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Fear? your pardon, Messieurs, but the meaning of
fear you do not know. No, I hold to my statement. You are soldiers,
adventurers. You have known the charges of regiments of dragoons, the frenzy of
wind-lashed seas. But fear, real hair-raising, horror-crawling fear, you have
not known. I myself have known such fear; but until the legions of darkness
swirl from hell's gate and the world flames to ruin, will never such fear again
be known to men:
Hark, I will tell you the tale; for it was many
years ago and half across the world; and none of you will ever see the man of
whom I tell you, or seeing, know.
Return, then, with me across the years to a day
when I; a reckless young cavalier, stepped from the small boat that had landed
me from the ship floating in the harbor, cursed the mud that littered the crude
wharf, and strode up the landing toward the castle, in answer to the invitation
of an old friend, Dom Vincente da Lusto.
Dom Vincente was a strange, far-sighted man-a
strong man, one who saw visions beyond the ken of his time. In his veins,
perhaps, ran the blood of those old Phoenicians who, the priests tell us, ruled
the seas and built cities in far lands, in the dim ages. His plan of fortune
was strange and yet successful; few men would have thought of it; fewer could
have succeeded. For his estate was upon the western coast of that dark, mystic
continent, that baffler of explorers--Africa.
There by a small bay had he cleared away the
sullen jungle, built his castle and his storehouses, and with ruthless hand had
he wrested the riches of the land. Four ships he had: three smaller craft and
one great galleon. These plied between his domains and the cities of Spain,
Portugal, France, and even England, laden with rare woods, ivory, slaves; the
thousand strange riches that Dom Vincente had gained by trade and by conquest.
Aye, a wild venture, a wilder commerce. And yet
might he have shaped an empire from the dark land, had it not been for the
rat-faced Carlos, his nephew-but I run ahead of my tale.
Look, Messieurs, I draw a map on the table, thus,
with finger dipped in wine. Here lay the small, shallow harbor, and here the
wide wharves: A landing ran thus, up the slight slope with hutlike warehouses
on each side, and here it stopped at a wide, shallow moat. Over it went
a--narrow drawbridge and then one was confronted with a high palisade of logs
set in the ground. This extended entirely around the castle. The castle itself
was built on the model of another, earlier age; being more for strength than
beauty. Built of stone brought from a great distance; years of labor and a
thousand Negroes toiling--beneath the lash had reared its walls, and now,
completely, it offered an almost impregnable appearance. Such was
the--intention of its builders, for Barbary pirates ranged the coasts, and the
horror of a native uprising lurked ever near.
A space of about a half-mile on every side of the
castle was kept cleared away and roads had been built through the marshy land.
All this had required an immense amount of labor, but manpower was plentiful. A
present to a chief, and he furnished all that was needed, And Portuguese know
how to make men work!
Less than three hundred yards to the east of the
castle ran a wide, shallow river, which emptied into the harbor. The name has
entirely slipt my mind. It was a heathenish title and I could never lay my
tongue to it.
I found that I was not the only friend invited to
the castle. It seems that once a year or some such matter, Dom Vincente brought
a host of jolly companions to his lonely estate and made merry for some weeks,
to make up for the work and solitude of the rest of the year.
In fact, it was nearly night, and a great banquet
was in progress when I entered. I was acclaimed with great delight, greeted
boisterously by friends and introduced to such strangers as were there.
Entirely too weary to take much part in the
revelry, I ate, drank quietly, listened to the toasts and songs, and studied
the feasters.
Dom Vincente, of course, I knew, as I had been
intimate with him for years; also his pretty niece, Ysabel, who was one reason
I had accepted his invitation to come to that stinking wilderness. Her second
cousin, Carlos, I knew and disliked-a sly, mincing fellow with a face like a
mink's. Then there was my old friend, Luigi Verenza, an Italian; and his flirt
of a sister, Marcita, making eyes at the men as usual. Then there was a short,
stocky German who called himself Baron von Scluller; and Jean Desmarte, an
out-at-the-elbows nobleman of Gascony; and Don Florenzo de Seville, a lean,
dark, silent man, who called himself a Spaniard and wore a rapier nearly as
long as himself.
There were others, men and women, but it was long
ago and all their names and faces I do not remember. But there was one man
whose face somehow drew my gaze as an alchemist's magnet draws steel. He was a
leanly built man of slightly more than medium height, dressed plainly, almost austerely,
and he wore a sword almost as long as the Spaniard's.
But it was neither his clothes nor his sword which
attracted my attention. It was his face. A refined, high-bred face, it was
furrowed deep with lines that gave it a weary, haggard expression. Tiny scars
flecked jaw and forehead as if torn by savage claws; I could have sworn the
narrow gray eyes had a fleeting, haunted look in their expression at times.
I leaned over to that flirt, Marcita, and asked
the name of the man, as it had slipt my mind that we had been introduced.
"De Montour, from Normandy," she
answered. "A strange man. I don't think I like him."
"Then he resists your snares, my little
enchantress?" I murmured; long friendship making me as immune from her
anger as from her wiles. But she chose not to be angry and answered coyly,
glancing from under demurely lowered lashes.
