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, rinding 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.



CHAPTER XL.

WAGNER IN SEARCH OF NISIDA.

The reader may perhaps be surprised that Fernand Wagner should have been venturous enough to trust himself to the possibilities of a protracted voyage, since every month his form must undergo a frightful change—a destiny which he naturally endeavored to shroud in the profoundest secrecy.

But it must be recollected that the Mediterranean is dotted with numerous islands; and he knew that, however changeable or adverse the winds might be, it would always prove an easy matter to make such arrangements as to enable him to gain some port a few days previously to the close of the month. Moreover, so strong, so intense was his love for Nisida, that, even without the prospect afforded by this calculation, he would have dared all perils, incurred all risks, exposed himself to all hostile chances, rather than have remained inactive while he believed her to be in the power of a desperate, ruthless bandit. For, oh! ever present to his mind was the image of the lost fair one; by day, when the sun lighted up with smiles the dancing waves over which his vessel bounded merrily, merrily; and by night, when the moon shone like a silver lamp amidst the curtains of heaven's pavilion.

His was not the love which knows only passionate impulse: it was a constant, unvarying tender sentiment—far, far more pure, and therefore more permanent, than the ardent and burning love which Nisida felt for him. His was not the love which possession would satiate and enjoyment cool down: it was a feeling that had gained a soft yet irresistible empire over his heart.

And that love of his was nurtured and sustained by the most generous thoughts. He pictured to himself the happiness he should experience in becoming the constant companion of one whose loss of hearing and of speech cut her off as it were from that communion with the world which is so grateful to her sex: he imagined to himself, with all the fond idolatry of sincere affection, how melodiously soft, how tremulously clear would be her voice, were it restored to her, and were it first used to articulate the delicious language of love. And then he thought how enchanting, how fascinating, how fraught with witching charms, would be the conversation of a being endowed with so glorious an intellect, were she able to enjoy the faculty of speech. Thus did her very imperfections constitute a ravishing theme for his meditation; and the more he indulged in dreams like these, the more resolute did he become never to rest until he had discovered and rescued her.

Seven days had elapsed since the ship sailed from Leghorn; and Sicily had already been passed by, when the heavens grew overclouded, and everything portended a storm. The captain, whom Wagner had placed in charge of his vessel, adopted all the precautions necessary to encounter the approaching tempest; and soon after the sun went down on the seventh night a hurricane suddenly swept the surface of the Mediterranean. The ship bent to the fury of the gust—her very yards were deep in the water. But when the rage of that dreadful squall subsided, the gallant bark righted again, and bounded triumphantly over the foaming waves.

A night profoundly dark set in; but the white crests of the billows were visible through that dense obscurity: while the tempest rapidly increased in violence, and all the dread voices of the storm, the thunder in the heavens, the roaring of the sea, and the gushing sounds of the gale, proclaimed the fierceness of the elemental war. The wind blew not with that steadiness which the skill of the sailor and the capacity of the noble ship were competent to meet, but in long and frequent gusts of intermittent fury. Now rose the gallant bark on the waves, as if towering toward the starless sky, in the utter blackness of which the masts were lost; then it sank down into the abyss, the foam of the boiling billows glistening far above, on all sides, amidst the obscurity. What strange and appalling noises are heard on board a ship laboring in a storm—the cracking of timber, the creaking of elastic planks, the rattling of the cordage, the flapping of fragments of sails, the failing of spars, the rolling of casks got loose, and at times a tremendous crash throughout the vessel, as if the whole framework were giving way and the very sides collapsing!

And amidst those various noises and the dread sounds of the storm, the voices of the sailors were heard—not in prayer nor subdued by terror—but echoing the orders issued by the captain, who did not despair of guiding—nay, fighting, as it were, the ship through the tumultuous billows and against the terrific blast.

Again a tremendous hurricane swept over the deep: it passed, but not a spar remained to the dismantled bark. The tapering masts, the long graceful yards were gone, the cordage having snapped at every point where its support was needed—snapped by the fury of the tempest, as if wantonly cut by a sharp knife. The boats—the crew's last alternative of hope—had likewise disappeared. The ship was now completely at the mercy of the wild raging of the winds and the fury of the troubled waters; it no longer obeyed its helm, and there were twenty men separated, all save one, from death only by a few planks and a few nails! The sea now broke so frequently over the vessel that the pumps could scarcely keep her afloat; and at length, while it was yet dark, though verging toward the dawn, the sailors abandoned their task of working at those pumps. Vainly did the captain endeavor to exercise his authority—vainly did Wagner hold out menaces and promises by turns; death seemed imminent, and yet those men, who felt that they were hovering on the verge of destruction, flew madly to the wine-stores.

