Least of all had the more than feudal
      magnificence, thus discovered, a tendency to allay the irritable
      feelings of the less ancient and less wealthy Berlifitzings. What
      wonder then, that the words, however silly, of that prediction,
      should have succeeded in setting and keeping at variance two
      families already predisposed to quarrel by every instigation of
      hereditary jealousy? The prophecy seemed to imply—if it implied
      anything—a final triumph on the part of the already more powerful
      house; and was of course remembered with the more bitter
      animosity by the weaker and less influential. Wilhelm, Count Berlifitzing, although loftily descended, was, at
      the epoch of this narrative, an infirm and doting old man,
      remarkable for nothing but an inordinate and inveterate personal
      antipathy to the family of his rival, and so passionate a love of
      horses, and of hunting, that neither bodily infirmity, great age,
      nor mental incapacity, prevented his daily participation in the
      dangers of the chase. Frederick, Baron Metzengerstein, was, on the other hand, not yet
      of age. His father, the Minister G—, died young. His mother, the
      Lady Mary, followed him quickly after. Frederick was, at that
      time, in his fifteenth year. In a city, fifteen years are no long
      period—a child may be still a child in his third lustrum: but in
      a wilderness—in so magnificent a wilderness as that old
      principality, fifteen years have a far deeper meaning. From some peculiar circumstances attending the administration of
      his father, the young Baron, at the decease of the former,
      entered immediately upon his vast possessions. Such estates were
      seldom held before by a nobleman of Hungary. His castles were
      without number. The chief in point of splendor and extent was the
      “Château Metzengerstein.” The boundary line of his dominions was
      never clearly defined; but his principal park embraced a circuit
      of fifty miles. Upon the succession of a proprietor so young, with a character so
      well known, to a fortune so unparalleled, little speculation was
      afloat in regard to his probable course of conduct. And, indeed,
      for the space of three days, the behavior of the heir out-Heroded
      Herod, and fairly surpassed the expectations of his most
      enthusiastic admirers. Shameful debaucheries—flagrant
      treacheries—unheard-of atrocities—gave his trembling vassals
      quickly to understand that no servile submission on their part—no
      punctilios of conscience on his own—were thenceforward to prove
      any security against the remorseless fangs of a petty Caligula. On the night of the fourth day, the stables of the castle
      Berlifitzing were discovered to be on fire; and the unanimous
      opinion of the neighborhood added the crime of the incendiary to
      the already hideous list of the Baron’s misdemeanors and
      enormities. But during the tumult occasioned by this occurrence, the young
      nobleman himself sat apparently buried in meditation, in a vast
      and desolate upper apartment of the family palace of
      Metzengerstein. The rich although faded tapestry hangings which
      swung gloomily upon the walls, represented the shadowy and
      majestic forms of a thousand illustrious ancestors. _Here_,
      rich-ermined priests, and pontifical dignitaries, familiarly
      seated with the autocrat and the sovereign, put a veto on the
      wishes of a temporal king, or restrained with the fiat of papal
      supremacy the rebellious sceptre of the Arch-enemy. _There_, the
      dark, tall statures of the Princes Metzengerstein—their muscular
      war-coursers plunging over the carcasses of fallen foes—startled
      the steadiest nerves with their vigorous expression; and _here_,
      again, the voluptuous and swan-like figures of the dames of days
      gone by, floated away in the mazes of an unreal dance to the
      strains of imaginary melody. But as the Baron listened, or affected to listen, to the
      gradually increasing uproar in the stables of Berlifitzing—or
      perhaps pondered upon some more novel, some more decided act of
      audacity—his eyes became unwittingly rivetted to the figure of an
      enormous, and unnaturally colored horse, represented in the
      tapestry as belonging to a Saracen ancestor of the family of his
      rival. The horse itself, in the foreground of the design, stood
      motionless and statue-like—while farther back, its discomfited
      rider perished by the dagger of a Metzengerstein. On Frederick’s lip arose a fiendish expression, as he became
      aware of the direction which his glance had, without his
      consciousness, assumed. Yet he did not remove it. On the
      contrary, he could by no means account for the overwhelming
      anxiety which appeared falling like a pall upon his senses. It
      was with difficulty that he reconciled his dreamy and incoherent
      feelings with the certainty of being awake. The longer he gazed
      the more absorbing became the spell—the more impossible did it
      appear that he could ever withdraw his glance from the
      fascination of that tapestry. But the tumult without becoming
      suddenly more violent, with a compulsory exertion he diverted his
      attention to the glare of ruddy light thrown full by the flaming
      stables upon the windows of the apartment. The action, however, was but momentary, his gaze returned
      mechanically to the wall. To his extreme horror and astonishment,
      the head of the gigantic steed had, in the meantime, altered its
      position. The neck of the animal, before arched, as if in
      compassion, over the prostrate body of its lord, was now
      extended, at full length, in the direction of the Baron. The
      eyes, before invisible, now wore an energetic and human
      expression, while they gleamed with a fiery and unusual red; and
      the distended lips of the apparently enraged horse left in full
      view his gigantic and disgusting teeth. Stupefied with terror, the young nobleman tottered to the door. As he threw it open, a flash of red light, streaming far into the
      chamber, flung his shadow with a clear outline against the
      quivering tapestry, and he shuddered to perceive that shadow—as
      he staggered awhile upon the threshold—assuming the exact
      position, and precisely filling up the contour, of the relentless
      and triumphant murderer of the Saracen Berlifitzing. To lighten the depression of his spirits, the Baron hurried into
      the open air. At the principal gate of the palace he encountered
      three equerries. With much difficulty, and at the imminent peril
      of their lives, they were restraining the convulsive plunges of a
      gigantic and fiery-colored horse. “Whose horse?