I watched de Montour much, feeling somehow a
strange fascination. He ate lightly, drank much, seldom spoke, and then only to
answer questions.
Presently, toasts making the rounds, I noticed his
companions urging him to rise and give a health. At first he refused, then
rose, upon their repeated urgings, and stood silent for a moment, goblet
raised. He seemed to dominate, to overawe the group of revelers. Then with a
mocking, savage laugh, he lifted the goblet above his head.
"To Solomon," he exclaimed, "who
bound all devils! And thrice cursed be he for that some escaped!"
A toast and a curse in one! It was drunk silently,
and with many sidelong, doubting glances.
That night I retired early, weary of the long sea
voyage and my head spinning from the strength of the wine,--of which Dom
Vincente kept such great stores.
My room was near the top of the castle and looked
out toward the forests of the south and the river. The room was furnished in
crude, barbaric splendor, as was all the rest of the castle.
Going to the window, I gazed out at the
arquebusier pacing the castle grounds just inside the palisade; at the cleared
space lying unsightly and barren in the moonlight; at the forest beyond; at the
silent river.
From the native quarters close to the river bank
came the weird twanging of some rude lute, sounding a barbaric melody.
In the dark shadows of the forest some uncanny
nightbird lifted a mocking voice. A thousand minor notes sounded-birds, and
beasts, and the devil knows what else! Some great jungle cat began a
hair-lifting yowling. I shrugged my shoulders and turned from the windows.
Surely devils lurked in those somber depths.
There came a knock at my door and I opened it, to,
admit de Montour.
He strode to the window and gazed at the moon,
which rode resplendent and glorious.
"The moon is almost full, is it not,
Monsieur?" he remarked, turning to me. I nodded, and I could have sworn
that he shuddered.
"Your pardon, Monsieur. I will not annoy you
further." He turned to go, but at the door turned and retraced his steps.
"Monsieur," he almost whispered, with a
fierce intensity, "whatever you do, be sure you bar and bolt your door
tonight!"
Then he was gone, leaving me to stare after him
bewilderedly.
I dozed off to sleep, the distant shouts of the
revelers in my ears, and though I was weary, or perhaps because of it, I slept
lightly. While I never really awoke until morning, sounds and noises seemed to
drift to me through my veil of slumber, and once it seemed that something was
prying and shoving against the bolted door.
As is to be supposed, most of the guests were in a
beastly humor the following day and remained in their rooms most of the morning
or else straggled down late. Besides Dom Vincente there were really only three
of the masculine members sober: de Montour; the Spaniard, de Seville (as he
called himself); and myself. The Spaniard never touched wine, and though de
Montour consumed incredible quantities of it, it never affected him in any way.
The ladies greeted us most graciously.
"S'truth, Signor," remarked that minx
Marcita, giving me her hand with a gracious air that was like to make me
snicker, "I am glad to see there are gentlemen among us who care more for
our company than for the wine cup; for most of them are most surprizingly
befuddled this morning."
Then with a most outrageous turning of her
wondrous eyes, "Methinks someone was too drunk to be discreet last
night--or not drunk enough. For unless my poor senses deceive me much, someone
came fumbling at my door late in the night."
"Ha!" I exclaimed in quick anger,
"some-!"
"No. Hush." She glanced about as if to
see that we were alone, then: "Is it not strange that Signor de Montour,
before he retired last night, instructed me to fasten my door firmly?"
"Strange," I murmured, but did not tell
her that he had told me the same thing.
"And is it not strange, Pierre, that though
Signor de Montour left the banquet hall even before you did, yet he has the
appearance of one who has been up all night?" I shrugged. A woman's
fancies are often strange.
"Tonight," she said roguishly, "I
will leave my door unbolted and see whom I catch."
"You will do no such thing."
She showed her little teeth in a contemptuous
smile and displayed a small, wicked dagger.
"Listen, imp. De Montour gave me: the same
warning he did you. Whatever he knew, whoever prowled the halls last night, the
object was more apt murder than amorous adventure. Keep you your doors bolted.
The lady Ysabel shares your room, does she not?"
"Not she. And I send my woman to the slave
quarters at night," she murmured, gazing mischievously at me from beneath
drooping eyelids..
"One would think you a girl of no character
from your talk," I told her, with the frankness of youth and of long
friendship. "Walk with care, young lady, else I tell your brother to spank
you."
And I walked away to pay my respects to Ysabel.
The Portuguese girl was the very opposite of Marcita, being a shy, modest young
thing, not so beautiful as the Italian, but exquisitely pretty in an appealing,
almost childish air. I once had thoughts-Hi ho! To be young and foolish!
Your pardon, Messieurs. An old man's mind wanders.
It was of de Montour that I meant to tell you--de Montour and Dom Vincente's
mink-faced cousin.
A band of armed natives were thronged about the
gates, kept at a distance by the Portuguese soldiers. Among them were some
score of young men and women all naked, chained neck to neck. Slaves they were,
captured by some warlike tribe and brought for sale. Dom Vincente looked them
over personally.
Followed a long haggling and bartering, of which I
quickly wearied and turned away, wondering that a man of Dom Vincente's rank
could so demean himself as to stoop to trade.
But I strolled back when one of the natives of the
village nearby came up and interrupted the sale with a long harangue to Dom
Vincente.