Then commenced a scene of the wildest disorder amidst those desperate men; and even the captain himself, perceiving that they could laugh, and shout, and sing, in the delirium of intoxication, rushed from the side of Wagner and joined the rest. It was dreadful to hear the obscene jest, the ribald song, and the reckless execration, sent forth from the cabin, as if in answer to the awful voices in which Nature was then speaking to the world. But scarcely had a faint gleam appeared in the orient sky—not quite a gleam, but a mitigation of the intenseness of the night—when a tremendous wave—a colossus amongst giants—broke over the ill-fated ship, while a terrible crash of timber was for a moment heard in unison with the appalling din of the whelming billows. Wagner was the only soul on deck at that instant: but the fury of the waters tore him away from the bulwark to which he had been clinging, and he became insensible.

When he awoke from the stupor into which he had been plunged, it was still dusk, and the roar of the ocean sounded in his ears with deafening din.

But he was on land, though where he knew not. Rising from the sand on which he had been cast, he beheld the billows breaking on the shore at the distance of only a few paces; and he retreated further from their reach. Then he sat down, with his face toward the east, anxiously awaiting the appearance of the morn that he might ascertain the nature and the aspect of the land on which he had been cast. By degrees the glimmering which had already subdued the blackness of night into the less profound obscurity of duskiness, grew stronger; and a yellow luster, as of a far-distant conflagration, seemed to struggle against a thick fog. Then a faint roseate streak tinged the eastern horizon, growing gradually deeper in hue, and spreading higher and wider—the harbinger of sunrise; while, simultaneously, the features of the land on which Wagner was thrown began to develop themselves like specters stealing out of complete security; till at length the orient luster was caught successively by a thousand lofty pinnacles of rock; and finally the majestic orb itself appeared, lighting up a series of verdant plains, delicious groves, glittering lakes, pellucid streams, as well as the still turbulent ocean and the far-off mountains which had first peeped from amidst the darkness.

Fair and delightful was the scene that thus developed itself to the eyes of Wagner; but as his glance swept the country which rose amphitheatrically from the shore not a vestige of the presence of man could be beheld. No smoke curled from amidst the groves, no church spire peeped from amongst the trees; nor had the wilderness of nature been disturbed by artificial culture.

He turned toward the ocean; there was not a trace of his vessel to be seen. But further along the sand lay a dark object, which he approached, with a shudder, for he divined what it was.

Nor was he mistaken; it was the swollen and livid corpse of one of the sailors of his lost ship.

Wagner's first impulse was to turn away in disgust, but a better feeling almost immediately animated him: and, hastening to the nearest grove, he broke off a large bough, with which he hollowed a grave in the sand. He deposited the corpse in the hole, throwing back the sand which he had displaced, and thus completed his Christian task.

During his visit to the grove, he had observed with delight that the trees were laden with fruit; and he now returned thither to refresh himself by means of the banquet thus bountifully supplied by nature. Having terminated his repast, he walked further inland. The verdant slope stretched up before him, variegated with flowers, and glittering with morning dew. As he advanced, the development of all the features of that land—lakes and woods; hills undulating like the sea in sunset, after hours of tempest: rivulets and crystal streams, each with its own peculiar murmurs, but all of melody; groves teeming with the most luxurious fruit of the tropics, and valleys carpeted with the brightest green, varied with nature's own embroidery of flowers—the development of this scene was inexpressibly beautiful, far surpassing the finest efforts of creative fancy.

