Wagner, the Wehr-Wolf

by George W. M. Reynolds

  “Strange—most strange,” thought Wagner within himself, “that I should never have gleaned all these details before, eager as my inquiries and researches in the pursuit of knowledge have been. But Heaven has willed everything for the best; and it is doubtless intended that my salvation shall proceed from the very quarter which was least known to me, and concerning which I have manifested the most contemptuous indifference, in the sphere of knowledge!”

  “You appear to be much interested, signor,” said the barber, “in this same tale of Christianus Rosencrux. But there is too much intelligence depicted on your countenance to allow me to suppose that you will place any reliance on the absurd story. How is it possible, signor, that an order could have existed for so many years without any one member ever having betrayed the secrets which bind them all together? Moreover, their place of abode and study is totally unknown to the world; and if they inhabited the deepest caverns under the earth accident must, sooner or later, have led to its discovery. Believe me, signor, ’tis naught save a ridiculous legend; though a poor, ignorant man myself, I hope I have too much good sense and too much respect for my father-confessor, to suppose for a minute that there is on earth any set of men more learned than the holy ministers of the church.”

  “How long ago is Christianus Rosencrux reported to have lived?” demanded Wagner, suddenly interrupting the garrulous and narrow-minded Sicilian.

  “There we are again!” he ejaculated. “The credulous declare that Rosencrux discovered in the East the means of prolonging existence, and though he was born as far back as the year 1359, he is still alive.”

  Had not the barber turned aside at that precise instant to fill an ewer and place a towel for his customer’s use, he would have been surprised by the sudden start and the expression of ineffable joy which denoted Fernand’s emotions, as by a rapid calculation mentally made, our hero perceived that if Rosencrux were born in 1359, and alive at that moment—namely, in 1521—his age would be exactly one hundred and sixty-two!

  “It is Christianus Rosencrux, then,” he said to himself, “whom I have inquired for—whom I am to see—and who will dissolve the spell that has been placed upon me. But where shall I seek him? whither shall I go to find his secret abode?”

  The duties of the barber were completed; and Wagner threw down a piece of gold, saying, “Keep that coin, friend, for your discourse has greatly interested me, and has indeed well deserved it.”

  The poor old man had never possessed in all his life so much money at one time; and so vast was his joy that he could only mutter a few broken sentences to express his gratitude.

  “I require not thanks, my good friend,” said Wagner. “But one word ere I depart. Knowest thou the spot which rumor indicates as the abode of that sect of whom we have been speaking?”

  “Nay, excellent signor,” replied the barber; “there your question masters me; for in this case rumor goes not to such a length as to afford hints for an investigation which would prove its utter fallacy. All that I have heard, signor, concerning the Rosicrucians, you have learnt from my lips; and I know no more.”

  Wagner, finding that further inquiry in that quarter was useless, took leave of the old man, and traversing the suburb, entered the town of Syracuse.

  CHAPTER LIX.

  Fernand was now at a loss how to act. He felt convinced that it was useless to institute any further inquiries relative to the whereabouts of the secret Order of the Rosy Cross; because, had popular rumor ever hinted at any clew in that respect, the garrulous and inquisitive barber would have been sure to hear of it. He was not, however, disheartened. No—very far from that; for he was confident that the same supernal power that had hitherto directed him, and which was rapidly clearing away all obstacles in his path toward perfect emancipation from the influence of the evil one, would carry him to a successful and triumphant issue. Throwing himself, therefore, entirely on the wisdom and mercy of Heaven, he roamed about the town of Syracuse, without any settled object in view, until he was much wearied and it was very late. He then entered a miserable hostel, or inn—the best, however, that he could discover; and there, having partaken of some refreshment, he retired to the chamber allotted to him. Sleep soon visited his eyes; but he had not long enjoyed the sweets of slumber, when that balmy repose was interrupted either by a touch or sound, he knew not which. Starting up in his couch, he perceived a tall figure, muffled in a huge dark mantle, and wearing a slouched broad-brimmed hat, standing by the side of the bed.

  “Rise, Fernand Wagner,” said a mild but masculine voice, “and follow me. He whom thou seekest has sent me to lead thee to him.”

  Wagner did not hesitate to obey this mandate, which he felt certain was connected with the important business that had borne him to Syracuse. His apparel was speedily assumed; and he said, “I am ready to follow thee, stranger, whoever thou art, and whithersoever thou mayst lead; for my faith is in Heaven.”

  “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 th
at 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.

  “Wagner,” he said, in a firm but mild tone, “I have been forewarned of thy coming, and am prepared to receive thee. Thy constant and unvarying faith in Heaven has opened to thee the gates of salvation; and it is mine to direct thee how to act, that the dreadful doom which thou hast drawn upon thyself may be annihilated soon and forever.”

  The venerable man paused, and Fernand again bowed lowly and with profound respect.

