Wagner, the Wehr-Wolf (page 5)

Flora and the countess exchanged glances of terror and mysterious doubt, so ominous was that sound.

Again a minute passed, and a third time clanged that heavy iron tongue.

Then commenced a funeral hymn, chanted by several female voices, and emanating as yet from a distance, sounding, too, as if the mournful melody was made within the very bowels of the earth.

But by degrees the strain became louder, as those who sang approached nearer; and in a short time the sound of many light steps on the stone pavement of the chamber of penitence were heard by Giulia and her companion in their cell.

Again did they exchange terrified glances, as if demanding of each other what this strange interruption of night’s silence could mean. But at that instant the hymn ceased—and again the loud bell clanged, as if in some far-off gallery hollowed out of the earth.

Oh! in that convent where all was mysterious, and where a terrific despotism obeyed the dictates of its own wild will, such sounds as that funeral chant, and that deafening bell, were but too fairly calculated to inspire the souls of the innocent Flora and the guilty Giulia with the wildest apprehension!

Suddenly the door opened, and Sister Alba, who presided over the chamber of penitence, appeared on the threshold.

“Come forth, daughters!” she exclaimed; “and behold the punishment due to female frailty.”

The Countess of Arestino and Flora Francatelli mechanically obeyed this command; and a strange—a heart-rending sight met their eyes.

The chamber of penitence was filled with nuns in their convent-garbs; and the penitents in a state of semi-nudity. On one side of the apartment, a huge door with massive bolts and chains stood open, allowing a glimpse, by the glare of the lamps, tapers, and torches, of the interior of a small cell that looked like a sepulcher. Near the entrance to that tomb, for such, indeed, it was—stood the lady abbess: and on the pavement near her knelt a young and beautiful girl, with hands clasped and countenance raised in an agony of soul which no human pen can describe. The garments of this hapless being had been torn away from her neck and shoulders, doubtless by the force used to drag her thither: and her suppliant attitude, the despair that  was depicted by her appearance, her extreme loveliness, and the wild glaring of her deep blue eyes, gave her the appearance of something unearthly in the glare of that vacillating light.

“No, daughter,” said the abbess, in a cold, stern voice; “there is no mercy for you on earth.”

Then echoed through the chamber of penitence a scream, a shriek so wild, so long, so full of agony, that it penetrated to the hearts of Flora, the countess, and some of the penitents, although the abbess and her nuns seemed unmoved by that appalling evidence of female anguish. At the same instant the bell struck again; and the funeral hymn was recommenced by the junior recluses.

Sister Alba now approached Flora and the countess, and said in a low whisper, “The vengeance of the conventual discipline is terrible on those who sin! That miserable girl completed her novitiate five months ago; and the night before she was to take the veil she escaped. This awful crime she committed for the sake of some man she had known ere she first entered the convent, and for whom she thus endangered her immortal soul. But her justly incensed relations yesterday discovered her retreat; and she was restored to this house of penitence and peace. Alas! the effects of her frailty were but too apparent; and that benighted girl would become a mother—had she long enough to live!”

These last words were uttered with terrible significancy; and the nun turned aside, leaving Flora and the countess each a prey to the most unspeakable horror.

In the meantime the helpless victim of ecclesiastical vengeance—the poor erring creature, who had dared and sacrificed everything for the love of her seducer—had risen from her suppliant posture, and flown wildly—madly round to the elder nuns in succession, imploring mercy, and rending the very roof of the subterrane with piercing screams. But those to whom she appealed turned a deaf ear; for a convent is a tomb in which all human sympathies are immured—a vortex wherein all the best feelings that concrete in the mortal heart are cruelly engulfed!

And while this wretched girl—for she was scarcely yet a woman, although were life spared her, on the way to maternity—was thus fruitlessly imploring the mercy of hearts that were stern and remorseless, the hymn continued, and the bell tolled at short intervals.

Suddenly at a particular verse in the funeral chant, the three nuns who usually did the bidding of the lady abbess, glided noiselessly—but surely, like black serpents—toward the victim—seized her in their powerful grasp—and bore her to the cell in which she was to be immured.

The choir of nuns raised their voices, and the bell now clanged quickly with its almost deafening note—and those human and metallic sounds combined to deaden the screams that burst from the miserable girl, on whom the huge door at length closed with fearful din.

The massive bolts were drawn—the key turned harshly in the  lock and still the shrieks came from within the sepulcher where a human being was entombed alive!

So sickening a sensation came over Flora and the countess, when the last act of the awful tragedy was thus concluded, that they reeled back to their cell with brains so confused, and such horrible visions floating before their eyes, that their very senses appeared to be abandoning them.

When they were enabled to collect their scattered ideas, and the incidents of the last half-hour assumed a definite shape in their memories, the sound of hymn and bell had ceased—the chamber of penitence was deserted—the silence of death reigned throughout the subterrane—nor did even the faintest shriek or scream emanate from the cell in which the victim was entombed.

CHAPTER XXXI.
THE BANDITTI.

The night of which we are speaking was destined to be one pregnant with alarms for the Countess of Arestino and Signora Francatelli.

Scarcely had they recovered from the effects of the appalling tragedy which had just been enacted, when their attention was drawn to a strange noise on one side of the cell.

They listened, and the noise continued—resembling an attempt to remove the massive masonry at that part of the stone chamber.

“Merciful heavens!” said Flora, in a subdued whisper; “what new terror can now be in store for us!”

But scarcely were these words uttered, when a considerable portion of the masonry fell in with a loud crash; and had not the countess and Flora already withdrawn to the vicinity of the door, when the mysterious sound first began, they would either have been killed or seriously hurt by the falling of the huge stones.

A faint scream burst from Flora’s lips, and she would have rushed from the cell, had not an ejaculation of joy escaped the countess.

For at the aperture formed by the falling in of the masonry, and by the glare of the light that shone on the other side, as well as by the dim taper that burnt before the crucifix in the cell, Giulia had in an instant recognized the countenance of the Marquis of Orsini.

“Manuel!—dearest Manuel!” she exclaimed, rushing toward the aperture: “art thou come to save me?”

“Yes, Giulia,” replied the marquis. “But by what good fortune art thou the very first whom it is my destiny to encounter? and who is thy companion?”

“A good—a generous-hearted girl, whom you must save also from this dreadful place,” answered the countess. “And as for this accidental, but most fortunate encounter, I can tell you no more than that this is our cell. It is rather for me to ask——”

“We have no time to waste in idle talk, my lord,” said  Stephano, who now appeared at the aperture. “Pardon my roughness, noble lady—but every moment is precious. Is there any danger of an alarm being given?”

“None that I am aware of,” returned the countess. “The place where we now are must be a hundred yards below the surface of the earth——”

“No, my lady—that is impossible,” interrupted Stephano; “a hundred feet at the most—and even that is above the mark. But stand back, my lady, while we remove some more of this solid masonry.”

Giulia obeyed the robber-chief, and turned to embrace Flora with the liveliest manifestations of joy, which the young maiden sincerely shared—for escape now appeared to be at hand.

The aperture was rapidly enlarged by those who worked on the other side, and in a few minutes it was spacious enough to admit the passage of a human form. Then Giulia and Flora quitted their dismal cell, and entered the innermost chamber of the robbers’ hold, but from which the treasures described in a previous chapter had all been removed away.

Giulia embraced the marquis with grateful affection; but Stephano exclaimed, “Come, my lord! Remember your oath, and join us in this expedition to the end!”

At that moment the awful tragedy of the night flashed back to Flora’s memory, from which nothing could have dispelled it even for an instant, save the thrilling excitement attendant on the escape from the convent; and in a few hurried words, she told the dreadful tale.

But what was the astonishment of all present, when Piero, one of the banditti, exclaimed in a tone of mingled rage and grief, “’Tis Carlotta! the victim can be none other—the dates you have mentioned, signora, convince me! Yes—five months ago she fled from that accursed convent—and yesterday she disappeared. Ah! my poor Carlotta!”

And the rude but handsome brigand wept.

Flora, forgetting the danger of re-entering the walls of the terrible institution, exclaimed, “Follow me—it may not be too late—I will show you the cell——”

And she once more passed through the aperture, closely followed by Stephano, Piero, Lomellino, and a dozen other banditti. The Marquis of Orsini stayed behind a few moments, to breathe a reassuring word to Giulia, whom he left in the treasure chamber (as that apartment of the robbers’ hold was called), and then hastened after those who had penetrated into the subterrane of the convent.

The party entered the chamber of penitence, where the long wax candles were still burning before the altar; and Flora having hastily given Stephano as much information as she could relative to the geography of the place, that chieftain placed sentinels around. Flora had already pointed out the door of the dungeon to which Carlotta had been consigned; and Piero hastened to call upon his mistress to answer him.

It was a touching spectacle to behold that lawless and bold, bad man melting into tenderness beneath the influence of love!

 But no reply came from within that dungeon; and though the bolts were easily drawn back, yet the lock was strong, and the key was not there!

By this time the penitents, who slept in the various cells adjoining the chamber, had become alarmed by the heavy tread and the voices of men, and had opened their doors. But they were desired to keep back by the sentinels, whom Stephano had posted around to maintain order and prevent a premature alarm, but who, nevertheless, gave assurances of speedy escape to those who might choose to profit by the opportunity.

Suddenly a door, which Flora had never noticed before in the chamber of penitence, opened, and two recluses appeared on the threshold.

“The abbess!” ejaculated Flora, yielding to a sudden impulse of alarm.

But almost at the same instant Stephano sprung forward, caught the abbess by the arm, and dragged her into the chamber; then rushing up a flight of narrow stone steps, with which that door communicated, and which the other recluse had already turned to ascend, he brought her forcibly back also. This latter nun was Sister Alba, the presiding authority of the chamber of penitence.

Her astonishment, as well as that of the lady abbess, at the spectacle of a number of armed men in the most private part of the entire establishment, may well be conceived; nor was this disagreeable surprise unmixed with intense alarm. But they had little time for reflection.

“The key of that door!” cried Stephano in a fierce and menacing tone, as he pointed toward Carlotta’s dungeon.

The abbess mechanically drew forth the key from beneath her convent-habit, and Piero, rushing forward, clutched it eagerly. In a few moments it turned in the lock—the next moment the door stood open.

But what a spectacle met the view of Piero, Flora, and those who were near enough to glance within! Stretched upon the stone floor of the narrow cell lay the victim—motionless and still! Drops of gore hung to her lips; in the agony of her grief she had burst a blood-vessel—and death must have been almost instantaneous.

Flora staggered back—sick at the dreadful sight; and she would have fallen to the ground had not the Marquis of Orsini suddenly sprung forward to sustain her.

“This is no place for you, young lady,” he said. “Permit me to conduct you back to the companionship of the Countess of Arestino.”

Flora leant upon his arm, and he half carried, rather than led her away from the chamber of penitence into the robbers’ hold. But as they passed through the aperture formed by the removal of the masonry, a terrible menace met their ears.

“Vengeance!” cried Piero, furiously; “vengeance on the murderess of Carlotta!”

“Yes—vengeance shalt thou have, comrade,” returned the deep, sonorous voice of Stephano.

 But scarcely were those words uttered, when the loud clanging of the bell struck up; and the abbess exclaimed joyfully, “We are saved! we are saved!”

CHAPTER XXXII.
THE MYSTERY OF THE CHAIR—THE CATASTROPHE.

The reader will recollect that when Flora Francatelli was released from the chair at the bottom of the pit or well, Sister Alba had led her along a narrow, dark passage communicating with the chamber of penitence.

In a small dome-like cavity, hollowed out of the roof of this passage, hung a large bell; and in a cell opening from the side of the passage immediately beneath the dome, dwelt an old nun, who, for some dreadful misdeed committed in her youth, had voluntarily consigned herself to the convent of the Carmelites, and, having passed through the ordeal of the chamber of penitence, had accepted the office of sextoness in that department of the establishment.

