“Savage brutes,” muttered Paul. “So, after all, there may have been some truth in Michal’s story, and the old idiot may for once in his life have spoken the truth. Well, it is no concern of mine, and if a fellow chooses to wander about the woods at night to kill my game, instead of remaining in his own hovel, he must take his chance. The strange thing is that the brutes have not eaten him, though they have mauled him so terribly.”
He turned away as he spoke, intending to return home and send out some of the serfs to bring in the body of the unhappy man, when his eye was caught by a small white object, hanging from a bramble bush near the pond. He made towards the spot, and taking up the object, examined it curiously. It was a tuft of coarse white hair, evidently belonging to some animal.”
“A wolf’s hair, or I am much mistaken,” muttered Paul, pressing the hair between his fingers, and then applying it to his nose. “And from its color, I should think that it belonged to the white lady who so terribly alarmed old Michal on the occasion of his night walk through the marsh.”
Paul found it no easy task to retrace his steps towards those parts of the forest with which he was acquainted, and Troska seemed unable to render him the slightest assistance, but followed moodily behind. Many times Paul found his way blocked by impenetrable thicket or dangerous quagmire, and during his many wanderings he had the ever-present sensation that there was a something close to him, an invisible something, a noiseless something, but for all that a presence which moved as he advanced, and halted as he stopped in vain to listen. The certainty that an impalpable thing of some shape or other was close at hand grew so strong, that as the short autumn day began to close, and darker shadows to fall between the trunks of the lofty trees, it made him hurry on at his utmost speed. At length, when he had grown almost mad with terror, he suddenly came upon a path he knew, and with a feeling of intense relief, he stepped briskly forward in the direction of Kostopchin. As he left the forest and came into the open country, a faint wail seemed to ring through the darkness; but Paul’s nerves had been so much shaken that he did not know whether this was an actual fact or only the offspring of his own excited fancy. As he crossed the neglected lawn that lay in front of the house, old Michal came rushing out of the house with terror convulsing every feature.
“Oh, my lord, my lord!” gasped he, “is not this too terrible?”
“Nothing has happened to my Katrina?” cried the father, a sudden sickly feeling of terror passing through his heart.
“No, no, the little lady is quite safe, thanks to the Blessed Virgin and Saint Alexander of Nevskoi,” returned Michal; “but oh, my lord, poor Marta, the herd’s daughter—”
“Well, what of the slut?” demanded Paul, for now that his momentary fear for the safety of his daughter had passed away, he had but little sympathy to spare for so insignificant a creature as a serf girl.
“I told you that Kosma was dying,” answered Michal. “Well, Marta went across the marsh this afternoon to fetch the priest, but alas! she never came back.”
“What detained her, then?” asked his master.
“One of the neighbors, going in to see how Kosma was getting on, found the poor old man dead; his face was terribly contorted, and he was half in the bed, and half out, as though he had striven to reach the door. The man ran to the village to give the alarm, and as the men returned to the herdsman’s hut, they found the body of Marta in a thicket by the clump of alders on the marsh.”
“Her body—she was dead then?” asked Paul.
“Dead, my lord; killed by wolves,” answered the old man. “And oh, my lord, it is too horrible, her breast was horribly lacerated, and her heart had been taken out and eaten, for it was nowhere to be found.”
Paul started, for the horrible mutilation of the body of Ivanovitch the poacher occurred to his recollection.
“And, my lord,” continued the old man, “this is not all; on a bush close by was this tuft of hair,” and, as he spoke, he took it from a piece of paper in which it was wrapped and handed it to his master.
Paul took it and recognized a similar tuft of hair to that which he had seen upon the bramble bush beside the shattered cross.
“Surely, my lord,” continued Michal, not heeding his master’s look of surprise, “you will have out men and dogs to hunt down this terrible creature, or, better still, send for the priest and holy water, for I have my doubts whether the creature belongs to this earth.”
