration took place in the outward
      demeanor of the dissolute young Baron Frederick Von
      Metzengerstein. Indeed, his behavior disappointed every
      expectation, and proved little in accordance with the views of
      many a manoeuvering mamma; while his habits and manner, still
      less than formerly, offered any thing congenial with those of the
      neighboring aristocracy. He was never to be seen beyond the
      limits of his own domain, and, in this wide and social world, was
      utterly companionless—unless, indeed, that unnatural, impetuous,
      and fiery-colored horse, which he henceforward continually
      bestrode, had any mysterious right to the title of his friend. Numerous invitations on the part of the neighborhood for a long
      time, however, periodically came in. “Will the Baron honor our
      festivals with his presence?” “Will the Baron join us in a
      hunting of the boar?”—“Metzengerstein does not hunt;”
      “Metzengerstein will not attend,” were the haughty and laconic
      answers. These repeated insults were not to be endured by an imperious
      nobility. Such invitations became less cordial—less frequent—in
      time they ceased altogether. The widow of the unfortunate Count
      Berlifitzing was even heard to express a hope “that the Baron
      might be at home when he did not wish to be at home, since he
      disdained the company of his equals; and ride when he did not
      wish to ride, since he preferred the society of a horse.” This to
      be sure was a very silly explosion of hereditary pique; and
      merely proved how singularly unmeaning our sayings are apt to
      become, when we desire to be unusually energetic. The charitable, nevertheless, attributed the alteration in the
      conduct of the young nobleman to the natural sorrow of a son for
      the untimely loss of his parents—forgetting, however, his
      atrocious and reckless behavior during the short period
      immediately succeeding that bereavement. Some there were, indeed,
      who suggested a too haughty idea of self-consequence and dignity. Others again (among them may be mentioned the family physician)
      did not hesitate in speaking of morbid melancholy, and hereditary
      ill-health; while dark hints, of a more equivocal nature, were
      current among the multitude. Indeed, the Baron’s perverse attachment to his lately-acquired
      charger—an attachment which seemed to attain new strength from
      every fresh example of the animal’s ferocious and demon-like
      propensities—at length became, in the eyes of all reasonable men,
      a hideous and unnatural fervor. In the glare of noon—at the dead
      hour of night—in sickness or in health—in calm or in tempest—the
      young Metzengerstein seemed rivetted to the saddle of that
      colossal horse, whose intractable audacities so well accorded
      with his own spirit. There were circumstances, moreover, which coupled with late
      events, gave an unearthly and portentous character to the mania
      of the rider, and to the capabilities of the steed.