Wagner seated himself on a sunny bank, and fell into a profound meditation. At length, glancing rapidly around, he exclaimed aloud, as if in continuation of the chain of thoughts which had already occupied his mind, "Oh, if Nisida were here—here, in this delicious clime, to be my companion! What happiness—what joy! Never should I regret the world from which this isle—for an isle it must be—is separated! Never should I long to return to that communion with men from which we should be cut off! Here would the eyes of my Nisida cast forth rays of joy and gladness upon everything around; here would the sweetest transitions of sentiment and feeling take place! Nisida would be the island queen; she should deck herself with these flowers, which her fair hands might weave into wildly fantastic arabesques! Oh! all would be happiness—a happiness so serene, that never would the love of mortals he more truly blessed! But, alas!" he added, as a dreadful thought broke rudely upon this delightful vision, "I should be compelled to reveal to her my secret—the appalling secret of my destiny: that when the period for transformation came round, she might place herself in safety——"

Wagner stopped abruptly, and rose hastily from his seat on the sunny bank. The remembrance of this dreadful fate had spoiled one of the most delicious waking dreams in which he had ever indulged; and, dashing his hands against his forehead, he rushed wildly toward the chain of mountains which intersected the island.

But suddenly he stopped short, for on the ground before him lay the doublet of a man—a doublet of the fashion then prevalent in Italy. He lifted it up, examined it, but found nothing in the pockets; then, throwing it on the ground, he stood contemplating it for some minutes.

Could it be possible that he was in some part of Italy? that the ship had been carried back to the European Continent during the tempest of the night? No; it was impossible that so lovely a tract of land would remain uninhabited, if known to men. The longer he reflected the more he became convinced that he was on some island hitherto unknown to navigators, and on which some other shipwrecked individual had probably been cast. Why the doublet should have been discarded he could well understand, as it was thick and heavy, and the heat of the sun was already intense, although it was not yet near the meridian.

Raising his eyes from the doublet which had occasioned these reflections, he happened to glance toward a knot of fruit trees at a little distance; and his attention was drawn to a large bough which hung down as if almost broken away from the main stem. He approached the little grove; and several circumstances now confirmed his suspicion that he was not the only tenant of the island at that moment. The bough had been forcibly torn down, and very recently, too; several of the fruits had been plucked off, the little sprigs to which they had originally hung still remaining and bearing evidence to the fact. But if additional proof were wanting of human presence there, it was afforded by the half-eaten fruits that were strewed about.

Wagner now searched for the traces of footsteps; but such marks were not likely to remain in the thick rich grass, which if trampled down, would rise fresh and elastic again with the invigorating dew of a single night. The grove, where Wagner observed the broken bough and the scattered fruits, was further from the shore than the spot where he had found the doublet; and he reasoned that the man, whoever he might be, had thrown away his garment, when overpowered by the intensity of the heat, and had then sought the shade and refreshment afforded by the grove. He therefore concluded that he had gone inland, most probably toward the mountains, whose rocky pinnacles, of every form, now shone with every hue in the glorious sunlight.

Overjoyed at the idea of finding a human being in a spot which he had at first deemed totally uninhabited, and filled with the hope that the stranger might be able to give him some information relative to the geographical position of the isle, and even perhaps aid him in forming a raft by which they might together escape from the oasis of the Mediterranean, Wagner proceeded toward the mountains. By degrees the wondrous beauty of the scene became wilder, more imposing, but less bewitching, and when he reached the acclivities of the hill, the groves of fruits and copses of myrtles and citrons, of vines and almond shrubs, were succeeded by woods of mighty trees.

Further on still the forests ceased and Fernand entered on a wild region of almost universal desolation, yet forming one of the sublimest spectacles that nature can afford. The sounds of torrents, as yet concealed from his view, and resembling the murmur of ocean's waves, inspired feelings of awe; and it was now for the first time since he entered on the region of desolation, having left the clime of loveliness nearly a mile behind, that his attention was drawn to the nature of the soil, which was hard and bituminous in appearance.

The truth almost immediately struck him: there was a volcano amongst those mountains up which he was ascending; and it was the lava which had produced that desolation, and which, cold and hardened, formed the soil whereon he walked. It was now past midday; and he seated himself once more to repose his limbs, wearied with the fatigues of the ascent and overcome by the heat that was there intolerable. At the distance of about two hundred yards on his right was a solitary tree, standing like a sign to mark the tomb of nature's vegetation. Upon this tree his eyes were fixed listlessly, and he was marveling within himself how that single scion of the forest could have been spared, when the burning lava, whenever the eruption might have taken place, had hurled down and reduced to cinders its verdant brethren.

Suddenly his attention was more earnestly riveted upon the dense and wide-spreading foliage of that tree; for the boughs were shaken in an extraordinary manner, and something appeared to be moving about amongst the canopy of leaves. In another minute a long, unmistakable, appalling object darted forth—a monstrous snake—suspending itself by the tail to one of the lower boughs, and disporting playfully with its hideous head toward the ground. Then, with a sudden coil, it drew itself back into the tree, the entire foliage of which was shaken with the horrible gambolings of the reptile.

