"THEN HE WOULD RESUME HIS FRIGHTFUL CRIES."
We stared at one another, trying in vain to explain the presence of such a guest. Our ideas were in utter confusion. Sperver threw open the door, and with his hunting-knife tightly grasped, started to enter the room; but he paused on the threshold, motionless as a stone. I glanced over his shoulder, and the sight that presented itself to my gaze froze the blood in my veins. The Count of Nideck, crouching on all-fours on the bed, his head bent forward and his eyes glowing fiercely, was uttering these terrible howls. He was the wolf! That low forehead, that long, pointed face, that bristling beard, that long, thin body, and those wasted limbs,—the expression, the cry, the attitude,—all bespoke the savage beast beneath a human mask. At times he would stop for a second to listen, and the tall curtains of the bed would tremble like leaves. Then he would resume his frightful cries.
Sperver, Sebalt, and I stood nailed to the floor; we held our breath. Suddenly the Count stopped; like the hunted animal that sniffs the breeze, he raised his head and listened. Far, far away beneath the lofty arches of the snow-clad pines, a cry was heard; feeble at first, it seemed to grow louder as it was prolonged, and soon it rose clear and strong above the roaring of the storm. It was the she-wolf answering its mate.
Sperver, turning towards me with livid face, his arm pointing to the mountain, cried:
"Listen, it is the witch!"
The Count, motionless, with raised head and extended neck, his mouth wide open, and eyeballs glowing like coals, seemed to understand the meaning of the distant voice, lost in the midst of the deserted gorges of the Black Forest, and a certain savage joy gleamed in his face. At this moment Sperver cried in a broken voice:
"Count of Nideck! What are you doing?"
The Count fell backwards as if thunderstruck. We rushed into the room to his assistance. The third attack had begun, and it was terrible to witness.