While they talked de Montour came up, and
presently Dom Vincente turned to us and said, "One of the woodcutters of
the village was torn to pieces by a leopard or some such beast last night. A
strong young man and unmarried."
"A leopard? Did they, see it?" suddenly
asked de Montour, and when Dom Vincente said no, that it came and went in the
night, de Montour lifted a trembling hand and drew it across his forehead, as
if to brush away cold sweat.
"Look you, Pierre," quoth Dom Vincente,
"I have here a slave who, wonder of wonders, desires to be your man.
Though the devil only knows why."
He led up a slim young Jakri, a mere youth, whose
main asset seemed a merry grin.
"He is yours," said Dom Vincente.
"He is goodly trained and will make a fine servant. And look ye, a slave
is of an advantage over a servant, for all he requires is food and a loincloth
or so with a touch of the whip to keep him in his place."
It was not long before. I learned why Gola wished
to be "my man," choosing me among all the rest. It was because of my
hair. Like many dandies of that day, I. wore it long and curled, the strands
falling to my shoulders. As it happened, I was the only man of the party who so
wore my hair, and Gola would sit and gaze at it in silent admiration for hours
at a time, or until, growing nervous under his unblinking scrutiny, I would
boot him forth.
It was that night that a brooding animosity,
hardly apparent, between Baron von Schiller and Jean Desmarie broke out into a
flame.
As usual, woman was the cause. Marcita carried-on
a most outrageous flirtation with both of them.
That was not wise. Desmarte was a wild young fool.
Von Schiller was a lustful beast. But when, Messieurs, did woman ever use
wisdom?
Their hate flamed to a murderous fury when the
German sought to kiss Marcita.
Swords were clashing in an instant. But before Dom
Vincente could thunder a command to halt, Luigi was between the combatants, and
had beaten their swords down, hurling them back viciously.
"Signori," said he softly, but with a
fierce intensity, "is it the part of high-bred signori to fight over my
sister? Ha, by the toenails of Satan, for the toss of a coin I would call you
both out! You, Marcita, go to your chamber, instantly, nor leave until I give
you permission."
And she went, for, independent though she was,
none cared to face the slim, effeminate-appearing youth when a tigerish snarl
curled his lips, a murderous gleam lightened his dark eyes.
Apologies were made, but from the glances the two
rivals threw at each other, we knew that the quarrel was not forgotten and
would blaze forth again at the slightest pretext.
Late that night I woke suddenly with a strange,
eery feeling of horror. Why, I could not say. I rose, saw that the door was
firmly bolted, and seeing Gola asleep art the floor, kicked him awake
irritably.
And just as he got up, hastily, rubbing himself,
the silence was broken by a wild scream, a scream that rang through the castle
and brought a startled shout from the arquebusier pacing the palisade; a scream
from the mouth of a girl, frenzied with terror.
Gola squawked and dived behind the divan. I jerked
the door open and raced down the dark corridor. Dashing down a winding stair, I
caromed into someone at the bottom and we tumbled headlong.
He rasped something and I recognized the voice of
Jean Desmarte. I hauled him to his feet, and raced along, he following; the
screams had ceased, but the whole castle was in an uproar, voices shouting, the
clank of weapons, lights flashing up, Dom Vincente's voice shouting for the
soldiers, the noise of armed men rushing through the rooms and falling over
each other. With all the confusion, Desmarte, the Spaniard, and I reached
Marcita's room just as Luigi darted inside and snatched his sister into his
arms.
Others rushed in, carrying lights and weapons,
shouting, demanding to know what was occurring.
The girl lay quietly in her brother's arms, her
dark hair loose and rippling over her shoulders, her dainty night-garments torn
to shreds and exposing her lovely body. Long scratches showed upon her arms,
breasts and shoulders.
Presently, she opened her eyes, shuddered, then
shrieked wildly and clung frantically to Luigi, begging him not to let something
take her.
"The door!" she whimpered. "I left
it unbarred. And something crept into my room through the darkness. I struck at
it with my dagger and it hurled me to the floor, tearing, tearing at me. Then I
fainted."
"Where is von Schiller?" asked the
Spaniard, a fierce glint in his dark eyes. Every man glanced at his neighbor.
All the guests were there except the German. I noted de Montour gazing at the
terrified girl, his face more haggard than usual. And I thought it strange that
he wore no weapon.
"Aye, von Schiller!" exclaimed Desmarte
fiercely. And half of us followed Dom Vincente out into the corridor. We began
a vengeful search through the castle, and in a small, dark hallway we found von
Schiller. On his face he lay, in a crimson, ever-widening stain.
"This is the work of some native!"
exclaimed Desmarte, face aghast.
"Nonsense," bellowed Dom Vincente.
"No native from the outside could pass the soldiers. All slaves, von
Schiller's among them, were barred and bolted in the slave quarters, except
Cola, who sleeps in Pierre's room, and Ysabel's woman."
"But who else could have done this
deed?" exclaimed Desmarte in a fury.
"You!" I said abruptly; "else why
ran you so swiftly away from the room of Marcita?"