Paul shuddered, and, after a short pause, he told Michal of the ghastly end of Ivanovitch the poacher.
The old man listened with the utmost excitement, crossing himself repeatedly, and muttering invocations to the Blessed Virgin and the saints every instant; but his master would no longer listen to him, and, ordering him to place brandy on the table, sat drinking moodily until daylight.
* * * *
The next day a fresh horror awaited the inhabitants of Kostopchin. An old man, a confirmed drunkard, had staggered out of the vodki shop with the intention of returning home; three hours later he was found at a turn of the road, horribly scratched and mutilated, with the same gaping orifice in the left side of the breast, from which the heart had been forcibly torn out.Three several times in the course of the week the same ghastly tragedy occurred—a little child, an able-bodied laborer, and an old woman, were all found with the same terrible marks of mutilation upon them, and in every case the same tuft of white hair was found in the immediate vicinity of the bodies. A frightful panic ensued, and an excited crowd of serfs surrounded the house at Kostopchin, calling upon their master, Paul Sergevitch, to save them from the fiend that had been let loose upon them, and shouting out various remedies, which they insisted upon being carried into effect at once.
Paul felt a strange disinclination to adopt any active measures. A certain feeling which he could not account for urged him to remain quiescent; but the Russian serf when suffering under an access of superstitious terror is a dangerous person to deal with, and, with extreme reluctance, Paul Sergevitch issued instructions for a thorough search through the estate, and a general battue of the pine woods.
The army of beaters convened by Michal was ready with the first dawn of sunrise, and formed a strange and almost grotesque-looking assemblage, armed with rusty old firelocks, heavy bludgeons, and scythes fastened on to the end of long poles. Paul, with his double-barreled gun thrown across his shoulder and a keen hunting knife thrust into his belt, marched at the head of the serfs, accompanied by the two great hounds, Troska and Bransköe. Every nook and corner of the hedgerows were examined, and the little outlying clumps were thoroughly searched, but without success; and at last a circle was formed round the larger portion of the forest, and with loud shouts, blowing of horns, and beating of copper cooking utensils, the crowd of eager serfs pushed their way through the brushwood. Frightened birds flew up, whirring through the pine branches; hares and rabbits darted from their hiding places behind tufts and hummocks of grass, and skurried away in the utmost terror. Occasionally a roe deer rushed through the thicket, or a wild boar burst through the thin lines of beaters, but no signs of wolves were to be seen. The circle grew narrower and yet more narrow, when all at once a wild shriek and a confused murmur of voices echoed through the pine trees. All rushed to the spot, and a young lad was discovered weltering in his blood and terribly mutilated, though life still lingered in the mangled frame. A few drops of vodki were poured down the throat, and he managed to gasp out that the white wolf had sprung upon him suddenly, and, throwing him to the ground, had commenced tearing at the flesh over his heart. He would inevitably have been killed, had not the animal quitted him, alarmed by the approach of the other beaters.
“The beast ran into that thicket,” gasped the boy, and then once more relapsed into a state on insensibility.
But the words of the wounded boy had been eagerly passed round, and a hundred different propositions were made.
“Set fire to the thicket,” exclaimed one.
“Fire a volley into it,”
suggested another.
“A bold dash in, and trample the beast’s life out,” shouted a third.
The first proposal was agreed to, and a hundred eager hands collected dried sticks and leaves, and then a light was kindled. Just as the fire was about to be applied, a soft, sweet voice issued from the center of the thicket.
“Do not set fire to the forest, my dear friends; give me time to come out. Is it not enough for me to have been frightened to death by that awful creature?”
All started back in amazement, and Paul felt a strange, sudden thrill pass through his heart as those soft musical accents fell upon his ear.
There was a light rustling in the brushwood, and then a vision suddenly appeared, which filled the souls of the beholders with surprise. As the bushes divided, a fair woman, wrapped in a mantle of soft white fur, with a fantastically shaped traveling cap of green velvet upon her head, stood before them. She was exquisitely fair, and her long Titian red hair hung in disheveled masses over her shoulders.