It was her duty to keep the chamber of penitence clean, maintain tapers constantly burning before the altar, supply also the cells of the penitents themselves with lights, and toll the bell whenever occasion required. She it was who had visited Flora’s cell the first night of her arrival at the convent, to renew the taper that burnt before her crucifix, and to exchange the maiden’s attire for the conventual garb.

This old nun it was, then, who suddenly tolled the bell, at the moment when Piero and Stephano were menacing the abbess and Sister Alba with their vengeance, and when the Marquis of Orsini was bearing away Flora to the robbers’ hold, that she might have the companionship of Giulia.

The way in which the old nun rang the bell was such that the inmates of the convent would perceive it to be an alarm; and moreover, so sudden was its startling clang, that Stephano and Piero abandoned their hold upon the abbess and Sister Alba, and retreated a few paces, uncertain how to act; hence the exclamation of the superior of the convent, “We are saved! we are saved!”

But little did that stern, imperious woman know of the desperate characters of those with whom she had now to deal. Ashamed of their momentary hesitation, Stephano and Piero rushed on the abbess and Sister Alba, and dragged them, in spite of their deafening screams, into that fatal cell, where they threw them headlong over the lifeless corpse of their victim.

Scarcely, however, had they closed the door on the wretched woman, when the Marquis of Orsini returned; and, too well divining what had passed, he exclaimed, “In the name of Heaven, captain!—by all that is holy, Piero! I implore you not to consummate this dreadful crime!”

“My lord,” said Stephano, “ere we entered on this expedition to-night, you bound yourself by an oath to obey me as the leader. I command you then not to interfere with our proceedings; but,  on the contrary, go and ascertain whence comes the clanging of that infernal bell.”

The marquis turned aside, sick at heart at the deed of vengeance which was in progress, but unable to remonstrate further, in consequence of the oath which he had taken. It was, however, a relief for him to move away from the vicinity of the living tomb, whence emanated the shrieks of the abbess and the nun; and guided by the sound of the bell, he rushed, with whirling brain and desperate resolution, into the passage leading from the chamber of penitence.

In a few moments the clanging of the bell ceased, for the marquis had discovered the old sextoness in her cell, and compelled her to desist.

All the events yet recorded in the preceding and the present chapter had occurred with a rapidity which the reader can scarcely comprehend, because their complicated nature and variety have forced us to enter into minute details requiring a considerable time to peruse. Those events which we are now about to describe also succeeded each other with marvelous speed, and occupied an incredibly short space of time, although our narrative must necessarily appear prolix in comparison.

Extraordinary was the excitement that now prevailed in all the subterranean department of the convent. The victims of a stern but just vengeance were sending forth appalling screams from the fatal dungeon; and some of the penitents in their cells, which were still guarded by the sentinels, were also giving vent to their affright by means of piercing shrieks, though others remained tranquil in hope of the promised release.

Stephano had entirely recovered his presence of mind, and now issued his orders with wondrous rapidity.

Pointing to the door by which the abbess and Sister Alba had entered the chamber of penitence, he said, “Lomellino, that is the way to the upper part of the convent—there can be no doubt of it! Take Piero and half a dozen of the men, and hasten up that staircase. Secure the front gate of the building, and possess yourself of the plate and treasure. But no violence, remember—no violence to the nuns.”

Lomellino, Piero, and six of the banditti hastened to obey these commands, while Stephano remained below to act as circumstances might require. He went the round of the five cells belonging to the penitents, and enjoined those who were yielding to their terrors to hold their peace, as they had nothing to fear, but much to gain—at least, he observed, if they valued their freedom; and to those who were tranquil he repeated the assurances of speedy liberation already given by his men.

For thirty years the old woman had not seen a being of the male sex; and she was terrified by the appearance of an armed man in that place which she had so long deemed sacred against the possibility of such an intrusion.

“Fear nothing,” said the marquis, “no one will harm you. But what will be the effect of that alarm which you have rung?”

 “Merely to warn those above that something unusual is taking place below,” answered the old woman.

“And by what means can access be obtained to this subterrane?” demanded the marquis.

“There is a staircase leading from the chamber of penitence up into the hall of the convent——”

“Of the existence of that staircase I am aware,” interrupted the marquis, who had seen the abbess and Sister Alba enter the chamber of penitence a few minutes previously, as stated in the preceding chapter; “but are there no means of ingress or egress?”

“Yes; follow me,” said the sextoness.

Taking up a lamp from the table in her cell, she led the way to the further end of the passage, threw open a door, and thrusting forth the light beyond the opening, exclaimed in a tone denoting a reminiscence the bitterness of which long years had scarcely mitigated—“That is the road whereby I came hither; and many, many others have traveled the same downward path!”

The marquis seized the lamp, and beheld, a few paces from from him, a wicker chair, to which two ropes, hanging perpendicularly down, were fastened. He raised his eyes, following the direction of the ropes, but as there was now no other light in the pit than the feeble, flickering one shed by the lamp which he held, his glances could not penetrate the dense obscurity that prevailed above.

“What means this chair, with its two ropes? and for what purpose is this narrow, square compartment, the mouth of which is shrouded in darkness?” inquired Manuel.

“This is the method of descent to this region, for all those who come to this convent either as willing penitents, or who are sent hither against their inclination,” returned the sextoness. “And though I came a willing penitent, yet never, never while the breath shall animate this poor, weak form, and reason shall remain, can I forget the mental agony, the intense anguish, of that fearful descent. Ah! it is a cruel engine of torture, although it tears not the flesh, nor racks the limbs, nor dislocates the joints. And even though thirty long years have passed since I made that dread journey,” she continued, glancing upwards—“thirty years since I last saw the light of day—and though I have since learned and seen how much of the horror of that descent is produced by the delusion of mechanical ingenuity—yet still I shudder, and my blood runs cold within me.”

“To me, old woman,” said the marquis, “your words are an enigma. But you have excited my curiosity: speak quickly, and explain yourself, for I may not linger here.”

“Behold this basket,” returned the nun, without further preface—“these ropes connect it with complicated machinery in some chamber adjoining the well itself. In that basket those who are doomed to pass the ordeal of penitence are lowered from an apartment above. This apartment is really but a short distance overhead: but the art of the mechanist has so contrived  the four wooden walls of the well, that when the descent of the basket ceases, those walls rise slowly upward, and thus descent appears to be continued. Then, when the affrighted female stretches forth her hands wildly, she encounters the ascending walls, and she believes that she is still going down—down—down! Oh! signor, it is most horrible, but a fitting prelude to the terrors of that place!”

And she pointed back toward the chamber of penitence. The marquis was about to make some observation in reply to the strange disclosures of the old sextoness, when suddenly the din of a tumult, occurring, as it seemed, in that department of the convent far overhead, reached his ears, commencing with the rushing of many feet—the ejaculations of hostile bands—and then continuing with the clash of arms, and the shrieks of affrighted women—until, in a few moments, those ominous sounds were broken in upon and dominated by the wild, terrific cry of “Fire! fire!”

“Oh! wherefore have I tarried here so long?” exclaimed the marquis; and he was about to return to the chamber of penitence, when a sudden blaze of light appeared at the mouth of the pit, thirty yards above. Looking hastily up, he beheld the flames rolling over the entrance of that well at the bottom of which he stood; and, in another minute, the forked fire burst from the sides, forcing for itself a way through the wooden walls; and the old dry timber and planks yielded to the devouring element as if they had been steeped in oil.

But while the marquis was still standing at the bottom looking up the pit, the clash of weapons, the tread of many steps, and the vociferations of combatants appeared to grow nearer; then in another moment he became aware that the hostile sounds came down the well, and proceeded from the room far above, where the fire as well as the war was raging.

Manuel had again turned around to hurry back to the chamber of penitence, when a loud cry of despair came vibrating down, and in another instant the heavy form of a man was precipitated into the well. The wicker chair fortunately broke his fall, and he rose with a dreadful imprecation.

“Piero!” cried the marquis.

“Ah! my lord, is it you?” said the bandit faintly, as he staggered back and fell heavily on the floor. “This is a bad business—the sbirri were alarmed, and broke in—Lomellino has got away, but the rest who were with me are slain——”

“And you are wounded, Piero,” ejaculated the marquis, rushing forward to assist the bandit, from whose breast he now perceived the blood to be flowing.

“Never mind me, my lord!” said Piero faintly. “Haste and tell Verrina that—our men fought well—it was not their fault—nor mine—the nuns must have given—the—alarm——”

His voice had grown fainter as he spoke: and, while the marquis was endeavoring to raise him, he fell back again, and expired with the name of Carlotta upon his tongue.

The combat had ceased above, but the flames had increased in the well to such an extent that the marquis was compelled to  beat a rapid retreat toward the chamber of penitence, whither the old sextoness had already fled. At the entrance of that apartment he met Stephano, who, alarmed by the clashing of arms and the cries of “fire” that had reached his ears, and which seemed to come from the direction of the passage, was hurrying thither to learn the cause. In a few words the marquis informed him of all that had occurred.

“Back to the cavern, my friends!” cried Stephano, in a loud tone. “If the sbirri discover us there, we will resist them to the death.”

And followed by the marquis and two or three of his men, the captain passed through the aperture made from the cell recently occupied by Flora and the countess, into the treasure-chamber.

But scarcely had those few individuals effected their retreat in this manner, when a tremendous crash was heard, cries and shrieks of horror and dismay burst from those who had not as yet passed through the opening, and then the roof of the chamber of penitence and all the adjacent cells gave way with a din as of a thousand cannon, burying beneath their weight the sextoness, the five penitents, the inmates of Carlotta’s cell, and seven of the banditti.

Those who were in the treasure-chamber felt the ground shake beneath their feet; the sides—although hollowed from the solid rock—appeared to vibrate and groan, and the aperture leading into the subterrane of the convent was closed up by the massive masonry that had fallen in.

Flora and Giulia threw themselves into each other’s arms, weeping bitterly; for they saw how dearly their freedom had been purchased, and they trembled for the result.

But the Marquis of Orsini, although greatly shocked at the terrible sacrifice of human life which had occurred, exerted himself to console and reassure the two terrified ladies.

CHAPTER XXXIII.
LOMELLINO’S ESCAPE—STEPHANO’S INTENTIONS.

Stephano Verrina was not the man to allow his energies to be paralyzed by the reverse he had just sustained. He immediately commanded a general muster of his men to be held in the banqueting-hall, that he might accurately ascertain the loss his corps had sustained.

Giulia and Flora were left in the treasure-chamber to snatch a few hours’ repose, if they could, as it was now past two o’clock in the morning, and the marquis accompanied Stephano to the banqueting-hall. Scarcely were the men mustered, when the usual signals announcing the approach of a member of the band were heard, and in a few moments Lomellino appeared amongst the troop.

All crowded round him to hear the account which he had to give of his expedition and its failure.

His tale was soon told. It seemed that on reaching what  might be properly termed the main building of the convent, he found the greatest alarm and confusion prevailing amongst the nuns, the shrieks of the abbess, Sister Alba, and the penitents, and the alarm of the bell, having reached the ears of the recluses. Their consternation was increased almost to madness when they suddenly perceived several armed men emerging from the private staircase leading to the subterranean department, and Lomellino found it impossible to tranquilize them either by threats or fair speaking. A guard of sbirri must have been passing at the time, for loud knocks resounded at the gate, which the old portress immediately opened before Lomellino or any of his men could interfere to prevent her. A number of police officers rushed in, and then commenced a terrific combat between the banditti and the sbirri, the former of whom were forced into an apartment, the door of which was originally locked, but was burst open in the deadly struggle. There the strife was continued, when suddenly the cry of “Fire” arose, and the flames, which had caught a bed in the apartment, spread rapidly to the cumbrous and time-worn woodwork that supported the ceiling. How the fire originated, Lomellino knew not, but as some of the nuns carried lamps in their hands, and rushed wildly about in all directions in their terror, it was not very difficult to hazard a conjecture as to the cause of the conflagration. From that apartment, where the fire began, the flames drove the combatants into an inner room, and there Lomellino saw his comrade Piero hurled down some steep place, he himself being too sorely pressed by his assailants to be able to repair to his assistance.