"Curse you, you lie!" he shouted, and
his swift-drawn sword leaped for my breast; but quick as he was, the Spaniard
was quicker. Desmarte's rapier clattered against the wall and Desmarte stood
like a statue, the Spaniard's motionless point just touching his throat.
"Bind him," said the Spaniard without
passion. "Put down your blade, Don Florenzo," commanded Dom Vincente,
striding forward and dominating the scene. "Signor Desmarte, you are one
of my best friends, but I am the only law here and duty must be done. Give your
word that you will not seek to escape."
"I give it," replied the Gascon calmly.
"I acted hastily. I apologize. I was not intentionally running away, but
the halls and corridors of this cursed castle confuse me." Of us all,
probably but one man believed him.
"Messieurs!" De Montour stepped forward.
"This youth is not guilty. Turn the German over."
Two soldiers did as he asked. De Montour
shuddered, pointing. The rest of us glanced once, then recoiled in horror.
"Could man have done that thing?"
"With a dagger--" began someone.
"No dagger makes wounds like that," said
the Spaniard: "The German was torn to pieces by the talons of some
frightful beast."
We glanced about us, half expecting some hideous
monster to leap upon us from the shadows.
We searched that castle; every foot, every inch of
it. And we found no trace of any beast.
Dawn was breaking when I returned to my room, to
find that Gola had barred himself in; and it took me nearly a half-hour to
convince him to let me in. Having smacked him soundly and berated him for his
cowardice, I told him what had taken place, as he could understand French and:
could speak a weird mixture which he proudly called French.
His mouth gaped and only the whites of his eyes
showed as the tale reached its climax.
"Ju ju!" he whispered fearsomely.
"Fetish man!" Suddenly an idea came to me. I had heard vague tales,
little more than hints of legends, of the devilish leopard cult that existed on
the West Coast. No white man had ever seen one of its votaries, but Dom
Vincente had told us tales of beast-men, disguised in skins of leopards, who
stole through the midnight jungle and slew and devoured. A ghastly thrill
traveled up and down my spine, and in an instant I had Gola in a grasp which
made him veil.
"Was that a leopard-man?" I hissed,
shaking him viciously.
"Massa, massa!" he gasped. "Me good
boy! Ju ju man Qet! More besser no tell!"
"You'll tell--me!" I gritted, renewing
my endeavors, until, his hands waving feeble protests, he promised to tell me
what he knew.
"No leopard-man!" he whispered, and his
eyes grew big with supernatural fear. "Moon, he full, woodcutter find, him
heap clawed. Find 'nother woodcutter. Big Massa (Dom Vincente) say, 'leopard.'
No leopard. But leopard-man, he come to kill. Something kill leopardman! Heap
claw! Hai, hai! Moon full again. Something come in, lonely hut; claw um woman,
claw um pick'nin. I an find um claw up. Big Massa say 'leopard..' Full moon
again, and woodcutter find, heap clawed. Now come in castle. No leopard. But
always footmarks of a man'."
I gave a startled, incredulous exclamation.
It was true, Gola averred. Always the footprints
of a man led away from the scene of the murder. Then why did the natives not
tell the Big Massa that he might hunt down the fiend? Here Gala assumed a
crafty expression and whispered in my ear, The footprints were of a man who
wore shoes!
Even assuming that Gola was lying, I felt a thrill
of unexplainable horror. Who, then, did the natives believe was doing these
frightful murders?
And he answered: Dom Vincente!
By this time, Messieurs, my mind was in a whirl.
What was the meaning of all this? Who stew the German and sought to ravish
Marcita? And as I reviewed the crime, it appeared to me that murder rather than
rape was the object of the attack.
Why did de Montour warn us, and then appear to
have knowledge of the crime, telling us that Desmarte was innocent and then
proving it?
It was all beyond me.
The tale of the slaughter got among the natives,
in spite of all we could do, and they appeared restless and nervous, and thrice
that day Dom Vincente had a black lashed for insolence. A brooding atmosphere
pervaded the castle.
I considered going to Dom Vincente with Gola's
tale, but decided to wait awhile.
The women kept their chambers that, day, the men
were restless and moody. Dom Vincente announced that the sentries would be
doubled and some would patrol the corridors of the castle itself. I found
myself musing cynically that if Gola's suspicions were true, sentries would be
of little good.
I am not, Messieurs, a man to brook such a
situation with patience. And I was young then. So as we drank before retiring,
I flung my goblet on the table and angrily announced that in spite of man,
beast or devil, I slept that night with doors flung wide. And I tramped angrily
to my chamber.
Again, as on the first night, de Montour came. And
his face was as a man who has looked into the gaping gates of hell.
"I have come," he said, "to ask
you--nay, Monsieur, to implore you-to reconsider your rash determination."
I shook my head impatiently..
"You are resolved? Yes? Then I ask you do to
this for me, that after I enter my chamber, you will bolt my doors from the
outside."
I did as he asked, and then made my way back to my
chamber, my mind in a maze of wonderment. I had sent Gola to the slave quarters,
and I laid rapier and dagger close at hand. Nor did I go to bed, but crouched
in a great chair, in the darkness. Then I had much ado to keep from sleeping.
