It was the Schloss of a Grafin von Callenberg, a dreadful old Dowager of Medea-Messalina type, who "always wore pistols about her;" pistols, and latterly, with more and more constancy, a brandy-bottle;--who has been much on the tongues of men for a generation back.

Herr Nussler (readers recollect shifty Nussler) knew her, in the way of business, at one time; with pity, if also with horror.

Some weeks ago, she was, by the Austrian Commandant at Neisse, summoned out of this Schloss, as in correspondence with Prussian Officers: peasants breaking in, tied her with ropes to the bed where she was; put bed and her into a farm-cart, and in that scandalous manner delivered her at Neisse to the Commandant; by which adventure, and its rages and unspeakabilities, the poor old Callenberg is since dead.

And now the very Schloss is dead; and there is finis to a human dust-vortex, such as is sometimes noisy for a time.

Perhaps Nussler may again pass that way, if we wait.