At length, seeing that all his companions were slain, Lomellino had fought his way desperately through the police-officers, and had succeeded in escaping from the convent, though closely pursued by three of the sbirri. They were rapidly gaining upon him, when an awful crash suddenly met their ears, as they were hurrying along the street leading to the wood; and, looking back, Lomellino beheld a tremendous pillar of flame shoot up from the place where the convent had stood, to the very sky, rendering for the space of a minute everything as light as day around. The building had fallen in, and Heaven only knows how many of the nuns and sbirri had escaped, or how many had perished beneath the ruins! Those officers who were in pursuit of Lomellino were so astounded by the sudden din and the column of flame, that they remained rooted to the spot where they had turned to gaze on the evidence of the catastrophe: and Lomellino had succeeded in effecting a safe and unobserved return to the stronghold.

This account was particularly welcome to the robbers, inasmuch as it convinced them that the sbirri had no clew to the secret entrance of their stronghold, and that none of their band had been captured in the conflict: for they would rather hear of the death of their comrades than that they had been taken prisoners; because, were the latter the case, the tortures of the rack or the exhortations of the priest might elicit confessions hostile to the interests of the corps.

Stephano Verrina now proceeded to count his men, who had  mustered fifty strong previously to the expedition of that fatal night, which, it was ascertained, had reduced the number to thirty-six—seven, including Piero, having been slain by the sbirri, and as many having perished by the falling in of the chamber of penitence.

The captain then addressed the troop in the following manner:

“Worthy comrades,—our number is sadly reduced; but regrets will not bring back those gallant fellows who are gone. It, therefore, behooves us to attend to our own interests; and, for that purpose, I demand your attention for a few minutes. In pursuance of the resolution to which we came the night before last at the general council that was held, the treasures and possessions amassed during many years of adventure and peril have been fairly divided, and each man’s portion has been settled by lot. The fourteen shares that revert to us by the death of our comrades shall be equally subdivided to-morrow; and the superintendence of that duty, my friends, will be the last act in my chieftainship. Yes, brave comrades,—I shall then leave you, in accordance with the announcement I made the night before last. It will grieve me to part with you; but you will choose another captain——”

“Lomellino! Lomellino!” exclaimed the banditti with one accord; “he shall succeed our gallant Verrina!”

“And you could not make a better choice,” continued Stephano. “Lomellino——”

“Pardon me, captain,” interrupted the individual thus alluded to: “but is not that little expedition to take place on Monday, in case the lady requires it? We have received her gold as an earnest——”

“And double that amount was promised if the affair should turn out successful,” added Stephano. “But I have reasons of my own, which you may perhaps understand, Lomellino, for desiring that all idea of that business should be abandoned. And in order that the band may not be losers by this change of intentions, I will give you from my own share of our long accumulated treasures——”

“No! no!” cried the banditti, enthusiastically; “we will not receive our gallant Stephano’s gold! Let him act according to his own wishes!”

“I thank you, my friends, for this generosity on your part,” said Stephano.

Their meeting then broke up; and the robbers sat down to the banqueting table, to luxuriate in the rich wines with which the stronghold was well stored.

The Marquis of Orsini was compelled, through fear of giving offense, to share in the festival.

“This resolution to abandon the command of your gallant band is somewhat sudden, meseems, Signor Stephano,” he said: for not having been present at the council held two nights previously, he was unaware of the captain’s intention until it was alluded to in that individual’s speech on the present occasion.

“Yes, my lord,” was the reply; “the resolution is sudden,  But,” he added, sinking his voice to a whisper, “a certain little blind god is at the bottom of it.”

“Ah! signor, you are in love!” said the marquis, laughing.

“And therefore, I mean to turn honest man,” observed Verrina, also laughing. “In truth, I am not sorry to have found a good excuse to quit a mode of life which the headsman yearns to cut short. Not that I reck for peril; but, methinks, twenty years of danger and adventure ought to be succeeded by a season of tranquillity.”

“Love has a marvelous influence over you, Signor Verrina,” said the marquis; “for love alone could have inspired such sentiments in your breast.”

“I am fain to confess that your lordship is not far wrong,” returned the bandit. “I have discovered a woman who is worthy of me—although she may not consider me to be altogether deserving of her. But of that no matter; for I am not accustomed to consult the inclinations of others, when mine own are concerned. And now a word in respect to yourself, my lord. When do you propose to quit this place? for according to my promise, you are now the master of your own actions.”

“The mysterious assault made upon the convent—the destruction of the entire establishment—and the lives that have been lost, will doubtless create a terrible sensation in Florence,” replied the nobleman; “and should it transpire that I was in any way implicated——”

“That is impossible, my lord,” interrupted Stephano. “These men whom you behold around you could alone betray that secret; and you must have seen enough of them——”

“To know that they are stanch and true,” added the marquis. “Yes, on reflection, I perceive that I have nothing to fear; and therefore, with your leave, the countess, her young companion, and myself will take our departure to-morrow.”

“In the evening, when it is dusk,” said Stephano. “But your lordship will not remain in Florence?”

“The news which you brought me, a few days ago, of the arrest of that poor Israelite on a ridiculous but most monstrous charge, has affected me strangely,” observed Manuel; “and as it is in my power to explain away that charge, I must tarry in Florence the necessary time to accomplish this object. The Count of Arestino will imagine that his wife has perished in the ruins of the convent; and hence her temporary concealment in the city will be easily effected.”

“Well, my lord,” said Stephano, “it is not for me to dictate nor to advise. But as I always entertain an esteem for a man with whom I have measured weapons—and as I have somehow formed a liking for your lordship—pardon my boldness—I should recommend you not to remain in Florence on account of the Jew. The Lady Giulia might be discovered by her husband, and you would lose her again. To tell your lordship the truth,” he added, in a low and confidential tone, “a friend of mine, who commands a trading vessel, sails in a few days from Leghorn for the Levant; and I intend to be a passenger on board, in company with the sweet lady whom I have honored with my  affections. What says your lordship? will it suit you to embark in that vessel?”

“A thousand thanks, Signor Verrina,” replied the marquis; “but I must remain at Florence to prove the innocence of that poor, persecuted Jew.”

Stephano offered no further remonstrance; and the conversation which ensued possessed not the least interest for our readers.

On the following evening the Marquis, Giulia, and Flora quitted the robbers’ stronghold—all three were carefully blindfolded, and safely conducted amidst the dangers of the egress by Stephano, Lomellino, and another bandit. When in the grove with which the entrance of the stronghold communicated, the bandages were removed from their eyes, and the two ladies, as well as the marquis, were once more enabled to rejoice in their freedom.

According to a previous arrangement between them, and in consequence of the intention of the marquis to remain a few days in Florence, Giulia accompanied Flora to the dwelling of the young maiden’s aunt, who was rejoiced to behold the reappearance of her niece, and who willingly afforded an asylum to the countess.

The marquis, having conducted the two ladies to the hospitable cottage of this good woman, returned to his own dwelling, his protracted absence from which had caused serious apprehensions amongst the few domestics whom his means permitted him to maintain. Ere we conclude this chapter, we shall observe in a few words that the greatest excitement prevailed in Florence relative to the attack on the convent and its destruction. Many of the nuns had escaped from the building at the commencement of the fire; and these took up their abode in another institution of the same order. But the thrilling events which occurred in the chamber of penitence did not transpire; nor was it ascertained who were the sacrilegious invaders of the establishment, nor by what means they had obtained an entry.

CHAPTER XXXIV.
THE ABDUCTION.

It was originally Stephano Verrina’s intention to observe good faith with Nisida in respect to the service on which she had intimated her desire to employ him and his band. But so dazzled was he by her almost supernatural majesty of beauty on that night when he and his companions encountered her in the Riverola palace, that he would have promised, or indeed undertaken, anything calculated to please or benefit her.

When, however, he came to reflect calmly upon the service in which Nisida had enlisted him, he began to suspect that some motive more powerful than the mere desire to effect the liberation of an innocent man influenced that lady. Had she not put to death a beautiful creature who had resided in the same dwelling with Fernand Wagner? and did not that deed bear upon its  aspect the stamp of an Italian woman’s vengeance? Thus thought Stephano, and he soon arrived at the very natural conclusion that Nisida loved Fernand Wagner. Wagner was therefore his rival; and Verrina did not consider it at all in accordance with his own particular views in respect to Nisida, to aid in effecting that rival’s liberation, should he be condemned by the tribunal.

Again Stephano reflected that as Wagner’s acquittal was within the range of probability, it would be expedient to possess himself of Nisida before the trial took place;—and what opportunity could be more favorable than the one which that lady herself afforded by the appointment she had given him for the Sunday evening at the gate of Saint Mary’s Cathedral?

All these considerations had determined the bandit to adopt speedy and strenuous measures to possess himself of Nisida, of whom he was so madly enamored that the hope of gratifying his passion predominated even over the pride and delight he had hitherto experienced in commanding the Florentine robbers.

The appointed evening came; and Stephano, disguised in his black mask, repaired a few minutes before ten to the immediate vicinity of the old cathedral. At the corner of an adjacent street, two men, mounted on powerful horses, and holding a third steed by the bridle, were in readiness; and, crouched in the black darkness formed by the shade of a huge buttress of the cathedral, two members of the troop which Lomellino now commanded lay concealed—for the new captain of banditti had lent some of his stanchest followers to further the designs of the ex-chieftain.

A heavy rain had fallen in the early part of the day; but it ceased ere the sun went down; and the stars shone forth like beauty’s eyes when the tears of grief have been wiped away by the lips of the lover.

Stephano paced the arena in front of the sacred edifice; and at length a gentle tread and a rustling of velvet met his ears. Then, in a few moments, as if emerging from the darkness, the majestic form of Nisida appeared; and when Stephano approached her, she drew aside her veil for an instant—only for a single instant, that he might convince himself of her identity with the lady for whom he was waiting.

But as the light of the silver stars beamed for a moment on the countenance of Nisida, that mild and placid luster was out-vied by the dazzling brilliancy of her large black eyes: and mental excitement had imparted a rich carnation hue to her cheek, rendering her so surpassingly beautiful that Stephano could almost have fallen on his knees to worship and adore her. But, oh! what lovely skins do some snakes wear!—and into what charming shapes does satan often get!

Nisida had replaced her veil while yet Verrina’s eyes were fixed on her bewitching countenance; then, placing her finger lightly upon his arm—oh! how that gentle touch thrilled through him!—she made a sign for him to follow her toward a niche in the deep gateway of the cathedral: for in that niche was an image of the Madonna, and before it burnt a lamp night  and day. To gain that spot it was necessary to pass the buttress in whose shade the two banditti lay concealed.

Stephano trembled as he followed that lady whom he knew to be as intrepid, bold, and desperate as she was beautiful:—he trembled, perhaps for the first time in his life, because never until now had he felt himself overawed by the majesty of loveliness and the resolute mind of a woman. But he had gone too far to retreat—even if that temporary and almost unaccountable timidity had prompted him to abandon his present design;—yes, he had gone too far—for at that moment when Nisida was passing the huge buttress, the two brigands sprung forth: and though her hand instantly grasped her dagger, yet so suddenly and effectually was she overpowered that she had not even time to draw it from its sheath.

Fortunately for the scheme of Stephano, the great square in front of the cathedral was at that moment completely deserted by the usual evening loungers; and thus did he and his companions experience not the slightest interruption as they bore Nisida firmly and rapidly along to the corner of the street where the horses were in attendance.

The lady’s hands were already bound, and her dagger had been taken from her; and thus the resistance she was enabled to make was very slight, when Stephano, having sprung upon one of the horses, received the charming burden from the banditti, and embraced that fine voluptuous form in his powerful arms.

The two men who had waited with Stephano’s horse were already mounted on their own, as before stated, and the little party was now in readiness to start.

“No further commands, signor?” said one of the banditti who had first seized upon Nisida.