To keep myself awake, I fell to musing on the strange words of de Montour. He
seemed to be laboring under great excitement; his eyes hinted of ghastly
mysteries known to him alone. And yet his face was not that of a wicked man.
Suddenly the notion took me to go to his chamber
and talk with him.
Walking those dark passages was a shuddersome task,
but eventually I stood before de Montour's door. I called softly. Silence. I
reached out a hand and felt splintered fragments of wood. Hastily I struck
flint and steel which I carried, and the flaming tinder showed the great oaken
door sagging on its mighty hinges; showed a door smashed and splintered from
the inside: And the chamber of de Montour was unoccupied.
Some instinct prompted me to hurry back to my
room, swiftly but silently, shoeless feet treading softly. And as I neared the
door, I was aware of something in the darkness before me. Something which crept
in from a side corridor and glided stealthily along.
In a wild panic of, fear I leaped, striking wildly
and aimlessly in the darkness. All my clenched fist encountered a human head,
and something went down with a crash. Again I struck a light; a man lay
senseless on the floor, and he was de Montour.
I thrust a candle into a niche in the Wall, and
just then de Montour's eyes opened and he rose uncertainly. "You!" I
exclaimed, hardly knowing what I said. "You, of all men!"
He merely nodded.
"You killed von Schiller?"
"Yes."
I recoiled with a gasp of horror.
"Listen." He raised his hand. "Take
your rapier and run me through. No man will touch you."
"No," I exclaimed. "I can
not."
"Then, quick," he said hurriedly,
"get into your chamber and bolt the door. Haste! It will return!"
"What will return?" I asked, with a
thrill of horror. "If it will harm me, it will harm you. Come into the
chamber with me."
"No, no!" he fairly shrieked, springing
back from my outstretched arm. "Haste, haste! It left me for an instant,
but it will return." Then in a low-pitched voice of indescribable horror:
"It is returning. It is here now!"
And I felt a something, a formless, shapeless
presence near. A thing of frightfulness.
De Montour was standing, legs braced, arms thrown
back, fists clenched. The muscles bulged beneath his skin, his eyes widened and
narrowed, the veins stood out upon his forehead as if in great physical effort.
As I looked, to my horror, out of nothing, a shapeless, nameless something took
vague form! Like a shadow it moved upon de Montour.
It was hovering about him! Good God, it was
merging, becoming one with the man!
De Montour swayed; a great gasp escaped him. The
dim thing vanished. De Montour wavered. Then he turned toward me, and may God
grant that I never look on a face like that again!
It was a hideous, a bestial face. The eyes gleamed
with a frightful ferocity; the snarling lips were drawn back from gleaming
teeth, which to my startled gaze appeared more like bestial fangs than human
teeth.
Silently the thing (I can not call it a human)
slunk toward me. Gasping with horror I sprang back and through the door, just
as the thing launched itself through the air, with a sinuous motion which even
then made me think of a leaping wolf. I slammed the door, holding it against
the frightful thing which hurled itself again and again against it.
Finally it desisted and I heard it slink
stealthily off down the corridor. Faint and exhausted I sat down, waiting,
listening. Through the open window wafted the breeze, bearing all the scents of
Africa, the spicy and the foul. From the native village came the sound of a
native drum. Other drums answered farther up the river and back in the bush.
Then from somewhere in the jungle, horridly incongruous, sounded the long,
high-pitched call of a timber wolf. My soul revolted.
Dawn brought a tale of terrified villagers, of a
Negro woman torn by some fiend of the night, barely escaping. And to de Montour
I went:
On the way I met Dom Vincente: He was perplexed
and angry.
"Some hellish thing is at work in this
castle," he said. "Last night, though I have said naught of it to
anyone, something leaped upon the back of one of the arquebusiers, tore the
leather jerkin from his shoulders and pursued him to the barbican. More,
someone locked de Montour into his room last night, and he was forced to smash
the door to get out."
He strode on, muttering to himself, and I
proceeded down the stairs, more puzzled than ever.
De Montour sat upon a stool, gazing out the
window. An indescribable air of weariness was about him.
His long hair was uncombed and tousled, his
garments were tattered. With a shudder I saw faint crimson stains upon his
hands,-and noted that the nails were torn and broken.
He looked up as I came in, and waved me to a seat.
His face was worn and haggard, but was that of a man.
After a moment's silence, he spoke.
"I will tell you my strange tale. Never
before has it passed my lips, and why I tell you, knowing that you will not
believe me, I can not say."
And then I listened to what was surely the wildest,
the most fantastic, the weirdest tale ever heard by man.
"Years ago," said de Montour, "I
was upon a military mission in northern France. Alone, I was forced to pass
through the fiend haunted woodlands of Villefere. In those frightful forests I
was beset by an inhuman, a ghastly thing-a werewolf. Beneath a midnight moon we
fought, and slew it. Now this is the truth: that if a werewolf is slain in the
half-form of a man, its ghost will haunt its slayer through eternity. But if it
is slain as a wolf, hell gapes to receive it. The true werewolf is not (as many
think) a man who may take the form of a wolf, but a wolf who takes the form of
a man!
"Now listen, my friend, and I will tell you
of the wisdom, the hellish knowledge that is mine, gained through many a
frightful deed, imparted to me amid the ghastly shadows of midnight forests
where fiends and half-beasts roamed.
