“Oh!” he exclaimed aloud, as he sped onward, “what happiness and also what misery have I known in this clime. But, doomed and fated being that I am, such is my destiny; and so must I be, here or elsewhere, in whichever land I may visit, in whatever part of the earth I may abide. Oh! merciful Heaven, can no prayer, no self-mortification, remove the ban—the curse—from my devoted head?
“Oh! just Heaven,” he exclaimed, stretching forth his arms toward the sky, and with ineffable anguish depicted on his upturned countenance; “spare me! Have I not been punished enough! Oh! take away from me this appalling doom—let me become old, wrinkled, forlorn, and poor once more,—let me return to my humble cot in the Black Forest, or let me die. Almighty power! if thou wilt—but spare me—spare me now! Wretch—wretch that I was to be dazzled by the specious promises, O Faust! But I am justly punished—thy vengeance, O Heaven, is well deserved—sinner, sinner that I am!”
Those were the last human sounds he uttered for several hours; for, scarcely had they escaped his lips, when the horrible change began, and in a few moments a wild yell rent the air, and a monstrous wolf sprung from the spot where Wagner had fallen down in such agonizing writhings.
Away—away went the ferocious animal heading toward the sea—careering, thundering on, as if intent on plunging into the silent depths, and there ending its course in a watery grave.
But no: death yawns not for the Wehr-Wolf! Scarcely have its feet touched the verge of the water, when the monster wheels round and continues its whirlwind way without for an instant relaxing one tittle of its speed. Away—away, through the fruit-bearing groves, clearing for itself a path of ruin and havoc,—scattering the gems of the trees, and breaking down the richly-laden vines; away—away flies the monster, hideous howls bursting from its foaming mouth. The birds scream and whistle wildly, as startled from their usual tranquil retreats, they spread their gay and gaudy plumage, and go with gushing sound through the evening air. He reaches the bank of a stream, and bounds along its pleasant margin, trampling to death noble swans which vainly seek to evade the fury of the rushing monster.
Away—away toward the forest hurries the Wehr-Wolf—impelled, lashed on by an invincible scourge, and filling the woods with its appalling yells—while its mouth scatters foam like thick flakes of snow. Hark, there is an ominous rustling in one of the trees of the forest; and the monster seems to instinctively know the danger which menaces it. But still its course is not changed;—it seems not to exercise its own will in shaping its course. Down the tremendous snake flings itself from the tree—and in an instant its hideous coils are wound round the foaming, steaming, palpitating body of the wolf. The air is rent with the yell of agony that bursts from the throat of the horrified monster as it tumbles over and over, as if it had run to the length of a tether—for the snake clings with its tail to the bough from which it has darted down. But the yielding of the wolf is only momentary; up—up it springs again—and away,—away it careers, more madly, more desperately, more ferociously, if possible, than before.
And the snake? Oh! poor, weak and powerless was even that dread reptile of forty feet in length, when combated with a monster lashed on and also protected by invisible fiends. For, as the wolf sped on again, the boa was dragged as if by a thousand horses from its coiling hold upon the bough—and shaken, lacerated, and affrighted, the hideous reptile unwound itself from the ferocious animal, and fell powerless on the grass, where the vermin of the forest attacked it with their greedy maws ere its pestilential breath had ceased.
Away—away toward the mountains rushes the Wehr-Wolf,—those mountains which constitute the barrier of safety to protect Nisida from the fangs of the animal that would mangle her fair form were she to cross its path. But, ah! he rushes up the acclivity—he clears rugged rock and jutting crag with wondrous bounds;—just Heaven! will he pass those heights—will he cross the range of volcanic hills?
Oh! Nisida, who art on the other side of that range, little dreamest thou of the peril that menaces thee. Joy! joy!—the danger has passed; the wolf turns aside from a loftier impediment of crag than had yet appeared in its course: and down—down again toward the groves and valleys—over the bituminous waste made by the volcano—on, on goes the monster. Away, away, through the verdant scenes once more, fresh havoc—fresh desolation—fresh ruin marking his maddening course,—away, away the Wehr-Wolf speeds.
The moon rises to give a stronger and purer light to the dreadful spectacle, a light stronger and purer than that of night itself, which is never completely dark in the tropics. Away, away, and still on, on—outstripping time—running a race with the fleeting moments, till hours and hours of unrelaxing speed are numbered—thus goes the wolf. And now he snuffs the morning air: the fresh breeze from the east raises the foam of the Mediterranean waves, and allays the heat on the body of the careening, bounding, and almost flying monster.