“None, my brave fellow. Tell Lomellino that I sent him my best wishes for his prosperity. And now for a rapid journey to Leghorn!”

“Good-night, signor.”

“Good-night. Farewell—farewell, my friends!” cried Verrina; and clapping spurs to his steed, he struck into a quick gallop, his two mounted companions keeping pace with him, and riding one on either side, so as to prevent any possibility of escape on the part of Donna Nisida of Riverola.

In a few minutes the little party gained the bank of the Arno, along which they pursued their rapid way, lighted by the lovely moon, which now broke forth from the purple sky, and seemed, with its chaste beams playing on the surface of the water, to put a soul into the very river as it ran!

CHAPTER XXXV.
WAGNER AND THE TEMPTER—PHANTASMAGORIA.

While Stephano was bearing away the Lady Nisida in the manner described in the preceding chapter, Fernand Wagner was pacing his solitary cell, conjecturing what would be the result of the morrow’s trial.

 Nisida had visited him a second time on the preceding evening—disguised, as on the former occasion, in male attire; and she had implored him, in the language of the deaf and dumb, but far more eloquently with her speaking eyes and the expression of her beauteous countenance, to allow measures to be that night adopted to effect his immediate escape. But he had resolutely persisted in his original determination to undergo his trial: for by pursuing this course, he stood the chance of an acquittal; and he knew on the other hand that if he were sentenced to die, the decree of the human tribunal could not be carried into execution. How his escape from that fate (should death be indeed ordained) was beyond his power of comprehension; but that he possessed a superhuman protector he knew full well.

Without revealing to Nisida his motives for meeting the criminal judges, he refused to yield to her silently but eloquently pleaded prayer that he would escape should gold induce the jailers to throw open the door of his cell: but he conveyed to her the assurance that the deep interest she manifested in his behalf only bound him the more sincerely and devotedly to her.

During eight or nine days of his imprisonment, he had reflected deeply upon the murder of Agnes. He naturally associated that black deed with the mystery of the strange lady who had so alarmed Agnes on several occasions; and he had of course been struck by the likeness of his much loved Nisida to her whom his dead granddaughter had so minutely described to him. But, if ever suspicion pointed toward Nisida as the murderess of Agnes, he closed his eyes upon the bare idea—he hurled it from him; and he rather fell back upon the unsatisfactory belief that the entire case was wrapped in a profound mystery than entertain a thought so injurious to her whom he loved so tenderly.

We said that Nisida had visited him on Saturday night. She had determined to essay her powers of mute persuasion once more ere she finally arranged with the bandit for his rescue. But that arrangement was not to take place; for on the Sabbath evening she was carried away, in the manner already described. And it was now, also, on that Sabbath evening that Wagner was pacing his dungeon—pondering on the probable result of his trial, and yet never ceasing to think of Nisida. His memory re-traveled all the windings, and wanderings, and ways which his feet had trodden during a long, long life, and paused to dwell upon that far back hour when he loved the maiden who became the wife of his first period of youth—for he was now in a second period of youth; and he felt that he did not love her so devotedly—so tenderly—so passionately as he loved Nisida now. Suddenly, as he paced his dungeon and pondered on the past as well as on the present, the lamp flickered; and, before he could replenish it with oil, the wick died in its socket. He had the means of procuring another light; but he cared not to avail himself thereof, and he was about to lay aside his vesture, preparatory to seeking his humble pallet, when he was struck by the  appearance of a dim and misty luster which seemed to emanate from the wall facing the door. He was not alarmed; he had seen and passed through too much in this world to be readily terrified:—but he stood gazing, with intense curiosity and profound astonishment, upon that phenomenon for which his imagination suggested no natural cause.

Gradually the luster became more powerful; but in the midst of it there appeared a dark cloud, which by degrees assumed the appearance of a human form; and in a few minutes Wagner beheld a tall, strange-looking figure standing before him.

But assuredly that was no mortal being; for, apart from the mysterious mode in which he had introduced himself into the dungeon, there was on his countenance so withering—bitter—scornful—sardonic a smile, that never did human face wear so sinister an expression. And yet this being wore a human shape, and was attired in the habiliments of that age;—the long doublet, the tight hose, the trunk breeches, the short cloak, and the laced collar: but his slouched hat, instead of having a large and gracefully waving plume, was decorated with but a single feather.

Fernand stood with fascinated gaze fixed upon the being whose eyes seemed to glare with subdued lightnings, like those of the basilisk. There was something awful in that form—something wildly and menacingly sinister in the sardonic smile that curled his lips as if with ineffable contempt, and with the consciousness of his own power!

“Wagner!” he said, at length breaking silence, and speaking in a deep sonorous voice, which reverberated even in that narrow dungeon like the solemn tone of the organ echoing amidst cloistral roofs: “Wagner, knowest thou who the being is that now addresseth thee?”

“I can conjecture,” answered Fernand, boldly. “Thou art the Power of Darkness.”

“So men call me,” returned the demon, with a scornful laugh, “Yes—I am he whose delight it is to spread desolation over a fertile and beautiful earth—he, whose eternal enmity against man is the fruitful source of so much evil! But of all the disciples who have ever yet aided me in my hostile designs on the human race, none was so serviceable as Faust—that Count of Aurana, whose portrait thou hast so well delineated, and which now graces the wall of thy late dwelling.”

“Would that I had never known him!” ejaculated Wagner fervently.

“On the contrary,” resumed the demon; “thou should’st be thankful that in the wild wanderings of his latter years he stopped at thy humble cottage in the Black Forest of Germany. Important to thee were the results of that visit—and still more important may they become!”

“Explain thyself, fiend!” said Wagner, nothing dismayed.

“Thou wast tottering with age—hovering on the brink of the tomb—suspended to a thread which the finger of a child might have snapped,” continued the demon; “and in one short hour thou wast restored to youth, vigor, and beauty.”

 “And by how dreadful a penalty was that renovated existence purchased!” exclaimed Wagner.

“Hast thou not been taught by experience that no human happiness can be complete?—that worldly felicity must ever contain within itself some element of misery and distress?” demanded the fiend. “Reflect—and be just! Thou art once more young—and thy tenure of life will last until that age at which thou would’st have perished, had no superhuman power intervened to grant thee a new lease of existence! Nor is a long life the only boon conferred upon thee hitherto. Boundless wealth is ever at thy command; the floor of this dungeon would be strewed with gold, and jewels, and precious stones, at thy bidding—as thou well knowest! Moreover, thou wast ignorant—illiterate—uninformed: now all the sources of knowledge—all the springs of learning—all the fountains of science and art, are at thy disposal, and with whose waters thou canst slake the thirst of thine intellect. Endowed with a youthfulness and a vigor of form that will yield not to the weight of years—that will defy the pressure of time—and that no malady can impair,—possessed of wealth having no limit,—and enriched with a mind so stored with knowledge that the greatest sage is as a child in comparison with thee,—how darest thou complain or repent of the compact which has given to thee all these, though associated with the destiny of a Wehr-Wolf?”

“It is of this fatal—this terrible destiny that I complain and that I repent,” answered Wagner. “Still do I admit that the advantages which I have obtained by embracing that destiny are great.”

“And may be far greater!” added the demon, impressively. “Handsome, intelligent, and rich—all that thou dost require is power!”

“Yes,” exclaimed Wagner, eagerly—and now manifesting, for the first time since the appearance of the fiend in his cell, any particular emotion: “I have need of power!—power to avert those evils into which my sad destiny may plunge me,—power to dominate instead of being subject to the opinions of mankind,—power to prove my complete innocence of the dreadful crime now imputed to me,—power to maintain an untarnished reputation, to which I cling most lovingly,—power, too,” he added in a slower and also a more subdued tone—“power to restore the lost faculties of hearing and speech to her whom I love.”

Strange was the smile that curled the demon’s lips as Wagner breathed these last words.

“You require power—power almost without limit,” said the fiend, after a few moments’ pause; “and that aim is within thy reach. Handsome, intelligent, and rich,” he continued, dwelling on each word with marked emphasis, “how happy may’st thou be when possessed of the power to render available, in all their glorious extent, the gifts—the qualities wherewith thou art already endowed! When in the service of Faust—during those eighteen months which expired at the hour of sunset on the thirtieth of July, 1517——”

 “Alas!” cried Wagner, his countenance expressing emotions of indescribable horror; “remind me not of that man’s fate! Oh! never—never can I forget the mental agony—the profound and soul-felt anguish which he experienced, and which he strove not to conceal, when at the gate of Vienna on that evening he bade me farewell—forever.”

“But thou wast happy—supremely happy in his service,” said the demon; “and thou didst enjoy a fair opportunity of appreciating the value of the power which he possessed. By his superhuman aid wast thou transported from clime to clime—as rapidly as thought is transfused by the interchange of lovers’ glances; and in that varied, bustling, busied life wast thou supremely happy. The people of Europe spoke of that western world, the discovery of which recently rewarded the daring venture of great navigators; and you were desirous to behold that new continent. Your master repeated the wish; and by my invisible agency, ye stood in a few moments in the presence of the red men of North America. Again—you accompanied your master to the eternal ice of the northern pole, and from the doorway of the Esquimaux hut he beheld the wondrous play of the boreal lights. On a third occasion, and in obedience to your wish, you stood with your master in the Island of Ceylon, where the first scene that presented itself to your view was an occurrence which, though terrible, is not uncommon in that reptile-infested clime. Afterward, my power—although its active agency was but partially known to you—transported you and the count your master—now my victim—to the fantastic and interesting scenes of China—then to the court of the wife-slaying tyrant of England, and subsequently to the most sacred privacy of the imperial palace at Constantinople. How varied have been thy travels!—how rapid thy movements. And that the scenes which thine eyes did thus contemplate made a profound impression upon thy mind is proved by the pictures now hanging to the walls of thy late dwelling.”

“But wherefore this recapitulation of everything I know so well already?” asked Wagner.

“To remind thee of the advantages of that power which Faust, thy master, possessed, and which ceased to be available to thee when the term of his compact with myself arrived. Yes,” continued the demon emphatically, “the powers which he possessed may be possessed by thee—and thou may’st, with a single word, at once and forever shake off the trammels of thy present doom—the doom of a Wehr-Wolf!”

“Oh! to shake off those trammels, were indeed a boon to be desired!” exclaimed Wagner.

“And to possess the power to gratify thy slightest whim,” resumed the demon, “to possess the power to transport thyself at will to any clime, however distant—to be able to defy the machinations of men and the combination of adverse circumstances, such as have plunged thee into this dungeon—to be able, likewise, to say to thy beloved Nisida, ‘Receive back the faculties which thou hast lost——’”

And again was the smile sinister and strange that played upon  the lips of the demon. But Wagner noticed it not. His imagination was excited by the subtle discourse to which he had lent so ready an ear.

“And hast thou the power,” he cried impatiently, “to render me thus powerful?”

“I have,” answered the demon.

“But the terms—the conditions—the compact!” exclaimed Wagner, in feverish haste, though with foreboding apprehension.

“Thine immortal soul!” responded the fiend, in a low but sonorous and horrifying whisper.

“No—no!” shrieked Wagner, covering his face with his hands. “Avaunt, Satan, I defy thee! Ten thousand, thousand times preferable is the doom of the Wehr-Wolf, appalling even though that be!” With folded arms and scornful countenance, did the demon stand gazing upon Wagner, by the light of the supernatural luster which filled the cell.

“Dost thou doubt my power?” he demanded, in a slow and imperious tone. “If so, put it to the test, unbelieving mortal that thou art! But remember—should’st thou require evidence of that power which I propose to make available to thee, it must not be to give thee liberty, nor aught that may enhance thy interest.”

“And any other evidence thou wilt give me?” asked Wagner, a sudden idea striking him.

“Yes,” answered the demon, who doubtless divined his thoughts, for again did a scornful smile play upon his lips. “I will convince thee, by any manifestation thou may’st demand, subject to the condition ere now named, I will convince thee that I am he whose power was placed at the disposal of thy late master, Faust, and by means of which thou wast transported, along with him, to every climate on the earth.”