"In the beginning, the world was strange,
misshapen. Grotesque beasts wandered through its jungles. Driven from another
world, ancient demons and fiends came in great numbers and settled upon this
newer, younger world. Long the forces of good and evil warred.
"A strange beast, known as man, wandered
among the other beasts, and since good or bad must have a concrete form ere
either accomplishes its desire, the spirits of good entered man. The fiends
entered other beasts, reptiles and birds; and long and fiercely waged the
age-old battle. But man conquered. The great dragons and serpents were slain
and with them the demons. Finally, Solomon, wise beyond the ken of man, made
great war upon them, and by virtue of his wisdom, slew, seized and bound. But
there were some which were the fiercest, the boldest, and though Solomon drove
them out he could not conquer them. Those had taken the form of wolves. As the
ages passed, wolf and demon became merged. No longer could the fiend leave the
body of the wolf at will. In many instances, the savagery of the wolf overcame
the subtlety of the demon and enslaved him, so the wolf became again only a
beast, a fierce, cunning beast, but merely a beast. But of the werewolves,
there are many, even yet."
"And during the time of the full moon, the
wolf may take the form, or the half-form of a man. When the moon hovers at her
zenith, however, the wolf-spirit again takes ascendency and the werewolf
becomes a true wolf once more. But if it is slain in the form of a man, then
the spirit is free to haunt its slayer through the ages."
"Harken now. I had thought to have slain the
thing after it had changed to its true shape. But I slew it an instant too
soon. The moon, though it approached the zenith, had not yet reached it, nor
had the thing taken on fully the wolf-form."
"Of this I knew nothing and went my way. But
when the neat time approached for the full moon, I began to be aware of a
strange, malicious influence. An atmosphere of horror hovered in the air and I
was aware of inexplicable, uncanny impulses.
"One night in a small village in the center
of a great forest, the influence came upon me with full power. It was night,
and the moon, nearly full, was rising over the forest. And between the moon and
me, I saw, floating in the upper air, ghostly and barely discernible, the
outline of a wolf's head!
"I remember little of what happened
thereafter. I remember, dimly, clambering into the silent street, remember
struggling, resisting briefly, vainly, and the rest is a crimson maze, until I
came to myself the next morning and found my garments and hands caked and
stained crimson; and heard the horrified chattering of the villagers, telling
of a pair of clandestine lovers, slaughtered in a ghastly manner, scarcely
outside the village, torn to pieces as if by wild beasts, as if by wolves.
"From that village I fled aghast, but I fled
not alone. In the day I could not feel the drive of my fearful captor, but when
night fell and the moon rose, I ranged the silent forest, a frightful-thing, a
slayer of humans, a fiend in a man's body.
"God, the battles I have fought! But always
it overcame me and drove me ravening after some new victim. But after the moon
had passed its fullness, the thing's power over me ceased suddenly. Nor did it
return until three nights before the moon was full again.
"Since then I have roamed the world-fleeing,
fleeing, seeking to escape. Always the thing follows, taking possession of my
body when the moon is full. Gods, the frightful deeds I have done!
"I would have slain myself long ago, but I
dare not. For the soul of a suicide is accurst, and my soul would be forever
hunted through the flames of hell. And harken, most frightful of all, my slain
body would for ever roam the earth, moved and inhabited by the soul of the
werewolf! Can any thought be more ghastly?
"And I seem immune to the weapons of man.
Swords have pierced me, daggers have hacked me. I am covered with scars. Yet
never have they struck me down. In Germany they bound and led me to the block.
There would I have willingly placed my head, but the thing came upon me, and
breaking my bonds, I slew and fled. Up and down the world I have wandered,
leaving horror and slaughter in my trail. Chains, cells, can not hold me. The
thing is fastened to me through all eternity.
"In desperation I accepted Dom Vincente's
invitation, for look you, none knows of my frightful double life, since no one
could recognize me in the clutch of the demon; and few, seeing me, live to tell
of it.
"My hands are red, my soul doomed to
everlasting flames, my mind is torn with remorse for my crimes. And yet I can
do nothing to help myself. Surely, Pierre, no man ever knew the hell that I
have known.
"Yes, I slew von Schiller, and I sought, to
destroy the girl Marcita. Why I did not, I can not say, for I have slain both
women and men.
"Now, if you will, take your sword and slay
me, and with my last breath I will give you the good God's blessing. No?
"You know now my tale and you see before you
a man, fiend-haunted for all eternity."
My mind was spinning with wonderment as I left the
room of de Montour. What to do, I knew not. It seemed likely that he would yet
murder us all, and yet I could not bring myself to tell Dom Vincente all. From
the bottom of my soul I pitied de Montour.
So I kept my peace, and in the days that followed
I made occasion to seek him out and converse with him. A real friendship sprang
up between us.
About this time that black devil, Gola, began to
wear an air of suppressed excitement, as if he knew something he wished
desperately to tell, but would not or else dared not.
So the days passed in feasting, drinking and
hunting, until one night de Montour came to my chamber and pointed silently at
the moon which was just rising.
"Look ye," he said, "I have a plan.