Wagner remembered the frightful spectacle which he had beholden in Ceylon, and an awful shudder crept through his frame; for, although he knew that he bore a charmed life, yet he shrank with a loathing from the idea of having to battle with such a horrible serpent. Starting from the ground, he rushed—flew, rather than ran, higher up the acclivity, and speedily entered on a wild scene of rugged and barren rocks: but he cared not whither the windings of the natural path which he now pursued might lead him, since he had escaped from the view of the hideous boa-constrictor gamboling in the solitary tree.

Wearied with his wanderings, and sinking beneath the oppressive heat of the sun, Wagner was rejoiced to find a cavern in the side of a rock, where he might shelter and repose himself. He entered, and lay down upon the hard soil; the sounds of the torrents, which rolled still unseen amidst the chasms toward which he had approached full near, produced a lulling influence upon him, and in a few minutes his eyes were sealed in slumber. When he awoke he found himself in total darkness. He started up, collected his scattered ideas, and advanced to the mouth of the cavern.

The sun had set: but outside the cave an azure twilight prevailed, and the adjacent peaks of the mountains stood darkly out from the partially though faintly illuminated sky.

While Wagner was gazing long and intently upon the sublime grandeur of the scene, a strange phenomenon took place. First a small cloud appeared on the summit of an adjacent hill; then gradually this cloud became more dense and assumed a human shape. Oh! with what interest—what deep, enthusiastic interest, did Fernand contemplate the spectacle; for his well-stored mind at once suggested to him that he was now the witness of that wondrous optical delusion, called the mirage.

Some human being in the plain on the other side of that range of mountains was the subject of that sublime scene; might it not be the individual of whom he was in search, the owner of the doublet? But, ah! wherefore does Wagner start with surprise?

The shadow of that human being, as it gradually assumed greater density and a more defined shape—in a word, as it was now properly developed by the reflection of twilight—wore the form of a female! Were there, then, many inhabitants on the opposite side of the mountains? or was there only one female, she whose reflected image he now beheld? He knew not; but at all events the pleasure of human companionship seemed within his reach; the presence of the doublet had convinced him that there was another man upon the island, and now the mirage showed him the semblance of a woman!

Vast—colossal—like a dense, dark, shapely cloud, stood that reflected being in the sky; for several minutes it remained thus, and though Wagner could trace no particular outline of features, yet it seemed to him as if the female were standing in a pensive attitude. But as the twilight gradually subsided, or rather yielded to the increasing obscurity, the image was absorbed likewise in the growing gloom; until the dusky veil of night made the entire vault above of one deep, uniform, purple hue. Then Wagner once more returned to the cavern, with the resolution of crossing the range of hills on the ensuing morn.



CHAPTER XLI.

THE ISLAND QUEEN.

Oh! how beautiful—how enchantingly beautiful seemed Nisida, as her delicate feet bore her glancingly along the sunny banks of the crystal stream, to the soft music of its waters. How the slight drapery which she wore set off the rich undulations of that magnificent form! How the wreaths and garlands of fantastically woven flowers became the romantic loveliness of her person—that glowing Hebe of the South!

Holding in her fair hand a light, slim wand, and moving through the delicious vale with all the soft abandonment of gait and limb which feared no intrusion on her solitude, she appeared that Mediterranean island's queen. What, though the evening breeze, disporting with her raiment, lifted it from her glowing bosom?—she cared not; no need for sense of shame was there! What though she laid aside her vesture to disport in the sea at morn?—no furtive glances did she cast round; no haste did she make to resume her garments; for whose eye, save that of God, beheld her?

But was she happy? Alas! there were moments when despair seized upon her soul; and, throwing herself on the yellow sand, or on some verdant bank, she would weep—oh! she would weep such bitter, bitter tears, that those who have been forced to contemplate her character with aversion, must now be compelled to pity her.