“My good man,” began she, with a certain tinge of aristocratic hauteur in her voice, “is your master here?”
As moved by a spring, Paul stepped forward and mechanically raised his cap.
“I am Paul Sergevitch,” said he, “and these woods are on my estate of Kostopchin. A fearful wolf has been committing a series of terrible devastations upon my people, and we have been endeavoring to hunt it down. A boy whom he has just wounded says that he ran into the thicket from which you have just emerged, to the surprise of us all.”
“I know,” answered the lady, fixing her clear, steel-blue eyes keenly upon Paul’s face. “The terrible beast rushed past me, and dived into a large cavity in the earth in the very center of the thicket. It was a huge white wolf, and I greatly feared that it would devour me.”
“Ho, my men,” cried Paul, “take spade and mattock, and dig out the monster, for she has come to the end of her tether at last. Madam, I do not know what chance has conducted you to this wild solitude, but the hospitality of Kostopchin is at your disposal, and I will, with your permission, conduct you there as soon as this scourge of the countryside has been dispatched.”
He offered his hand with some remains of his former courtesy, but started back with an expression of horror on his face.
“Blood,” cried he; “why, madam, your hand and fingers are stained with blood.”
A faint color rose to the lady’s cheek, but it died away in an instant as she answered, with a faint smile:—
“The dreadful creature was all covered with blood, and I suppose I must have stained my hands against the bushes through which it had passed, when I parted them in order to escape from the fiery death with which you threatened me.”
There was a ring of suppressed irony in her voice, and Paul felt his eyes drop before the glance of those cold steel-blue eyes. Meanwhile, urged to the utmost exertion by their fears, the serfs plied spade and mattock with the utmost vigor. The cavity was speedily enlarged, but, when a depth of eight feet had been attained, it was found to terminate in a little burrow not large enough to admit a rabbit, much less a creature of the white wolf’s size. There were none of the tufts of white hair which had hitherto been always found beside the bodies of the victims, nor did that peculiar rank odor which always indicates the presence of wild animals hang about the spot.
The superstitious Muscovites crossed themselves, and scrambled out of the hole with grotesque alacrity. The mysterious disappearance of the monster which had committed such frightful ravages had cast a chill over the hearts of the ignorant peasants, and, unheeding the shouts of their master, they left the forest, which seemed to be overcast with the gloom of some impending calamity.
“Forgive the ignorance of these boors, madam,” said Paul, when he found himself alone with the strange lady, “and permit me to escort you to my poor house, for you must have need of rest and refreshment, and—”
Here Paul checked himself abruptly, and a dark flush of embarrassment passed over his face.
“And,” said the lady, with the same faint smile, “and you are dying with curiosity to know how I suddenly made my appearance from a thicket in your forest. You say that you are the lord of Kostopchin; then you are Paul Sergevitch, and should surely know how the ruler of Holy Russia takes upon himself to interfere with the doings of his children?”
“You know me, then?” exclaimed Paul, in some surprise.
“Yes, I have lived in foreign lands, as you have, and have heard your name often. Did you not break the bank at Blankburg? Did you not carry off Isola Menuti, the dancer, from a host of competitors; and, as a last instance of my knowledge, shall I recall to your memory a certain morning, on a sandy shore, with two men facing each other pistol in hand, the one young, fair, and boyish-looking, hardly twenty-two years of age, the other—”
“Hush!” exclaimed Paul, hoarsely; “you evidently know me, but who in the fiend’s name are you?”
“Simply a woman who once moved in society and read the papers, and who is now a hunted fugitive.”
“A fugitive!” returned Paul, hotly; “who dares to persecute you?”
The lady moved a little closer to him, and then whispered in his ear:—
“The police!”
“The police!” repeated Paul, stepping back a pace or two. “The police!”