I will give it out that I am going into the jungle for hunting and will go
forth, apparently for several days. But at night I will return to the castle,
and you must lock me into the dungeon which is used as a storeroom."
This we did, and I managed to slip down twice a
day and carry food and drink to my friend. He insisted on remaining in the
dungeon even in the day, for though the fiend had never exerted its influence
over him in the daytime, and he believed it powerless then, yet he would take
no chances.
It was during this time that I began to notice
that Dom Vincente's mink-faced cousin, Carlos, was forcing his attentions upon
Ysabel, who was his second cousin, and who seemed to resent those attentions.
Myself, I would have challenged him for a duel for
the toss of a coin, for I despised him, but it was really none of my affair.
However, it seemed that Ysabel feared him.
My friend Luigi, by the way, had become enamored
of the dainty Portuguese girl, and was making swift love to her daily.
And de Montour sat in his cell and reviewed his
ghastly deeds until he battered the bars with his bare hands.
And Don Florenzo wandered about the castle grounds
like a dour Mephistopheles.
And the other guests rode and quarreled and drank.
And Gola slithered about, eyeing me if always on
the point of imparting momentous information. What wonder if my nerves became
rasped to the shrieking point?
Each day the natives grew surlier and more and
more sullen and intractable.
One night, not long before the full of the moon, I
entered the dungeon where de Montour sat.
He looked up quickly.
"You dare much, coming to me in the
night."
I shrugged my shoulders, seating myself.
A small barred window let in the night scents and
sounds of Africa.
"Hark to the native drums," I said.
"For the past week they have sounded almost incessantly."
De Montour assented.
"The natives are restless. Methinks 'tis
deviltry they are planning. Have you noticed that Carlos is much among
them?"
"No," I answered, "but 'tis like
there will be a break between him and Luigi. Luigi is paying court to
Ysabel."
So we talked, when suddenly de Montour became
silent and moody, answering only in monosyllables.
The moon rose and peered in at the barred windows.
De Montour's face was illuminated by its beams.
And then the hand of horror grasped me. On the
wall behind de Montour appeared a shadow, a shadow clearly defined of a wolf's
head!
At the same instant de Montour felt its influence.
With a shriek he bounded from his stool.
He pointed fiercely, and as with trembling hands I
slammed and bolted the door behind me, I felt him hurl his weight against it.
As I fled up the stairway I heard a wild raving and battering at the iron-bound
door. But with all the werewolf's might the great door held.
As I entered my room, Gola dashed in and gasped
out the tale he had been keeping for days.
I listened, incredulously, and then dashed forth
to find Dom Vincente.'
I was told that Carlos had asked him to accompany
him to the village to arrange a sale of slaves.
My informer was Don Florenzo of Seville, and when
I gave him a brief outline of Gola's tale; he accompanied me.
Together we dashed through the castle gate,
flinging a word to the guards, and down the landing toward the village.
Dom Vincente, Dom Vincente, walk with care, keep
sword loosened in its sheath! Fool, fool, to walk in the night with Carlos, the
traitor!
They were nearing the village when we caught up
with them. "Dom Vincente!" I exclaimed; "return instantly to the
castle. Carlos is selling you into the hands of the natives! Gola has told me
that he lusts for your wealth and for Ysabel! A terrified native babbled to him
of booted footprints near the places where the woodcutters were murdered, and
Carlos has made the blacks believe that the slayer was you! Tonight the natives
were to rise and slay every man in the castle except Carlos! Do you not believe
me, Dom Vincente?"
"Is this the truth, Carlos?" asked Dom
Vincente, in amaze.
Carlos laughed mockingly.
"The fool speaks truth," he said,
"but it accomplishes you nothing. Ho!"
He shouted as he leaped for Dom Vincente. Steel
flashed in the moonlight and the Spaniard's sword was through Carlos ere he
could move.
And the shadows rose about us. Then it was back to
back, sword and dagger, three men against a hundred. Spears flashed, and a
fiendish yell went up from savage throats. I spitted three natives in as many
thrusts and then went down from a stunning swing from a warclub, and an instant
later Dom Vincente fell upon me, with a spear in one arm and another through
the leg. Don Florenzo was standing above us, sword leaping like a live thing,
when a charge of the arquebusiers swept the river bank clear and we were borne
into the castle.
The black hordes came with a rush, spears flashing
like a wave of steel, a thunderous roar of savagery going up to the skies.
Time and again they swept up the slopes, bounding
the moat, until they were swarming over the palisades. And time and again the
fire of the hundred-odd defenders hurled them back.
They had set fire to the plundered warehouses, and
their light vied with the light of the moon. Just across the river there was a
larger storehouse, and about this hordes of the natives gathered, tearing it
apart for plunder.
"Would that they would drop a torch upon
it," said Dom Vincente, "for naught is stored therein save some
thousand pounds of gunpowder. I dared not store the treacherous stuff this side
of the river. All the tribes of the river and coast have gathered for our
slaughter and all my ships are upon the seas. We may hold out awhile, but
eventually they will swarm the palisade and put us to the slaughter."
I hastened to the dungeon wherein de Montour sat.
Outside the door I called to him and he bade me enter in voice which told me
the fiend had left him for an instant.