Yes; for there were times when all the loveliness of that island seemed but a hideous place of exile, an abhorrent monotony which surrounded her—grasped her—clung to her—hemmed her in, as if it were an evil spirit, having life and the power to torture her. She thought of those whom she loved, she pondered upon all the grand schemes of her existence, and she felt herself cut off from a world to which there were so many ties to bind her, and in which she had so much to do. Then she would give way to all the anguish of her soul—an anguish that amounted to the deepest, blackest despair, when her glances wildly swept the cloudless horizon, and beheld not a sail—no! nor a speck on the ocean to engender hope. But when this tempest of grief and passion was past, she would be angry with herself for having yielded to it; and, in order to distract her thoughts from subjects of gloom, she would bound toward the groves, light as a fawn, the dazzling whiteness of her naked and polished ankles gleaming in contrast with the verdure of the vale.

One morning after Nisida had been many, many days on the island, she was seated on the sand, having just completed her simple toilet on emerging from the mighty bath that lay stretched in glassy stillness far as the eye could reach, when she suddenly sprung upon her feet, and threw affrighted looks around her. Had she possessed the faculty of hearing, it would be thought that she was thus startled by the sound of a human voice which had at that instant broken upon the solemn stillness of the isle—a human voice emanating from a short distance behind her. As yet she saw no one; but in a few moments a man emerged from the nearest grove, and came slowly toward her.

He was dressed in a light jerkin, trunk-breeches, tight hose, and boot—in all as an Italian gentleman of that day, save in respect to hat and doublet, of which he had none. Neither wore he a sword by his side, nor carried any weapons of defense; and it was evident he approached the island queen with mingled curiosity and awe.

Perhaps he deemed her to be some goddess, endowed with the power and the will to punish his intrusion on her realm; or peradventure his superstitious imagination dwelt on the tales which sailors told in those times—how mermaids who fed on human flesh dwelt on the coasts of uninhabited islands, and assuming the most charming female forms, lured into their embrace the victims whom shipwreck cast upon their strand, and instead of lavishing on them the raptures of love, made them the prey of their ravenous maws.

Whatever were his thoughts, the man drew near with evident distrust. But, now—why does Nisida's countenance become suddenly crimson with rage? why rushes she toward the stores which still remained piled up on the strand? and wherefore, with the rapidity of the most feverish impatience, does she hurl the weapons of defense into the sea, all save one naked sword, with which she arms herself? Because her eagle glance, quicker than that of the man who is approaching her, has recognized him, ere he has even been struck with a suspicion relative to who she is—and that man is Stephano Verrina!

Now, Nisida! summon all thine energies to aid thee; for a strong, a powerful, a remorseless man, devoured with lust for thee, is near. And thou art so ravishingly beautiful in thy aerial drapery, and thy wreaths of flowers, that an anchorite could not view thee with indifference! Ah! Stephano starts—stops short—advances: the suspicion has struck him! The aquiline countenance, those brilliant large, dark eyes, that matchless raven hair, that splendid symmetrical maturity of form, and withal, that close compression of the vermilion lips, O Nisida! have been scanned in rapid detail by the brigand!

"Nisida!" he exclaimed; "Yes, it is she!"

And he bounded toward her with outstretched arms.

But the sharp sword was presented to his chest; and the lady stood with an air of such resolute determination, that he stopped short gazing upon her with mingled wonderment and admiration. Heavens! he had never beheld so glorious a specimen of female loveliness as that whereon his eyes were fastened,—fastened beyond the possibility of withdrawal. How glossy black was that hair with its diadem of white roses! How miserably poor appeared the hues of the carnations and the pinks that formed her necklace, when in contrast with her flushing cheeks! How dingy were the lilies at her waist, compared with her heaving breast!

The reason of the brigand reeled, his brain swam round, and for a moment it seemed to him that she was not a being of this world; not the Nisida he had known and carried off from Italy, but a goddess, another and yet the same in all the glory of those matchless charms which had heretofore ravished—no, maddened him!

And now the spirit of this bold and reckless man was subdued—subdued, he knew not how nor wherefore; but still subdued by the presence of her whom he had deemed lost in the waves, but who seemed to stand before him, with flowers upon her brow and a sharp weapon in her hand—radiant, too, with loveliness of person, and terrible with the fires of hatred and indignation!

