Wagner, the Wehr-Wolf

by George W. M. Reynolds

“Those who have faith shall prosper,” observed the stranger, in a solemn tone.

He then led the way noiselessly down the steep staircase of the inn, and issued forth by the front gate, closely followed by Wagner. In deep silence did they proceed through the dark, narrow, and tortuous streets, leaving at length the town behind them, and then entering upon a barren and uneven waste. By degrees an object, at first dimly seen in the distance, and by the uncertain moonlight, which was constantly struggling with the dark clouds of a somewhat tempestuous night, assumed a more defined appearance, until a mass of gigantic ruins at length stood out from the somber obscurity. In a few moments the moon shone forth purely and brightly; and its beams, falling on decayed buttresses, broken Gothic arches, deep entrance-ways, remnants of pinnacles and spires, massive walls of ruined towers, gave a wildly romantic and yet not unpicturesque aspect to the remains of what was evidently once a vast monastic institution. The muffled stranger led the way amongst the ruins, and at last stopped at a gate opening into a small square inclosure formed by strong iron railings, seven feet high and shaped at the points like javelins. Passing through the gateway, the guide conducted Wagner into a cemetery, which was filled with the marble tombs of the mitered abbots who had once held sway over the monastery and the broad lands attached to it.

“You behold around you,” said the muffled stranger, waving his arm toward the ruins, “all that remains of a sanctuary once the most celebrated in Sicily for the piety and wisdom of its inmates. But a horrible crime, a murder perpetrated under circumstances unusually diabolical, the criminal being no less a person than the last lord abbot himself, and the victim a beauteous girl whom he had seduced, rendered this institution accursed in the eyes of God and man. The monks abandoned it: and the waste over which you have passed is now the unclaimed but once fertile estate belonging to the abbey. The superstition of the Sicilians has not failed to invent terrific tales in connection with these ruins: and the belief that each night at twelve o’clock the soul of the guilty abbot is driven by the scourge of the demon through the scene alike of his episcopal power and his black turpitude, effectually prevents impertinent or inconvenient intrusion.”

The observation with which the muffled stranger concluded his brief narrative, convinced Wagner that it was amongst those ruins the brethren of the Rosy Cross had fixed their secret abode. But he had no time for reflection, inasmuch as his guide hurried him on amidst the tombs, on which the light of the silver moon now streamed with a power and an effect that no dark cloud for the time impaired. Stopping at the base of one of the most splendid monuments in the cemetery, the muffled stranger touched some secret spring, and a large marble block immediately opened like a door, the aperture revealing a narrow flight of stone steps. Wagner was directed to descend first, a command which he obeyed without hesitation, his guide closing the marble entrance ere he followed. For several minutes the two descended in total darkness. At length, a faint, glimmering light met Wagner’s view; and as he proceeded it grew stronger and stronger, until it became of such dazzling brilliancy that his eyes ached with the supernatural splendor. That glorious luster was diffused from a silver lamp, hanging to the arched roof of a long passage, or corridor of masonry, to which the stone steps led.

“Fernand Wagner,” said the guide, in his mild and somewhat monotonous voice, “thou now beholdest the eternal lamp of the Rosicrucians. For a hundred and twenty years has that lamp burnt with as powerful a luster as that which it now sheds forth; and never once—no, not once during that period, has it been replenished. No human hand has touched it since the day when it was first suspended there by the great founder of our sect.”

All doubt was now dispelled from the mind of Wagner—if a doubt he had even for a moment entertained since the muffled stranger had summoned him from the inn:—he was indeed in the secret abode of the holy sect of the Rosy Cross! His guide, too, was a member of that brotherhood—and there, almost too dazzling to gaze upon, burnt the eternal lamp which was the symbol of the knowledge cherished by the order! Wagner turned to gaze in wonder and admiration upon his guide: and beneath the broad brim of the slouched hat, he beheld a countenance venerable with years, imposing with intelligence, and benevolent with every human charity. “Wise and philanthropic Rosicrucian!” exclaimed Wagner, “I offer thee my deepest gratitude for having permitted me to enter this sanctuary. But how camest thou to learn that I sought admittance hither? and unveil to me the great mysteries of this place.”

“We are the servants of holy angels, who reveal to us in visions the will of the Most High,” answered the Rosicrucian; “and they who commanded me to bring thee hither, will induce thine heart to retain our secret inviolable.”

“Not for worlds,” cried Wagner, with an enthusiasm which denoted sincerity, “would I betray ye!”

“’Tis well,” said the Rosicrucian, with philosophic calmness—as if he put more faith in the protecting influence of Heaven than in the promises of man. “I shall not accompany thee further. Follow that passage: at the extremity there are two corridors branching off in different directions; but thou wilt pursue the one leading to the right. Proceed fearlessly, and stop not till thou shalt stand in the presence of the founder of the sect.”

Fernand hastened to obey these directions, and having threaded the two passages, he entered a large and rudely-hollowed cavern, where the feelings of mingled awe and suspense with which he had approached it were immediately changed into deep veneration and wonder as he found himself in the presence of one who, by his appearance, he knew could he none other than Christianus Rosencrux! Never had Fernand beheld a being of such venerable aspect; and, though old—evidently very old, as indeed Wagner knew him to be—yet the founder of the celebrated Rosicrucians manifested every appearance of possessing a vigorous constitution, as he was assuredly endowed with a magnificent intellect. His beard was long and white as snow; a century and three score years had not dimmed the luster of his eyes; and his form, though somewhat bent, was masculine and well-knit. He was seated at a table covered with an infinite variety of scientific apparatus; and articles of the same nature were strewed upon the ground. To the roof hung an iron lamp, which indeed burnt faintly after the brilliant luster of the eternal flame that Wagner had seen in the passage; but its flickering gleam shone lurid and ominous on a blood-red cross suspended to the wall. Fernand drew near the table, and bowed reverentially to the Rosicrucian chief, who acknowledged his salutation with a benignant smile.