the vermin of the forest attacked it with their greedy maws
ere its pestilential breath had ceased.

Away--away toward the mountains rushes the Wehr-Wolf,--those mountains
which constitute the barrier of safety to protect Nisida from the fangs
of the animal that would mangle her fair form were she to cross its
path. But, ah! he rushes up the acclivity--he clears rugged rock and
jutting crag with wondrous bounds;--just Heaven! will he pass those
heights--will he cross the range of volcanic hills?

Oh! Nisida, who art on the other side of that range, little dreamest
thou of the peril that menaces thee. Joy! joy!--the danger has passed;
the wolf turns aside from a loftier impediment of crag than had yet
appeared in its course: and down--down again toward the groves and
valleys--over the bituminous waste made by the volcano--on, on goes the
monster. Away, away, through the verdant scenes once more, fresh
havoc--fresh desolation--fresh ruin marking his maddening course,--away,
away the Wehr-Wolf speeds.

The moon rises to give a stronger and purer light to the dreadful
spectacle, a light stronger and purer than that of night itself, which
is never completely dark in the tropics. Away, away, and still on,
on--outstripping time--running a race with the fleeting moments, till
hours and hours of unrelaxing speed are numbered--thus goes the wolf.
And now he snuffs the morning air: the fresh breeze from the east raises
the foam of the Mediterranean waves, and allays the heat on the body of
the careening, bounding, and almost flying monster.

His howling grows less ferocious--his yells become less terrible; and
now his pace is a trifle more measured,--that relaxation of a whirlwind
speed gradually increasing.

'Tis done; the course is o'er--the race is run;--and the Wehr-Wolf falls
in writhing agonies upon the fresh grass, whence in a few moments rises
Fernand Wagner--a man once more! But as he throws a glance of horror
around on the scene of his night's dread employment, he starts back with
mingled aversion and alarm; for there--with folded arms, eyes terrible
to look upon, and a countenance expressing infernal triumph and bitter
scorn, stood the demon.

"Fiend, what would'st thou with me?" demanded Wagner. "Are not the
sufferings which I have just endured, enough to satisfy thy hatred of
all human beings? are not the horrors of the past night sufficient to
glut even thine insatiate heart?"

"Mortal," said the demon, spea