But in the moonlight the patch which was left on the snow was black, not red.
After this the crooked alleys were kept clearer, and I could see down the long High Street of Thorn right to the Weiss Thor and the snow-whitened pinnacles of the Palace, out of which Duke Casimir had for the time being frightened Bishop Peter.

Black stood the Gate Port against the moonlight and the snow when I first looked at it.

A moment after it had opened, and a hundred lights came crowding through, like sheep through an entry on their way to the shambles--which doubtless is their Hall of Judgment, where there waits for them the Red Axe of a lowlier degree.
The lights, I say, came thronging through the gate.

For though it was moonlight, the Duke Casimir loved to come home amid the red flame of torches, the trail of bituminous reek, and with a dashing train of riders clattering up to the Wolfsberg behind him, through the streets of Thorn, lying black and cowed under the shadows of its thousand gables.
So the procession undulated towards me, turbid and tumultuous.

First a reckless pour of riders urging wearied horses, their sides white-flecked above with blown foam, and dark beneath with rowelled blood.