“Yes, Paul Sergevitch, the police,” returned the lady, “that body at the mention of which it is said the very Emperor trembles as he sits in his gilded chambers in the Winter Palace. Yes, I have had the imprudence to speak my mind too freely, and—well, you know what women have to dread who fall into the hands of the police in Holy Russia. To avoid such infamous degradations I fled, accompanied by a faithful domestic. I fled in hopes of gaining the frontier, but a few versts from here a body of mounted police rode up. My poor old servant had the imprudence to resist, and was shot dead. Half wild with terror I fled into the forest, and wandered about until I heard the noise your serfs made in the beating of the woods. I thought it was the police, who had organized a search for me, and I crept into the thicket for the purpose of concealment. The rest you know. And now, Paul Sergevitch, tell me whether you dare give shelter to a proscribed fugitive such as I am.”
“Madam,” returned Paul, gazing into the clear-cut features before him, glowing with the animation of the recital, “Kostopchin is ever open to misfortune—and beauty,” added he, with a bow.
“Ah!” cried the lady, with a laugh in which there was something sinister; “I expect that misfortune would knock at your door for a long time, if it was unaccompanied by beauty. However, I thank you, and will accept your hospitality; but if evil come upon you, remember that I am not to be blamed.”
“You will be safe enough at Kostopchin,” returned Paul. “The police won’t trouble their heads about me; they know that since the Emperor drove me to lead this hideous existence, politics have no charm for me, and that the brandy bottle is the only charm of my life.”
“Dear me,” answered the lady, eyeing him uneasily, “a morbid drunkard, are you? Well, as I am half perished with cold, suppose you take me to Kostopchin; you will be conferring a favor on me, and will get back all the sooner to your favorite brandy.”
She placed her hand upon Paul’s arm as she spoke, and mechanically he led the way to the great solitary white house. The few servants betrayed no astonishment at the appearance of the lady, for some of the serfs on their way back to the village had spread the report of the sudden appearance of the mysterious stranger; besides, they were not accustomed to question the acts of their somewhat arbitrary master.
Alexis and Katrina had gone to bed, and Paul and his guest sat down to a hastily improvised meal.
“I am no great eater,” remarked the lady, as she played with the food before her; and Paul noticed with surprise that scarcely a morsel passed her lips, though she more than once filled and emptied a goblet of the champagne which had been opened in honor of her arrival.
“So it seems,” remarked
he; “and I do not wonder, for the food in this benighted hole is not what either you or I have been accustomed to.”
“Oh, it does well enough,” returned the lady, carelessly. “And now, if you have such a thing as a woman in the establishment, you can let her show me to my room, for I am nearly dead for want of sleep.”
Paul struck a hand bell that stood on the table beside him, and the stranger rose from her seat, and with a brief “Good night,” was moving towards the door, when the old man Michal suddenly made his appearance on the threshold. The aged intendant started backwards as though to avoid a heavy blow, and his fingers at once sought for the crucifix which he wore suspended round his neck, and on whose protection he relied to shield him from the powers of darkness.
“Blessed Virgin!” he exclaimed. “Holy Saint Radislas protect me, where have I seen her before?”
The lady took no notice of the old man’s evident terror, but passed away down the echoing corridor.
The old man now timidly approached his master, who, after swallowing a glass of brandy, had drawn his chair up to the stove, and was gazing moodily at its polished surface.
“My lord,” said Michal, venturing to touch his master’s shoulder, “is that the lady that you found in the forest?”
“Yes,” returned Paul, a smile breaking out over his face; “she is very beautiful, is she not?”
“Beautiful!” repeated Michal, crossing himself, “she may have beauty, but it is that of a demon. Where have I seen her before?—where have I seen those shining teeth and those cold eyes? She is not like any one here, and I have never been ten versts from Kostopchin in my life. I am utterly bewildered. Ah, I have it, the dying herdsman—save the mark! Gospodin, have a care. I tell you that the strange lady is the image of the white wolf.”
The Werewolf Megapack Page 32