"The blacks have risen," I told him.
"I guessed as much. How goes the
battle?"
I gave him the details of the betrayal and the
fight, and mentioned the powder-house across the river. He sprang to his feet.
"Now by my hag-ridden soul!" he
exclaimed. "I will fling the dice once more with hell! Swift, let me out
of the castle! I will essay to swim the river and set off yon powder!"
"It is insanity!" I exclaimed. "A
thousand blacks lurk between the palisades and the river, and thrice that
number beyond! The' river itself swarms with crocodiles!"
"I will attempt it!" he answered, a
great light in his face. "If I can reach it, some thousand natives will
lighten the siege; if I am slain, then my soul is free and mayhap will gain
some forgiveness for that I gave my life to atone for my crimes."
Then, "Haste," he exclaimed, "for
the demon is returning! Already I feel his influence! Haste ye!"
For the castle gates we sped, and as de Montour
ran he gasped as a man in a terrific battle.
At the gate he pitched headlong, then rose, to
spring through it. Wild yells greeted him from the natives.
The arquebusiers shouted curses at him and at me.
Peering down from the top of the palisades I saw him turn from side to side
uncertainly. A score of natives were rushing recklessly forward, spears raised.
Then the eery wolf-yell rose to the skies, and de
Montour bounded forward. Aghast, the natives paused, and before a man of them
could move he was among them. Wild shrieks, not of rage, but of terror.
In amazement the arquebusiers held their fire.
Straight through the group of blacks de Montour
charged, and when they broke and fled, three of them fled not.
A dozen steps de Montour took in pursuit; then
stopped stock-still. A moment he stood so while spears flew about him, then
turned and ran swiftly in the direction of the river.
A few steps from the river another band of blacks
barred his way. In the famines light of the burning houses the scene was
clearly illuminated. A thrown spear tore through de Montour's shoulder. Without
pausing in his stride he tore it forth and drove it through a native, leaping
over his body to get among the others. They could not face the fiend-driven
white man. With shrieks they fled, and de Montour, bounding upon the' back of
one, brought him down.
Then he rose, staggered and sprang to the river
bank. An instant he paused there and then vanished in the shadows.
"Name of the devil!" gasped Dom Vincente
at my shoulder. "What manner of man is that? Was that de Montour?"
I nodded. The wild yells of the natives rose above
the crackle of the arquebus fire. They were massed thick about the great
warehouse across the river.
"They plan a great rush," said Dom
Vincente. "They will swarm clear over the palisade, methinks. Ha!"
A crash that seemed to rip the skies apart! A
burst of flame that mounted to the stars! The castle rocked with the explosion.
Then silence, as the smoke, drifting away, showed only a great crater where the
warehouse had stood.
I could tell of how Dom Vincente led a charge,
crippled as he was, out of the castle gate and, down the slope, to fall upon
the terrified blacks who had escaped the explosion. I could tell of the
slaughter, of the victory and the pursuit of the fleeing natives.
I could tell, too, Messieurs, of how I became
separated from the band and of how I wandered far into the jungle, unable to
find my way back to the coast.
I could tell how I was captured by a wandering
band of slave raiders, and of how I escaped. But such is not my intention. In
itself it would make a long tale; and it is of de Montour that I am speaking.
I thought much of the things that had passed and
wondered if indeed de Montour reached the storehouse to blow it to the skies or
whether it was but the deed of chance.
That a man could swim that reptile-swarming river,
fiend-driven though he was, seemed impossible. And if he blew up the
storehouse, he must have gone up with it.
So one night I pushed my way wearily through the
jungle and sighted the coast, and close to the shore a small, tumbledown hut of
thatch. To it I went, thinking to sleep therein if insects and reptiles would
allow.
I entered the doorway and then stopped short. Upon
a makeshift stool sat a man. He looked up as I entered and the rays of the moon
fell across his face.
I started back with a ghastly thrill of horror. It
was de Montour, and the moon was full!
Then as I stood, unable to flee, he rose and came
toward me. And his face, though haggard as of a man who has looked into hell,
was the face of a sane man.
"Come in, my friend," he said, and there
was a great peace in his voice. "Come in and fear me not. The fiend has
left me forever."
"But tell me, how conquered you?" I
exclaimed as I grasped his hand.
"I fought a frightful battle, as I ran to the
river," he answered, "for the fiend had me in its grasp and drove me
to fall upon the natives. But for the first time my soul and mind gained
ascendency for an instant, an instant just long enough to hold me to my
purpose. And I believe the good saints came to my aid, for I was giving my life
to save life.
"I leaped into the river and swam, and in an
instant the crocodiles were swarming about me.
"Again in the clutch of the fiend I fought
them, there in the river. Then suddenly the thing left me.
"I climbed from the river and fired the
warehouse."
"The explosion hurled me hundreds of feet,
and for days I wandered witless through the jungle."
"But the full moon came, and came again, and
I felt not the influence of the fiend.
"I am free, free!" And a wondrous note
of exultation, nay, exaltation, thrilled his words:
"My soul is free. Incredible as it seems, the
demon lies drowned upon the bed of, the river, or else inhabits the body of one
of the savage reptiles that swim the ways of the Niger."