“I will name my wish,” said Wagner.

“Speak!” cried the fiend.

“Show me the Lady Nisida as she now is,” exclaimed Fernand, his heart beating with the hope of beholding her whom he loved so devotedly; for, with all the jealousy of a lover, was he anxious to convince himself that she was thinking of him.

“Ah! ’tis the same as with Faust and his Theresa,” murmured the demon to himself; then aloud he said, “Rather ask me to show you the Lady Nisida as she will appear four days hence.”

“Be it so!” cried Wagner, moved by the mysterious warning those words appeared to convey.

The demon extended his arm, and chanted in deep, sonorous tones, the following incantation:

“Ye powers of darkness who obey

Eternally my potent sway,

List to thy sovereign master’s call!

Transparent make this dungeon wall;

And now annihilated be

The space ’twixt Florence and the sea!

Let the bright luster of the morn

In golden glory steep Leghorn;

 Show where the dancing wavelets sport

Round the gay vessels in the port,

Those ships whose gilded lanterns gleam

In the warm sun’s refulgent beam;

And whose broad pennants kiss the gale,

Woo’d also by the spreading sail!—

Now let this mortal’s vision mark

Amidst that scene the corsair’s bark,

Clearing the port with swan-like pride;

Transparent make the black hull’s side,

And show the curtain’d cabin, where

Of earth’s fair daughters the most fair—

Sits like an image of despair,

Mortal, behold! thy Nisida is there!”

The strange phantasmagorian spectacle rapidly developed itself in obedience to the commands of the demon.

First, it appeared to Wagner that the supernatural luster which pervaded the dungeon, gathered like a curtain on one side and occupied the place of the wall. This wondrous light became transparent, like a thin golden mist; and then the distant city of Leghorn appeared—producing an effect similar to that of the dissolving views now familiar to every one. The morning sun shone brightly on the fair scene; and a forest of masts stood out in bold relief against the western sky. The gilded lanterns on the poops of the vessels—the flags and streamers of various hues—the white sails of those ships that were preparing for sea—and the richly painted pinnaces that were shooting along in the channel between the larger craft rendered the scene surpassingly gay and beautiful.

But amidst the shipping, Wagner’s eyes were suddenly attracted by a large galley, with three masts—looking most rakish with its snow-white sail, its tapering spars, its large red streamer, and its low, long, and gracefully sweeping hull, which was painted jet black. On its deck were six pieces of brass ordnance; and stands of fire-arms were ranged round the lower parts of the masts.

Altogether, the appearance of that vessel was as suspicious and menacing as it was gallant and graceful; and from the incantation of the demon, Wagner gleaned its real nature.

And now—as that corsair-ship moved slowly out of the port of Leghorn—its black side suddenly seemed to open, or at least to become transparent; and the interior of a handsomely fitted up cabin was revealed.

Fernand’s heart had already sunk within him through foreboding apprehension; but now an ejaculation of mingled rage and grief burst from his lips, when, on a sofa in that cabin, he beheld his loved—his dearly loved Nisida, seated “like an image of despair,” motionless and still, as if all the energies of her haughty soul, all the powers of her strong mind had been suddenly paralyzed by the weight of misfortune!

Wagner stood gazing—unable to utter another word beyond that one ejaculation of mingled rage and grief—gazing—gazing, himself a kindred image of despair, upon this mysterious and unaccountable scene.

 But gradually the interior of the cabin grew more and more indistinct, until it was again completely shut in by the black side of the harbor—her dark hull disappearing by degrees, and melting away in the distance. Wagner dashed his open palm against his forehead, exclaiming, “Oh! Nisida—Nisida! who hath torn thee from me!”

And he threw himself upon a seat, where he remained absorbed in a painful reverie, with his face buried in his hands—totally unmindful of the presence of the demon.

Two or three minutes passed—during which Fernand was deliberating within himself whether he were the sport of a wild and fanciful vision, or whether he had actually received a warning of the fate which hung over Nisida.

“Art thou satisfied with the proof of my power?” demanded a deep voice, sounding ominously upon his ear.

He raised his hand with a spasmodic start; before him stood the demon with folded arms and scornful expression of countenance—and though the phantasmagorian scene had disappeared, the supernatural luster still pervaded the dungeon.

“Fiend!” cried Wagner, impatiently; “thou hast mocked—thou hast deceived me!”

“Thus do mortals ever speak, even when I give them a glimpse of their own eventual fate, through the medium of painful dreams and hideous nightmares,” said the demon, sternly.

“But who has dared—or rather, who will dare—for that vision is a prospective warning of a deed to happen four days hence—who, then, I ask, will dare to carry off the Lady Nisida—my own loved and loving Nisida?” demanded Wagner, with increased impatience.

“Stephano Verrina, the formidable captain of the Florentine banditti, has this night carried away thy lady-love, Wagner,” replied the demon. “Thou hast yet time to save her; though the steed that bears her to Leghorn be fleet and strong, I can provide thee with a fleeter and a stronger. Nay, more—become mine, consent to serve me as Faust served me, and within an hour, within a minute if thou wilt, Nisida shall be restored to thee, she shall be released from the hands of her captors, thou shalt be free, and thy head shall be pillowed on her bosom, in whatever part of the earth it may suit thee thus to be united to her. Reflect, Wagner—I offer thee a great boon—nay, many great boons: the annihilation of those trammels which bind thee to the destiny of a wehr-wolf, power unlimited for the rest of thy days, and the immediate possession of that Nisida whom thou lovest so fondly, and who is so beautiful, so exceedingly beautiful.”

Desperate was the struggle that took place in the breast of Wagner. On one side was all he coveted on earth; on the other was the loss of the immortal soul. Here the possession of Nisida—there her forced abduction by a brigand; here his earthly happiness might be secured at the expense of his eternal welfare—there his eternal welfare must be renounced if he decided in favor of his earthly happiness. What was he to do? Nisida  was weighing in the balance against his immortal soul: to have Nisida he must renounce his God!

Oh! it was maddening—maddening, this bewilderment!

“An hour—an hour to reflect!” he cried, almost frantically.

“Not a quarter of an hour,” returned the demon, “Nisida will be lost to you—haste—decide!”

“Leave me—leave me for five minutes only!”

“No—no, not for a minute. Decide—decide!”

Wagner threw up his arms in the writhings of his ineffable anguish:—his right hand came in contact with a crucifix that hung against the wall; and he mechanically clutched it—not with any motive prepense—but wildly, unwittingly.

Terrific was the expression of rage which suddenly distorted the countenance of the demon: the lightnings of ineffable fury seemed to flash from his eyes and play upon his contracting brow;—and yet a strong spasmodic shuddering at the same time convulsed his awful form; for as Wagner clung to the crucifix to prevent himself from falling at the feet of the malignant fiend, the symbol of Christianity was dragged by his weight from the wall—and, as Wagner reeled sideways, the cross which he retained with instinctive tenacity in his grasp, waved across the demon’s face.

Then, with a terrific howl of mingled rage and fear, the fiend fell back and disappeared through the earth—as if a second time hurled down in headlong flight before the thunderbolts of heaven. Wagner fell upon his knees and prayed fervently.

CHAPTER XXXVI.
THE TRIAL OF FERNAND WAGNER.

On the ensuing morning Wagner stood before the judge of the Criminal Tribunal of the Republic.

The judgment hall was a large and lofty room in the Palazzo del Podesta, or ducal palace. The judges sat in antique and richly carved chairs, placed on a platform, beneath a canopy of purple velvet fringed with gold.

On the left, at a handsome desk covered with papers, was seated the procurator fiscal or attorney-general of the republic, distinguished in attire from the judges only by the fact of the ermine upon his scarlet robe being narrower than theirs. Opposite to this functionary was a bench whereon the witnesses were placed. The prisoner stood between two sbirri in a small pew, in the center of the court. Defendants in civil cases were alone permitted in that age and country to retain counsel in their behalf; persons accused of crimes were debarred this privilege. Wagner was therefore undefended.

The proceedings of the tribunal were usually conducted privately; but about a dozen gentlemen and twice as many ladies had obtained orders of admission on this occasion, the case having produced considerable sensation in Florence, on account of the reputed wealth of the accused. Perhaps, also, the rumor that he was a young man endowed with extraordinary personal attractions,  had exercised its influence upon the susceptible hearts of the Florentine ladies. Certain it is, that when he was conducted into the judgment hall, his strikingly handsome exterior—his air of modest confidence—his graceful gait, and his youthful appearance, so far threw into the back-ground the crime imputed to him, that the ladies present felt their sympathies deeply enlisted in his behalf.

The usher of the tribunal having commanded silence in a loud voice, the chief judge began the usual interrogatory of the prisoner.

To the questions addressed to him, the accused replied that his name was Fernand Wagner; that he was a native of Germany; that he had no profession, avocation nor calling; that he was possessed of a large fortune; and that having traveled over many parts of the world, he settled in Florence, where he had hoped to enjoy a tranquil and peaceful existence.

“The murdered female was reputed to be your sister,” said the chief judge. “Was such the fact?”

“She was a near relative,” answered Wagner.

“But was she your sister?” demanded the procurator fiscal.

“She was not.”

“Then in what degree of relationship did she stand toward you?” asked the chief judge.

“I must decline to reply to that question.”

“The tribunal infers, therefore, that the murdered female was not related to you at all,” observed the judge. “Was she not your mistress?”

“No, my lord!” cried Wagner, emphatically. “As truly as Heaven now hears my assertion, it was not so!”

“Was she your wife?” demanded the chief judge.

A negative answer was given.

The chief judge and the procurator fiscal then by turns questioned and cross-questioned the prisoner in the most subtle manner, to induce him state the degree of relationship subsisting between himself and Agnes; but he either refused to respond to their queries, or else answered direct ones by means of a positive denial.

The lieutenant of the sbirri was at length called upon to give an account of the discovery of the dead body and the suspicious circumstances which had led to the arrest of Wagner. Two of these circumstances appeared to be very strong against him. The first was the soiled and blood-stained appearance of the garments which were found in his chamber; the other was the exclamation—“But how know you that it is Agnes who is murdered?”—uttered before any one had informed who had been murdered.

Wagner was called upon for an explanation. He stated that he had been out the whole night; that the blood upon his garments had flowed from his own body, which had been scratched and torn in the mazes of the woods; that on his return home he met Agnes in the garden; that he had left her there; and that he was told a young lady had been assassinated in the  vicinity of his dwelling, he immediately conceived that the victim must be Agnes.

When questioned concerning the motives of his absence from home during the entire night he maintained a profound silence; but he was evidently much agitated and excited by the queries thus put to him. He said nothing about the stranger-lady who had so frequently terrified Agnes; because, in relating the proceedings of that mysterious female in respect to his deceased grand-daughter—especially the incident of the abstraction of the antique jewels which the late Count of Riverola had given to her—he would have been compelled to enter into details concerning the amour between those who were no more. And this subject he was solicitous to avoid, not only through respect for the memory of the murdered Agnes, but also to spare the feelings of Count Francisco and Donna Nisida.

The judges and the procurator fiscal, finding that they could elicit nothing from Wagner relative to the cause of his absence from home during the night preceding the murder, passed on to another subject.

“In an apartment belonging to your residence,” said the chief judge, “there are several pictures and portraits.”

Wagner turned pale and trembled. The judge made a signal to an officer of the court, and that functionary quitted the judgment hall. In a few minutes he returned, followed by three subordinates bearing the two portraits mentioned in the sixth chapter of this tale, and also the frame covered over with the large piece of black cloth. On perceiving this last object, Wagner became paler still, and trembled violently.

“There are six other pictures in the room whence these have been taken,” said the judge; “but these six are not of a character to interest the tribunal. We however require explanations concerning the two portraits and the frame with the black cloth cover now before us.”

The greatest excitement at present prevailed amongst the audience.

“On one of the portraits,” continued the chief judge, “there is an inscription to this effect,—F., Count of A., terminated his career on the 1st. of August, 1517.—What does this inscription mean?”