Yes! he was subdued—overawed—rendered timid as a young child in her presence; and sinking upon his knees, he exclaimed—forgetful that he was addressing Nisida the deaf and dumb—"Oh! fear not—I will not harm thee! But, my God! take compassion on me—spurn me not—look not with such terrible anger upon one who adores, who worships you! How is it that I tremble and quail before you—I, once so reckless, so rude. But, oh! to kiss that fair hand—to be your slave—to watch over you—to protect you—and all this but for thy smiles in return—I should be happy—supremely happy! Remember—we are alone on this island—and I am the stronger; I might compel you by force to yield to me—to become mine; but I will not harm you—no, not a hair of your head, if you will only smile upon me! And you will require one to defend and protect you—yes, even here in this island, apparently so secure and safe;—for there are terrible things in this clime—dreadful beings, far more formidable than whole hordes of savage men—monsters so appalling that not all thy courage, nor all thy energy would avail thee a single moment against them. Yes, lady, believe me when I tell thee this! For many—many days have I dwelt, a lonely being, on the other side of this isle, beyond that chain of mountains—remaining on that shore to which the wild waves carried me on the night of shipwreck. But I hurried away at last—I dared all the dangers of mighty precipices, yawning chasms, and roaring torrents—the perils of yon mountains—rather than linger on the other side. For the anaconda, lady, is the tenant of this island—the monstrous snake—the terrible boa, whose dreadful coils, if wound round that fair form of yours, would crush it into a hideous, loathsome mass?"

Stephano had spoken so rapidly, and with such fevered excitement that he had no time to reflect whether he were not wasting his words upon a being who could not hear them; until exhausted and breathless with the volubility of his utterance he remembered that he was addressing himself to Nisida the deaf and dumb. But happily his appealing and his suppliant posture had softened the lady: for toward the end of his long speech a change came over her countenance, and she dropped the point of her sword toward the ground.

Stephano rose, and stood gazing on her for a few moments with eyes that seemed to devour her. His mind had suddenly recovered much of its wonted boldness and audacity. So long as Nisida seemed terrible as well as beautiful, he was subdued;—now that her eyes had ceased to dart forth lightnings, and the expression of her countenance had changed from indignation and resolute menace to pensiveness and a comparatively mournful softness, the bandit as rapidly regained the usual tone of his remorseless mind.

Yes; he stood gazing on her for a few moments, with eyes that seemed to devour her:—then, in obedience to the impulse of maddening desire, he rushed upon her, and in an instant wrenched the sword from her grasp. But rapid as lightning, Nisida bounded away from him, ere he could wind his arms around her; and fleet as the startled deer, she hastened toward the groves.

Stephano, still retaining the sword in his hand, pursued her with a celerity which was sustained by his desire to possess her and by his rage that she had escaped him. But the race was unequal as that of a lion in chase of a roe; for Nisida seemed borne along as it were upon the very air. Leaving the groves on her left she dashed into the vale. Along the sunny bank of the limpid stream she sped;—on, on toward a forest that bounded the valley at the further end, and rose amphitheatrically up toward the regions of the mountains!

Stephano Verrina still pursued her, though losing ground rapidly; but still he maintained the chase. And now the verge of the forest is nearly gained; and in its mazes Nisida hopes to be enabled to conceal herself from the ruffian whom, by a glance hastily cast behind from time to time, she ascertains to be upon her track. But, oh! whither art thou flying thus wildly, beauteous Nisida?—into what appalling perils art thou rushing, as it were, blindly? For there, in the tallest tree on the verge of the forest to which thou now art near,—there, amidst the bending boughs and the quivering foliage—one of the hideous serpents which infest the higher region of the isle is disporting—the terrible anaconda—the monstrous boa, whose dreadful coils, if wound round that fair form of thine, would crush it into a loathsome mass!



CHAPTER XLII.

THE TEMPTATION—THE ANACONDA.

In the meantime Fernand Wagner was engaged in the attempt to cross the chain of mountains which intersected the island whereon the shipwreck had thrown him. He had clambered over rugged rocks and leapt across many yawning chasms in that region of desolation,—a region which formed so remarkable a contrast with the delicious scenery which he had left behind him. And now he reached the base of a conical hill, the summit of which seemed to have been split into two parts: and the sinuous tracks of the lava-streams, now cold, and hard, and black, adown its sides, convinced him that this was the volcano, from whose rent crater had poured the bituminous fluid so fatal to the vegetation of that region.

Following a circuitous and naturally formed pathway round the base, he reached the opposite side; and now from a height of three hundred feet above the level of the sea, his eyes commanded a view of a scene as fair as that behind the range of mountains. He was now for the first time convinced of what he had all along suspected—namely, that it was indeed an island on which the storm had cast him. But though from the eminence where he stood his view embraced the immense range of the ocean, no speck in the horizon—no sail upon the bosom of the expanse imparted hope to his soul.