  “So soon as the morning’s sun shall have revisited this hemisphere,” continued Rosencrux, “thou must depart for Italy. Start not, Fernand—but prepare to obey that power which will sustain thee. On arriving in Italy, proceed direct to Florence; and fear not to enter that city even in the broad daylight. Thou wilt not be harmed! There await the current of those circumstances that must lead to the grand event which is ordained to break the spell that has cast upon thee the doom of a Wehr-Wolf. For as thou didst voluntarily unite thyself in the face of heaven with Donna Nisida of Riverola, so it is decreed, for the wisest purposes, that a circumstance intimately connected with her destiny must become a charm and a talisman to change thine own. On thine arrival in Florence, therefore, seek not to avoid Lady Nisida; but rather hasten at once to her presence—and again I say, a supernal power will protect thee from any baneful influence which she might still exercise over thee. For, the spell that the evil one hath cast upon thee, Fernand Wagner, shall be broken only on that day and in that hour when thine eyes shall behold the skeletons of two innocent victims suspended to the same beam!”

  Having uttered these words in a louder and hurried, but not the less impressive tone, than he had at first used, Christianus Rosencrux motioned impatiently for Wagner to depart. And Fernand, amazed and horrified at the dreadful words which had met his ears, retreated from the cavern and sped rapidly back to the spot where he had quitted his guide, whom he found waiting his return beneath the undying lamp. The Rosicrucian conducted Wagner in silence from that deep and subterranean abode beneath the tomb; thence through the cemetery amidst the ruins of the monastery—and across the wild waste, back to Syracuse; nor did the muffled brother of the Rosy Cross take leave of Fernand until they had reached the door of the hostel. There they parted, the Rosicrucian invoking a blessing upon the head of Wagner, who regained his chamber without disturbing the other inmates of the house: but with the conflicting emotions of ardent hopes and appalling fears, and holy aspirations, filling his breast. By degrees, however, as he was enabled to reason to himself with increasing calmness, the fears and the doubts became fainter and fainter, while the hopes and the aspirations grew stronger and stronger: and at length, throwing himself upon his knees, he exclaimed fervently, “O Lord, deal with me as thou wilt—thy will be done!”

  It was late in the afternoon of a sultry day, toward the close of September, or, to be more particular, on the 25th of that month, that a numerous and brilliant cavalcade, on emerging from a grove which bounded one of the sinuosities of the Arno, came within sight of the towers and pinnacles of Florence.

  On the white felt turbans of a hundred and fifty Ottoman soldiers glistened the crescent, the symbol of Islamism; and their steel-sheathed scimiters and the trappings of their horses sent forth a martial din as they were agitated by the rapidity of the march.

  Forty-eight slaves, also mounted on steeds procured at Leghorn, followed the soldiers with a short interval between the two corps, and in the space thus left, rode the Greek Demetrius and Lady Nisida of Riverola. The latter wore the garb of her sex, and sat upon her horse with the grace of an amazonian queen.

  The moment the cavalcade came in sight of the fair City of Flowers, a flush of joy and triumph suddenly diffused itself over Nisida’s countenance; and her lips were simultaneously compressed to prevent the utterance of that exclamation of gladness which her heart sent up to her tongue.

  Demetrius now commanded a temporary halt; addressing himself to a Turkish youth, who had been attached to his person in the capacity of secretary, he said, “Yakoub, hie thou in advance, with an escort of two soldiers and two slaves, and push on to Florence. There seek an immediate interview with the president of the council of state, and acquaint that high functionary with the tidings of my approach. Thou wilt inform him that I am about to enter Florence in the peaceful capacity of envoy from the puissant and most glorious Ibrahim Pasha, the vizier of the sultan, to treat on divers matters interesting to the honor of the Ottoman Porte and the welfare of all Italy. In the meantime, I shall so check our speed that we may not reach the city until after sunset, which arrangement will afford you two full hours to accomplish the mission wh
ich I now trust to thee.”

  Yakoub bowed, and hastened to obey the commands which he had received—speeding toward Florence, attended by two soldiers and two slaves. Demetrius then ordered his party to dismount and rest for a short space upon the banks of the Arno. Some of his slaves immediately pitched a tent, into which he conducted Nisida; and refreshments were served to them.

  When the repast was concluded, and they were left alone together for a few minutes, Nisida’s manner suddenly changed from calm patrician reserve to a strange agitation—her lips quivered, her eyes flashed fire;—and then, as if desperately resolved to put into execution the idea which she had formed, she seized Demetrius by the hand, bent her head toward him, and murmured in the faintest whisper possible, “Start not to hear the sound of my voice! I am neither deaf nor dumb. But this is not the place for explanations. I have much to tell, you much to hear—for I can speak to thee of Calanthe, and prove that he whom thou servest so zealously is a wretch meriting only thy vengeance.”

  “My God! my God!—what marvels are now taking place!” murmured the Greek, surveying Nisida in profound astonishment not unmingled with alarm.

  “Silence—silence, I implore you!” continued she, in the rapid, low, and yet distinctly audible whisper, “for your sake—for mine, betray me not! Deaf and dumb must I appear—deaf and dumb must I yet be deemed for a short space. But to-night, at twelve o’clock, you will meet me, Demetrius, in the garden of the Riverola mansion;—and then I will conduct you to an apartment where we may confer without fear of being overheard—without danger of interruption.”