“It means that Faust, Count of Aurana, was a nobleman with whom I traveled during a period of eighteen months,” replied Wagner; “and he died on the day mentioned in that inscription.”

“The world has heard strange reports relative to Faust,” said the chief judge, in a cold voice and with unchanged manner, although the mention of that name had produced a thrill of horror on the part of his brother judges and the audience. “Art thou aware that rumor ascribes to him a compact with the Evil One?”

Wagner gazed around him in horrified amazement, for the incident of the preceding night returned with such force to his mind that he could scarcely subdue an agonizing ebullition of emotion.

 The chief judge next recited the inscription on the other portrait:—“F. W. January 7th, 1516. His last day thus.” But Wagner maintained a profound silence, and neither threats nor entreaties could induce him to give the least explanation concerning that inscription.

“Let us then proceed to examine this frame with the black cloth cover,” said the chief judge.

“My lord,” whispered one of his brother judges, “in the name of the Blessed Virgin! have naught more to do with this man. Let him go forth to execution: he is a monster of atrocity, evidently a murderer, doubtless leagued with the Evil One, as Faust, of whose acquaintance he boasts, was before him——”

“For my part, I credit not such idle tales,” interrupted the chief judge, “and it is my determination to sift this matter to the very foundation. I am rather inclined to believe that the prisoner is allied with the banditti who infest the republic, than with any preterhuman powers. His absence from home during the entire night, according to his own admission, his immense wealth, without any ostensible resources, all justify my suspicion. Let the case proceed,” added the chief judge aloud; for he had made the previous observations in a low tone. “Usher, remove the black cloth from the picture!”

“No! no!” exclaimed Wagner, wildly: and he was about to rush from the dock, but the sbirri held him back. The usher’s hand was already on the black cloth.

“I beseech your lordship to pause!” whispered the assistant judge who had before spoken.

“Proceed!” exclaimed the presiding functionary in a loud authoritative tone; for he was a bold and fearless man.

And scarcely were these word uttered, when the black cloth was stripped from the frame; and the usher who had removed the covering recoiled with a cry of horror, as his eyes obtained a glimpse of the picture which was now revealed to view.

“What means this folly?” ejaculated the chief judge. “Bring the picture hither.”

The usher, awed by the manner of this great functionary, raised the picture in such a way that the judges and the procurator fiscal might obtain a full view of it.

“A Wehr-Wolf!” ejaculated the assistant judge, who had previously remonstrated with his superior; and his countenance became pale as death.

The dreadful words were echoed by other tongues in the court; and a panic fear seized on all save the chief judge and Wagner himself. The former smiled contemptuously, the latter had summoned all his courage to aid him to pass through this terrible ordeal without confirming by his conduct the dreadful suspicion which had been excited in respect to him.

For, oh! the subject of that picture was indeed awful to contemplate! It had no inscription, but it represented, with the most painful and horrifying fidelity, the writhings and agonizing throes of the human being during the progress of transformation into the lupine monster. The countenance of the unhappy man had already elongated into one of savage and  brute-like shape; and so admirably had art counterfeited nature, that the rich garments seemed changed into a rough, shaggy, and wiry skin! The effect produced by that picture was indeed of thrilling and appalling interest!

“A Wehr-Wolf!” had exclaimed one of the assistant judges: and while the voices of several of the male spectators in the body of the court echoed the words mechanically, the ladies gave vent to screams, as they rushed toward the doors of the tribunal. In a few moments that part of the court was entirely cleared.

“Prisoner!” exclaimed the chief judge, “have you ought more to advance in your defense, relative to the charge of murder?”

“My lord, I am innocent!” said Wagner, firmly but respectfully.

“The tribunal pronounces you guilty!” continued the chief judge: then, with a scornful smile toward his assistants and the procurator fiscal—who all three, as well as the sbirri and the officers of the court were pale and trembling with vague fear—the presiding functionary continued thus:—“The tribunal condemns you, Fernand Wagner, to death by the hand of the common headsman; and it is now my duty to name the day and fix the hour for your execution. Therefore I do ordain that the sentence just pronounced be carried into effect precisely at the hour of sunset on the last day of the present month!”

“My lord! my lord!” exclaimed the procurator fiscal; “the belief is that on the last day of each month, and at the hour of sunset——”

“I am aware of the common superstition,” interrupted the chief judge, coldly and sternly; “and it is to convince the world of the folly of putting faith in such legends that I have fixed that day and that hour in the present instance. Away with the prisoner to his dungeon.”

And the chief judge waved his hand imperiously, to check any further attempts at remonstrance; but his assistant functionaries, the procurator fiscal and the officers of the court, surveyed him with mingled surprise and awe, uncertain whether they ought to applaud his courage or tremble at his rashness. Wagner had maintained a calm and dignified demeanor during the latter portion of the proceedings; and, although the sbirri who had charge of him ventured not to lay a finger upon him, he accompanied them back to the prison of the Palazzo del Podesta.

CHAPTER XXXVII.
THE SHIPWRECK.

Ten days had elapsed since the incidents related in the preceding chapter. The scene changes to an island in the Mediterranean Sea. There, seated on the strand, with garments dripping wet, and with all the silken richness of her raven hair floating wildly and disheveled over her shoulders, the Lady Nisida gazed vacantly on the ocean, now tinged with living gold by  the morning sun. At a short distance, a portion of a shipwrecked vessel lay upon the shore, and seemed to tell her tale. But where were the desperate, daring crew who had manned the gallant bark? where were those fearless freebooters who six days previously had sailed from Leghorn on their piratical voyage? where were those who hoisted the flag of peace and assumed the demeanor of honest trader when in port, but who on the broad bosom of the ocean carried the terrors of their black banner far and wide? where, too, was Stephano Verrina, who had so boldly carried off the Lady Nisida?

The gallant bark had struck upon a shoal, during the tempest and the obscurity of the night, and the pilot knew not where they were. His reckoning was lost—his calculations had all been set at naught by the confusion produced by the fearful storm which had assailed the ship and driven her from her course. The moment the corsair galley struck, that confusion increased to such an extent that the captain lost all control over his men; the pilot’s voice was unheeded likewise.

The crew got out the long-boat and leaped into it, forcing the captain and the pilot to enter it with them. Stephano Verrina, who was on deck when the vessel struck, rushed down into the cabin appropriated to Nisida, and by signs endeavored to convey to her a sense of the danger which menaced them. Conquering her ineffable aversion for the bandit, Nisida followed him hastily to the deck. At the same instant that her eyes plunged, as it were, into the dense obscurity which prevailed around, the lightning streamed in long and vivid flashes over the turbulent waters, and with the roar of the billows suddenly mingled deafening shrieks and cries—shrieks and cries of wild despair, as the long-boat, which had been pushed away from the corsair-bark, went down at a little distance. And as the lightning played upon the raging sea, Nisida and Verrina caught hurried but frightful glimpses of many human faces, whereon was expressed the indescribable agony of the drowning.

“Perdition!” cried Verrina; “all are gone save Nisida and myself! And shall we too perish ere she has become mine? shall death separate us ere I have reveled in her charms? Fool that I was to delay my triumph hitherto! Fool that I was to be overawed by her impetuous signs, or melted by her silent though strong appeals!”

He paced the deck in an excited manner as he uttered these words aloud.

“No!” he exclaimed wildly, as the tempest seemed to increase, and the ship was thrown further on shoal: “she shall not escape me thus, after all I have done and dared in order to possess her! Our funeral may take place to-night—but our bridal shall be first. Ha! ha!”—and he laughed with a kind of despairing mockery, while the fragments of the vessel’s sails flapped against the spars with a din as if some mighty demon were struggling with the blast. The sense of appalling danger seemed to madden Stephano only because it threatened to separate him from Nisida; and, fearfully excited, he rushed toward her, crying wildly, “You shall be mine!”

 But how terrible was the yell which burst from his lips, when by the glare of a brilliant flash of lightning, he beheld Nisida cast herself over the side of the vessel!

For a single instant he fell back appalled, horror-struck; but at the next, he plunged with insensate fury after her. And the rage of the storm redoubled.

When the misty shades of morning cleared away, and the storm had passed, Nisida was seated alone upon the strand, having miraculously escaped that eternal night of death which leads to no dawn. But where was Stephano Verrina? She knew not; although she naturally conjectured, and even hoped, that he was numbered with the dead.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.
THE ISLAND IN THE MEDITERRANEAN SEA.

Fair and beauteous was the Mediterranean isle whereon the Lady Nisida had been thrown.

When the morning mists had dispersed, and the sunbeams tinged the ridges of the hills and the summits of the tallest trees, Nisida awoke as it were from the profound lethargic reverie in which she had been plunged for upward of an hour, since the moment when the billows had borne her safely to the shore.

The temperature of that island was warm and genial, for there eternal summer reigned, and thus, though her garments were still dripping wet, Nisida experienced no cold. She rose from the bank of sand whereon she had been seated, and cast anxious, rapid, and searching glances around her. Not a human being met her eyes; but in the woods that stretched, with emerald pride, almost down to the golden sands, the birds and insects—nature’s free commoners—sent forth the sounds of life and welcomed the advent of the morn with that music of the groves.

The scenery which now presented itself to the contemplation of Nisida was indescribably beautiful. Richly wooded hills rose towering above each other with amphitheatrical effect; and behind the verdant panorama were the blue outlines of pinnacles of naked rocks. But not a trace of the presence of human beings was to be seen—not a hamlet, nor a cottage, nor the slightest sign of agriculture! At a short distance lay a portion of the wreck of the corsair-ship. The fury of the tempest of the preceding night had thrown it so high upon the shoal whereon it had struck, and the sea was now comparatively so calm, that Nisida was enabled to approach close up to it. With little difficulty she succeeded in reaching the deck,—that deck whose elastic surface lately vibrated to the tread of many daring, desperate young men—but now desolate and broken in many parts.

The cabin which had been allotted to her, or rather to which she had been confined, was in the portion of the wreck that still remained; and there she found a change of raiment, which Stephano had provided ere the vessel left Leghorn. Carefully  packing up these garments in as small and portable a compass as possible, she fastened the burden upon her shoulders by the means of a cord, and, quitting the vessel, conveyed it safe and dry to the shore.

Then she returned again to the wreck in search of provisions, considerable quantities of which she fortunately found to be uninjured by the water; and these she was enabled to transport to the strand by means of several journeys backward and forward between the shore and the wreck. The occupation was not only necessary in order to provide the wherewith to sustain life, but it also abstracted her thoughts from a too painful contemplation of her position. It was long past the hour of noon when she had completed her task; and the shore in the immediate vicinity of the wreck was piled with a miscellaneous assortment of objects—bags of provisions, weapons of defense, articles of the toilet, clothing, pieces of canvas, cordage, and carpenter’s tools. Then, wearied with her arduous toils, she laid aside her dripping garments, bathed her beauteous form in the sea, and attired herself in dry apparel.

Having partaken of some refreshment, she armed herself with weapons of defense, and quitting the shore, entered upon that vast amphitheater of verdure to which we have already slightly alluded. The woods were thick and tangled; but though, when seen from the shore, they appeared to form one dense, uninterrupted forest, yet they in reality only dotted the surface of the islands with numerous detached patches of grove and copse; and in the intervals were verdant plains or delicious valleys, exhibiting not the slightest sign of agriculture, but interspersed with shrubs and trees laden with fruits rich and tempting.

Nature had indeed profusely showered her bounties over that charming isle; for the trees glowed with their blushing or golden produce, as if gems were the fruitage of every bough.

Through one of the delicious valleys which Nisida explored, a streamlet, smooth as a looking-glass, wound its way. To its sunny bank did the lady repair; and the pebbly bed of the river was seen as plainly through the limpid waters as an eyeball through a tear.