Hunger now oppressed him; for he had eaten nothing since the noon of the preceding day, when he had plucked a few fruits in the groves on the other side of the island. He accordingly commenced a descent toward the new region which lay stretched before him, fair as—even fairer than—the one which had first greeted his eyes.

But he had not proceeded many yards amidst the defiles of the rugged rocks which nature had piled around the base of the volcano, when he found his way suddenly barred by a vast chasm, on the verge of which the winding path stopped.

The abyss was far too wide to be crossed save by the wing of the bird: and in its unfathomable depths boiled and roared a torrent, the din of whose eddies was deafening to the ear.

Wagner retraced his way to the very base of the volcano, and entered another defile: but this also terminated on the edge of the same precipice.

Again and again did he essay the various windings of that scene of rock and crag: but with no better success than at first; and after passing a considerable time in these fruitless attempts to find a means of descent into the plains below, he began to fear that he should be compelled to retrace his way into the region of verdure which he had quitted the day before, and which lay behind the range of mountains. But the thought of the hideous snake which he had seen in the tree caused a cold shudder to pass over him—then, in the next moment, he remembered that if the region on one side of the mountain were invested with reptiles of that terrible species, it was not probable that the forests which he beheld as it were at his feet, were free from the same source of apprehension. Still he had hoped to find human companionship on this side of the mountains which he had so far succeeded in reaching—the companionship of the man who had cast away the doublet, and of the woman whom he had seen in the mirage.

And was it not strange that he had not as yet overtaken, or at least obtained a trace of, the man who thus occupied a portion of his thoughts? If that man were still amongst the mountains, they would probably meet; if he had succeeded in descending into the plains below, the same pathway that conducted him thither would also be open to Wagner. Animated with these reflections, and in spite of the hunger which now sorely oppressed him, Wagner prosecuted with fresh courage his search for a means of descent into the lovely regions that lay stretched before him, when he was suddenly startled by the sound of a human voice near him.

"My son, what dost thou amidst this scene of desolation?" were the words which, uttered in a mild benignant tone, met his ears.

He turned and beheld an old man of venerable appearance, and whose beard, white as snow, stretched down to the rude leathern belt which confined the palmer's gown that he wore.

"Holy anchorite!" exclaimed Wagner—"for such must I deem thee to be,—the sound of thy voice is most welcome in this solitude, amidst the mazes of which I vainly seek to find an avenue of egress."

"Thus it is oft with the troubles and perplexities of the world, my son," answered the hermit, "that world which I have quitted forever."

"And dost thou dwell in this desolate region?" asked Fernand.

"My cave is hard by," returned the old man. "For forty years have I lived in the heart of these mountains, descending only into the plains at long intervals, to gather the fruits that constitute my food:—and then," he added, in a tone which, despite the sanctity of his appearance, struck cold and ominous to the very heart of Wagner,—"and then, too, at the risk of becoming the prey of the terrible anaconda!"

"Thou sayest, holy hermit," exclaimed Fernand, endeavoring to conquer a feeling of unaccountable aversion which he had suddenly entertained toward the old man, "thou sayest that thy cave is hard by. In the name of mercy! I beseech thee to spare me a few fruits, and a cup of water, for I am sinking with fatigue, hunger, and thirst."

"Follow me, young man," said the hermit; and he led the way to a cave opening from a narrow fissure in the rock.

The anchorite's abode was, as Wagner had expected to find it, rude and cheerless. A quantity of dry leaves were heaped in one corner—evidently forming the old man's couch; and in several small hollows made in the walls of rock, were heaps of fruit—fresh and inviting, as if they had only just been gathered. On the ground stood a large earthen pitcher of water. Upon this last object did the thirsty Wagner lay his left hand; but ere he raised it, he glanced hastily round the cave in search of a crucifix, in the presence of which he might sign the form of the cross with his right hand. But to his astonishment the emblem of Christianity was not there; and it now struck him for the first time that the anchorite wore no beads around his waist.

"Young man, I can divine your thoughts," said the hermit, hastily; "but drink, eat, and ask a blessing presently. Thou art famished, pause not to question my motives. I will explain them fully to thee when thy body is refreshed with that pure water and those delicious fruits."