Though alone was Nisida in that vale, and though many bitter reflections, deep regrets, and vague apprehensions crowded upon her soul; yet the liveliness of the scene appeared to diminish the intenseness of the feelings of utter solitude, and its soft influence partially lulled the waves of her emotions. For never had mortal eyes beheld finer fruit upon the trees, nor lovelier flowers upon the soil; all life was rejoicing, from the grasshopper at her feet to the feathered songsters in the myrtle, citron, and olive groves; and the swan glided past to the music of the stream. Above, the heavens were more clear than her own Italian clime, more blue than any color that tinges the flowers of the earth.

She roved along the smiling bank which fringed the stream until the setting sun dyed with the richest purple the rocky pinnacles in the distance, and made the streamlet glow like a golden flood. And Nisida—alone, in the radiance and glory of her own  charms—alone amidst all the radiance and glory of the charms of nature—the beauteous Nisida appeared to be the queen of that Mediterranean isle. But whether it were really an island or a portion of the three continents which hem in that tideless ocean, the lady as yet knew not.

Warned by the splendors of the setting sun to retrace her way, she turned and sped back to the strand, where the stores she had saved from the wreck were heaped up. When first she had set out upon her exploring ramble, she had expected every moment to behold human forms—her fellow-creatures—emerge from the woods; but the more she saw of that charming spot whereon her destinies had thrown her, the fainter grew the hope or the fear—we scarcely know which to term the expectation. For no sign of the presence of man was there; Nature appeared to be the undisputed empress of that land; and Nisida returned to the shore with the conviction that she was the sole human inhabitant of this delicious region.

And now, once more seated upon the strand, while the last beams of the sun played upon the wide blue waters of the Mediterranean, Nisida partook of her frugal repast, consisting of the bread supplied by the wreck and a few fruits which she gathered in the valley. The effects of the tempest had totally disappeared in respect to the sea, which now lay stretched in glassy stillness. It seemed as if a holy calm, soft as an infant’s sleep, lay upon the bosom of the Mediterranean, now no longer terrible with storm, but a mighty emblem of mild majesty and rest!

Nisida thought of the fury which had lately convulsed that sea, now so placid, and sighed at the conviction which was forced upon her—that no such calm was for the mortal breast when storms had once been there! For she pondered on her native land, now, perhaps, far—oh! how far away; and the images of those whom she loved appeared to rise before her—Francisco in despair at his sister’s unaccountable disappearance—and Fernand perchance already doomed to die! And tears flowed down her cheeks, and trickled upon her snowy bosom, gleaming like dew amongst lilies. Of what avail was the energy of her character in that land along whose coast stretched the impassable barrier of the sea? Oh! it was enough to make even the haughty Nisida weep, and to produce a terrible impression on a mind hitherto acting only in obedience to its own indomitable will.

Though the sun had set some time, and no moon had yet appeared in the purple sky, yet was it far from dark. An azure mantle of twilight seemed to wrap the earth—the sea—the heavens; and so soft, so overpowering was the influence of the scene and of the night, that slumber gradually stole upon the lady’s eyes. There now, upon the warm sand, slept Nisida; and when the chaste advent of the moon bathed all in silver, as the sun had for twelve hours steeped all in gold, the beams of the goddess of the night played on her charming countenance without awakening her. The raven masses of her hair lay upon her flushed cheeks like midnight on a bed of roses, her long black  lashes reposed on those cheeks, so surpassingly lovely with their rich carnation hues. For she dreamt of Fernand; and her vision was a happy one. Imagination played wild tricks with the shipwrecked, lonely lady, as if to recompense her for the waking realities of her sad position. She thought that she was reposing in the delicious valley which she had explored in the afternoon—she thought that Fernand was her companion—that she lay in his arms—that his lips pressed hers—that she was all to him as he was all to her, and that love’s cup of enjoyment was full to the very brim.

But, oh! when she slowly awoke, and under the influence of the delightful vision, raised her eyes in the dewy light of voluptuous languor to the blue sky above her, the sunbeams that were heralding in another day cruelly dispelled the enchanting illusions of a warm and excited fancy, and Nisida found herself alone on the sea-shore of the island.

Thus the glory of that sunrise had no charms for her; although never had the orb of day come forth with greater pomp, nor to shine on a lovelier scene. No words can convey an idea of the rapid development of every feature in the landscape, the deeper and deepening tint of the glowing sky, the roseate hue of the mountain-peaks as they stood out against the cloudless orient, and the rich emerald shades of the woods sparkling with fruit. The fragrant rose and the chaste lily, the blushing peony and the gaudy tulip, and all the choicest flowers of that delicious clime, expanded into renewed loveliness to greet the sun: and the citron and the orange, the melon and the grape, the pomegranate and the date drank in the yellow light to nourish their golden hues.

Nisida’s eyes glanced rapidly over the vast expanse of waters, and swept the horizon: but there was not a sail, nor even a cloud which imagination might transform into the white wing of a distant ship. And now upon the golden sand the lovely Nisida put off her garments one by one: and set at liberty the dark masses of her shining hair, which floated like an ample veil of raven blackness over the dazzling whiteness of her skin. Imagination might have invested her forehead with a halo, so magnificent was the lustrous effect of the sun upon the silken glossiness of that luxuriant hair.

The Mediterranean was the lady’s bath: and, in spite of the oppressive nature of the waking thoughts which had succeeded her delicious dream, in spite of that conviction of loneliness which lay like a weight of lead upon her soul, she disported in the waters like a mermaid.

Now she plunged beneath the surface, which glowed in the sun like a vast lake of quicksilver: now she stood in a shallow spot, where the water rippled no higher than her middle, and combed out her dripping tresses; then she waded further in, and seemed to rejoice in allowing the little wavelets to kiss her snowy bosom. No fear had she, indeed, no thought of the monsters of the deep: could the fair surface of the shining water conceal aught dangerous or aught terrible? Oh! yes, even as beneath that snowy breast beat a heart stained with crime, often  agitated by ardent and impetuous passions, and devoured by raging desire.

For nearly an hour did Nisida disport in Nature’s mighty bath until the heat of the sun became so intense that she was compelled to return to the shore and resume her apparel. Then she took some bread in her hand, and hastened to the groves to pluck the cooling and delicious fruits whereof there was so marvelous an abundance. She seated herself on a bed of wild flowers on the shady side of a citron and orange grove, surrounded by a perfumed air. Before her stretched the valley, like a vast carpet of bright green velvet fantastically embroidered with flowers of a thousand varied hues. And in the midst meandered the crystal stream, with stately swans and an infinite number of other aquatic birds floating on its bosom. And the birds of the groves, too, how beautiful were they, and how joyous did they seem! What variegated plumage did they display, as they flew past the Lady Nisida, unscared by her presence! Some of them alighted from the overhanging boughs, and as they descended swept her very hair with their wings; then, almost to convince her that she was not an unwelcome intruder in that charming land, they hopped round her, picking up the crumbs of bread which she scattered about to attract them.

For the loneliness of her condition had already attuned the mind of this strange being to a susceptibility of deriving amusement from incidents which a short time previously she would have looked upon as the most insane triflings;—thus was the weariness of her thoughts relieved by disporting in the water, as we ere now saw her, or by contemplating the playfulness of the birds. Presently she wandered into the vale, and gathered a magnificent nosegay of flowers: then the whim struck her that she would weave for herself a chaplet of roses; and as her work progressed, she improved upon it, and fashioned a beauteous diadem of flowers to protect her head from the scorching noonday sun.

But think not, O reader! that while thus diverting herself with trivialities of which you would scarcely have deemed the haughty—imperious—active disposition of Nisida of Riverola to be capable—think not that her mind was altogether abstracted from unpleasant thoughts. No—far, very far from that! She was merely relieved from a portion of that weight which oppressed her; but her entire burden could not be removed from her soul. There were moments when her grief amounted almost to despair. Was she doomed to pass the remainder of her existence in that land? was it really an island and unknown to navigators? She feared so: for did it join a continent, its loveliness and fruitfulness would not have permitted it to remain long unoccupied by those who must of necessity discover it.

And oh! what would her brother think of her absence? what would Fernand conjecture? And what perils might not at that moment envelop her lover, while she was not near to succor him by means of her artifice, her machinations, or her gold. Ten thousand-thousand maledictions upon Stephano, who was the cause of all her present misery! Ten thousand-thousand  maledictions on her own folly for not having exerted all her energies and all her faculties to escape from his power, ere she was conveyed on board the corsair ship, and it was too late!

But useless now were regrets and repinings; for the past could not be recalled, and the future might have much happiness in store for Nisida. For oh! sweetest comes the hope which is lured back because its presence is indispensable; and, oppressed as Nisida was with the weight of her misfortunes, her soul was too energetic, too sanguine, too impetuous to yield to despair.

Day after day passed, and still not a ship appeared. Nisida did not penetrate much further into the island than the valley which we have described, and whither she was accustomed to repair to gather the flowers that she wove into diadems. She lingered for the most part near the shore on which she had been thrown, fearing lest, if away, a ship might pass in her absence.

Each day she bathed her beauteous form in the Mediterranean; each day she devoted some little time to the adornment of her person with wreaths of flowers. She wove crowns for her head—necklaces, bracelets, and scarfs,—combining the flowers so as to form the most wild and fanciful devices, and occasionally surveying herself in the natural mirror afforded her by the limpid stream. Purposely wearing an apparel as scanty as possible, on account of the oppressive heat which prevailed during each day of twelve long hours, and which was not materially moderated at night, she supplied to some extent the place of the superfluous garments thus thrown aside, by means of tissues of cool, refreshing, fragrant flowers.

Thus, by the time she had been ten or twelve days upon the island, her appearance seemed most admirably to correspond with her new and lonely mode of life, and the spot where her destinies had cast her. Habited in a single linen garment, confined round the slender waist with a cestus of flowers, and with light slippers upon her feet, but with a diadem of roses on her head, and with wreaths round her bare arms, and her equally bare ankles, she appeared to be the goddess of that island—the genius of that charming clime of fruits, and verdure, and crystal streams, and flowers. The majesty of her beauty was softened, and thus enhanced, by the wonderful simplicity of her attire; the dazzling brilliancy of her charms was subdued by the chaste, the innocent, the primitive aspect with which those fantastically woven flowers invested her. Even the extraordinary luster of her fine dark eyes was moderated by the gaudy yet elegant assemblage of hues formed by those flowers which she wore. Was it not strange that she whose soul we have hitherto seen bent on deeds or schemes of stern and important nature—who never acted without a motive, and whose mind was far too deeply occupied with worldly cares and pursuits to bestow a thought on trifles—who, indeed, would have despised herself had she wasted a moment in toying with a flower, or watching the playful motions of a bird,—was it not strange that Nisida should have become so changed as we now find her in that island of which she was the queen?

Conceive that same Nisida who planned dark plots against  Flora Francatelli, now tripping along the banks of the sunlit stream, bedecked with flowers and playing with the swans. Imagine that same being, who dealt death to Agnes, now seated beneath the shade of myrtles and embowering vines, distributing bread or pomegranate seeds to the birds that hopped cheerfully around her. Picture to yourself that woman of majestic beauty, whom you have seen clad in black velvet and wearing a dark thick veil, now weaving for herself garments of flowers, and wandering in the lightest possible attire by the seashore, or by the rippling stream, or amidst the mazes of the fruit-laden groves.

And sometimes, as she sat upon the yellow sand, gazing on the wavelets of the Mediterranean, that were racing one after another, like living things from some far off region, to that lovely but lonely isle, it would seem as if all the low and sweet voices of the sea—never loud and sullen now, since the night of storm which cast her on that strand—were heard by her, and made delicious music to her ears! In that island must we leave her now for a short space,—leave her to her birds, her flowers, and her mermaid-sports in the sea,—leave her also to her intervals of dark and dismal thoughts, and to her long, but ineffectual watchings for the appearance of a sail in the horizon.

CHAPTER XXXIX.
THE WEHR-WOLF.

It was the last day of the month; and the hour of sunset was fast approaching. Great was the sensation that prevailed throughout the city of Florence. Rumor had industriously spread, and with equal assiduity exaggerated, the particulars of Fernand Wagner’s trial, and the belief that a man on whom the horrible destiny of a Wehr-Wolf had been entailed, was about to suffer the extreme penalty of the law, was generally prevalent.

The great square of the ducal palace, where the scaffold was erected, was crowded with the Florentine populace; and the windows were literally alive with human faces. Various were the emotions and feelings which influenced that mass of spectators. The credulous and superstitious—forming more than nine-tenths of the whole multitude—shook their heads, and commented amongst themselves, in subdued whispers, on the profane rashness of the chief judge, who dared to doubt the existence of such a being as a Wehr-Wolf. The few who shared the skepticism of the judge applauded that high functionary for his courage in venturing so bold a stroke in order to destroy what he and they deemed an idle superstition.

But the great mass were dominated by a profound and indeed most painful sensation of awe; curiosity induced them to remain, though their misgivings prompted them to fly from the spot which had been fixed upon for the execution. The flowers of Florentine loveliness—and never in any age did the republic boast of so much female beauty—were present: but bright eyes  flashed forth uneasy glances, and snowy bosoms beat with alarms, and fair hands trembled in the lover’s pressure. In the midst of the square was raised a high platform covered with black cloth, and presenting an appearance so ominous and sinister that it was but little calculated to revive the spirits of the timid. On this scaffold was a huge block: and near the block stood the headsman, carelessly leaning on his ax, the steel of which was polished and bright as silver. A few minutes before the hour of sunset, the chief judge, the procurator fiscal, the two assistant-judges, and the lieutenant of sbirri, attended by a turnkey and several subordinate police officers, were repairing in procession along the corridor leading to the doomed prisoner’s cell.

The chief judge alone was dignified in manner; and he alone wore a demeanor denoting resolution and at the same time self-possession. Those who accompanied him were, without a single exception, a prey to the most lively fear; and it was evident that had they dared to absent themselves they would not have been present on this occasion. At length the door of the prisoner’s cell was reached; and there the procession paused.

“The moment is now at hand,” said the chief judge, “when a monstrous and ridiculous superstition, imported into our country from that cradle and nurse of preposterous legends—Germany—shall be annihilated forever. This knave who is about to suffer has doubtless propagated the report of his lupine destiny, in order to inspire terror and thus prosecute his career of crime and infamy with the greater security from chances of molestation. For this end he painted the picture which appalled so many of you in the judgment hall, but which, believe, my friends, he did not always believe destined to retain its sable covering. Well did he know that the curiosity of a servant or of a friend would obtain a peep beneath the mystic veil; and he calculated that the terror with which he sought to invest himself would be enhanced by the rumors and representations spread by those who had thus penetrated into its feigned secrets. But let us not waste that time which now verges toward a crisis, whereby doubt shall be dispelled and a ridiculous superstition destroyed forever.”

At this moment a loud, a piercing, and an agonizing cry burst from the interior of the cell.

“The knave has overheard me, and would fain strike terror to your hearts!” exclaimed the chief judge; then in a still louder tone, he commanded the turnkey to open the door of the dungeon. But when the man approached, so strange, so awful, so appalling were the sounds which came from the interior of the cell, that he threw down the key in dismay and rushed from the dreadful vicinity.

“My lord, I implore you to pause!” said the procurator fiscal, trembling from head to foot.

“Would you have me render myself ridiculous in the eyes of all Florence?” demanded the chief judge sternly.

Yet, so strange were now the noises which came from the interior of the dungeon—so piercing the cries of agony—so violent the rustling and tossing on the stone floor, that for the first time  this bold functionary entertained a partial misgiving, as if he had indeed gone too far. But to retreat was impossible; and, with desperate resolution, the chief judge picked up the key and thrust it into the lock.

His assistants, the procurator fiscal, and the sbirri drew back with instinctive horror, as the bolts groaned in the iron work which held them; the chain fell with a clanking sound; and as the door was opened, the horrible monster burst forth from the dungeon with a terrific howl. Yells and cries of despair reverberated through the long corridor: and those sounds were for an instant broken by that of the falling of a heavy body.

’Twas the chief judge, hurled down and dashed violently against the rough uneven masonry, by the mad careering of the Wehr-Wolf as the monster burst from his cell. On, on he sped, with the velocity of lightning, along the corridor, giving vent to howls of the most horrifying description.

Fainting with terror, the assistant judges, the procurator fiscal, and the sbirri were for a few moments so overcome by the appalling scene they had just witnessed, that they thought not of raising the chief judge, who lay motionless on the pavement. But at length some of the police-officers so far recovered themselves as to be able to devote attention to that high functionary—it was, however, too late—his skull was fractured by the violence with which he had been dashed against the rough wall, and his brains were scattered on the pavement. Those who now bent over his disfigured corpse exchanged looks of unutterable horror.

In the meantime the Wehr-Wolf had cleared the corridor, rapid as an arrow shot from the bow; he sprung, bounding up a flight of steep stone stairs as if the elastic air bore him on, and rushing through an open door, burst suddenly upon the crowd that was so anxiously waiting to behold the procession issue thence.

Terrific was the yell that the multitude sent forth—a yell formed of a thousand combining voices, so long, so loud, so wildly agonizing, that never had the welkin rung with so appalling an ebullition of human misery before! Madly rushed the wolf amidst the people, dashing them aside, overturning them, hurling them down, bursting through the mass too dense to clear a passage of its own accord, and making the scene of horror more horrible still by mingling his hideous howlings with the cries—the shrieks—the screams that escaped from a thousand tongues.

No pen can describe the awful scene of confusion and death which now took place. Swayed by no panic fear, but influenced by terrors of dreadful reality, the people exerted all their force to escape from that spot; and thus the struggling, crushing, pushing, crowding, fighting, and all the oscillations of a multitude set in motion by the direst alarms, were succeeded by the most fatal results. Women were thrown down and trampled to death, strong men were scarcely able to maintain their footing, many females were literally suffocated in the pressure of the  crowd, and mothers with young children in their arms excited no sympathy.

Never was the selfishness of human nature more strikingly displayed than on this occasion: no one bestowed a thought upon his neighbor: the chivalrous Florentine citizens dashed aside the weak and helpless female who barred his way with as little remorse as if she were not a being of flesh and blood; and even husbands forgot their wives, lovers abandoned their mistresses, and parents waited not an instant to succor their daughters.

Oh! it was a terrible thing to contemplate, that dense mass, oscillating furiously like the waves of the sea, sending up to heaven such appalling sounds of misery, rushing furiously toward the avenues of egress, falling back baffled and crushed, in the struggle where only the very strongest prevailed, laboring to escape from death, and fighting for life, fluctuating and rushing, and wailing in maddening excitement like a raging ocean. Oh! all this wrought a direful sublimity, with those cries of agony and that riot of desperation. And all this while the wolf pursued its furious career, amid the mortal violence of a people thrown into horrible disorder, pursued its way with savage howls, glaring eyes, and foaming mouth, the only living being there that was infuriate and not alarmed, battling for escape, and yet unhurt.

As a whirlpool suddenly assails the gallant ship, makes her agitate and rock fearfully for a few moments and then swallows her up altogether, so was the scaffold in the midst of the square shaken to its very basis for a little space, and then hurled down, disappearing altogether amidst the living vortex.

In the balconies and at the windows overlooking the square, the awful excitement spread like wild-fire, and a real panic prevailed among those who were at least beyond the reach of danger. But horror paralyzed the power of sober reflection, and the hideous spectacle of volumes of human beings battling, and roaring, and rushing, and yelling in terrific frenzy, produced a kindred effect, and spread the wild delirium among the spectators at those balconies and those windows. At length, in the square below, the crowds began to pour forth from the gates, for the Wehr-Wolf had by this time cleared himself a passage and escaped from the midst of that living ocean so fearfully agitated by the storms of fear. But even when the means of egress were thus obtained, the most frightful disorder prevailed, the people rolling in heaps upon heaps, while infuriate and agile men ran on the tops of the compact masses, and leapt in their delirium, as with barbarous intent.

On—on sped the Wehr-Wolf, dashing like a whirlwind through the streets leading to the open country, the white flakes of foam flying from his mouth like spray from the prow of a vessel, and every fiber of his frame vibrating as if in agony. And oh! what dismay—what terror did that monster spread in the thoroughfares through which he passed; how wildly, how madly flew the men and women from his path; how piteously screamed the children at the house-doors in the poor neighborhoods! But, as if sated with the destruction already wrought  in the great square of the palace, the wolf dealt death no more in the precincts of the city; as if lashed on by invisible demons, his aim, or his instinct, was to escape.

The streets are threaded, the suburbs of the city are passed, the open country is gained; and now along the bank of the Arno rushes the monster, by the margin of that pure stream to whose enchanting vale the soft twilight lends a more delicious charm.

On the verge of a grove, with its full budding branches all impatient for the spring, a lover and his mistress were murmuring fond language to each other. In the soft twilight blushed the maiden, less in bashfulness than in her own soul’s emotion, her countenance displaying all the magic beauty not only of feature but of feeling; and she raised her large blue eyes in the dewy light of a sweet enthusiasm to the skies, as the handsome youth by her side pressed her fair hand and said, “We must now part until to-morrow, darling of my soul! How calmly has this day, with all its life and brightness, passed away into the vast tomb of eternity. It is gone without a single hour’s unhappiness for us—gone without leaving a regret on our minds—gone, too, without clouds in the heavens or mists upon the earth, most beautiful even at the moment of its parting! Tomorrow, beloved one, will unite us again in your parents’ cot, and renewed happiness——”

The youth stopped, and the maiden clung to him in speechless terror: for an ominous sound, as of a rushing animal and then a terrific howl, burst upon their ears! No time had they for flight, not a moment even to collect their scattered thoughts. The infuriate wolf came bounding over the greensward, the youth uttered a wild and fearful cry, a scream of agony burst from the lips of the maiden as she was dashed from her lover’s arms, and in another moment the monster had swept by.

But what misery, what desolation had his passage wrought! Though unhurt by his glistening fangs—though unwounded by his sharp claws, yet the maiden—an instant before so enchanting in her beauty, so happy in her love—lay stretched on the cold turf, the cords of life snapped suddenly by that transition from perfect bliss to the most appalling terror!

And still the wolf rushed madly, wildly on.

*****

It was an hour past sunrise; and from a grove in the immediate neighborhood of Leghorn a man came forth. His countenance, though wondrously handsome, was deadly pale; traces of mental horror and anguish remained on those classically chiseled features, and in those fine eloquent eyes. His garments were soiled, blood-stained, and torn.

This man was Fernand Wagner. He entered the city of Leghorn, and purchased a change of attire, for which he paid from a purse well filled with gold. He then repaired to a hostel, or public tavern, where he performed the duties of the toilet, and obtained the refreshment of which he appeared to stand so much in need. By this time his countenance was again composed; and the change which new attire and copious ablution had made in his appearance, was so great that no one  who had seen him issue from the grove and beheld him now, could have believed in the identity of the person. Quitting the hostel, he repaired to the port, where he instituted inquiries relative to a particular vessel which he described, and which had sailed from Leghorn upward of a fortnight previously.

He soon obtained the information which he sought; and an old sailor, to whom he had addressed himself, not only hinted that the vessel in question was suspected, when in the harbor, to be of piratical character, but also declared that he himself had seen a lady conveyed on board during the night preceding the departure of the ship. Further inquiries convinced Wagner that the lady spoken of had been carried by force, and against her will, to the corsair vessel; and he was now certain that the demon had not deceived him, and that he had indeed obtained a trace of his lost Nisida!

His mind was immediately resolved how to act; and his measures were as speedily taken.

Guided by the advice of the old sailor from whom he had gleaned the information he sought, he was enabled to purchase a fine vessel and equip her for sea within the space of a few days. He lavished his gold with no niggard hand, and gold is a wondrous talisman to remove obstacles and facilitate designs. In a word, on the sixth morning after his arrival at Leghorn, Fernand Wagner embarked on board his ship, which was manned with a gallant crew, and carried ten pieces of ordnance. A favoring breeze prevailed at the time, and the gallant bark set sail for the Levant.