"Let me look at it," Mlle de Nurrez exclaimed. "I have a weakness for
knives--a rather uncommon trait in a woman, isn't it?"

He handed it to her, and she fingered the blade cautiously. Then with a
sudden movement she leaped away from him.

"Fool!" she cried. "Do you think I could ever love a man as fat as you?
The story I told you was a lie from beginning to end. I don't remember
either of my parents--my mother ran away from home when I was two, and
my father died the following year. I married entirely of my own free
will--married the man I loved, and he--happened to be a werwolf!"

"A werwolf!" Paul Nicholas shrieked. "God help me! I thought there were
no such things!"

"Not in France, perhaps," Mlle de Nurrez said derisively; "but in Spain,
in the Pyrenees, many! At certain times of the year my husband won't
touch animal food, and if I didn't procure him human flesh he would die
of starvation, or in sheer despair eat me. Here he is."

And as she spoke the door opened, and on the threshold stood a
singularly handsome young man clad in the gay uniform of a Carlist
general.

"Capital!" he exclaimed, as his eyes fell on Paul. "Magnificent! He is
quite as fat as the other two. How clever of you, darling!" and throwing
his arms round her, he embraced her tenderly. A few seconds later and he
suddenly thrust her from him.

"Quick! quick!" he cried. "Run away, darling! run away instantly. I can
feel myself changing!" and he pushed her gently to the door.

Mlle de Nurrez took one glance at Paul as she left the room. "Poor
fool!" she said, half pityingly, half mockingly. "Poor fat fool! Though
you may no longer believe in women you will certainly believe in
werwolves--now." And as the door slammed after her, the wildest of
shrieks from within demonstrated that, for once in her life, Mlle de
Nurrez had spoken the truth.

CHAPTER XIII

THE WERWOLF IN BELGIUM AND THE NETHERLANDS

Belgium abounds in stories of werwolves, all more or less of the same
type. As in France, the werwolf, in Belgium, is not restricted to one
sex, but is, in an equal proportion, common to both.

By far the greater number of werwolfery cases in this country are to be
met with amongst the sand-dunes on the sea coast. They also occur in the
district of the Sambre; but I have never heard of any lycanthropous
streams or pools in Belgium, nor yet of any wolf-producing flowers, such
as are, at times, found in the Balkan Peninsula.

Though the property of lycanthropy here as elsewhere has been acquired
through the invocation of spirits--the ceremony being much the same as
that described in an earlier chapter--nearly all the cases of werwolfery
in Belgium are hereditary.

In Belgium, as in other Roman Catholic countries, great faith is
attached to exorcism, and for the expulsion of every sort of "evil
spirit" various methods of exorcism are employed. For example, a werwolf
is sprinkled with a compound either of 1/2 ounce of sulphur, 4 drachms
of asafœtida, 1/4 ounce of castoreum; or of 3/4 ounce of hypericum in
3 ounces of vinegar; or with a solution of carbolic acid further diluted
with a pint of clear spring water. The sprinkling must be done over the
head and shoulders, and the werwolf must at the same time be addressed
in his Christian name. But as to the success or non-success of these
various methods of exorcism I cannot make any positive statement. I have
neither sufficient evidence to affirm their efficacy nor to deny it. Rye
and mistletoe are considered safeguards against werwolves, as is also a
sprig from a mountain ash. This latter tree, by the way, attracts evil
spirits in some countries--Ireland, India, Spain, for instance--and
repels them in others. It was held in high esteem, as a preservative
against phantasms and witches, by the Druids, and it may to this day be
seen growing, more frequently than any other, in the neighbourhood of
Druidical circles, both in Great Britain and on the Continent.

In many parts of Belgium the peasantry would not consider their house
safe unless a mountain ash were growing within a few feet of it.

A CASE OF WERWOLVES IN THE ARDENNES

A case of werwolfery is reported to have happened, not so long ago, in
the Ardennes. A young man, named Bernard Vernand, was returning home one
night from his work in the fields, when his dog suddenly began to bark
savagely, whilst its hair stood on end. The next moment there was a
crackle in the hedge by the roadside, and three trampish-looking men
slouched out. They looked at Vernand, and, remarking that it was
beautiful weather, followed closely at his heels.

Vernand noticed that the eyebrows of all three met in a point over their
noses, a peculiarity which gave them a very singular and unpleasant
appearance. When he quickened his pace, they quickened theirs; whilst
his dog still continued to bark and show every indication of excessive
fear. In this way they all four proceeded till they came to a very dark
spot in the road, where the trees nearly met overhead. The sound of
their footsteps then suddenly ceased, and Vernand, peeping stealthily
round, perceived to his horror lurid eyes--that were not the eyes of
human beings--glaring after him. His dog took to its heels and fled,
and, ignominious though he felt it to be, Vernand followed suit. The
next moment there was a chorus of piercing whines, and a loud pattering
of heavy feet announced the fact that he was pursued.

Fortunately Vernand was a fast runner--he had carried off many prizes in
races at the village fair--and now that he was running for his life, he
went like the wind.

But his pursuers were fleet of foot, too, and, despite his pace, they
gradually gained on him. Happily for Vernand, he retained a certain
amount of presence of mind, and possessing rather more wit than many of
the peasants, he suddenly bethought him of a possible avenue of escape.
In a conversation with the pastor of the village some months before, the
latter had told him how an old woman had once escaped from a wode[215:1]
by climbing up a mountain ash. And if, reasoned Vernand, the ash is a
protection against one form of evil spirits, why not against another? He
recollected that there was an ash-tree close at hand, and diverting his
course, he instantly headed for it. Not a moment too soon. As he swarmed
up the slender trunk, his pursuers--three monstrous werwolves--came to a
dead halt at the foot of the tree. However, after giving vent to the
disappointment of losing their supper in a series of prodigious howls,
they veered round and bounded off, doubtless in pursuit of a less
knowing prey.

A SIMILAR CASE NEAR WATERLOO

A similar case once happened to a young man when returning from Quatre
Bras to Waterloo. He was attacked by three werwolves and saved himself
by leaping into a rye-field.

A CASE ON THE SAND-DUNES

The following story of werwolfery is of traditional authenticity only:--

Von Grumboldt, a young man of good appearance, and his sweetheart, Nina
Gosset, were out walking together one evening on the sand-dunes near
Nina's home, when Von Grumboldt uttered an exclamation of astonishment,
and bending down, picked up something which he excitedly showed to Nina.
It was a girdle composed of dark, plaited hair fastened with a plain
gold buckle. To the young man's surprise Nina shrank away from it.

"Oh!" she cried, "don't touch it! I don't know why--but it gives me such
a horrid impression. I'm sure there is an unpleasant history attached to
it."

"Pooh!" Von Grumboldt said laughingly; "that's only your fancy. I think
it would look remarkably well round your waist," and he made pretence
to encircle her with it.

Nina, turning very white, fainted, and Von Grumboldt, who was really
very much in love with her, was greatly alarmed. He ran to a brook,
fetched some water, and sprinkled her forehead with it. To his intense
relief his sweetheart soon came to. As soon as she could speak she
implored him, as he valued her life, on no account to touch her with the
girdle. To this request Von Grumboldt readily assented, and whistling to
his dog--a big collie--in spite of Nina's protests and the animal's
frantic struggles, he playfully fastened the belt round the creature's
body. Then turning to Nina he began: "Doesn't Nippo (that was the
collie's name) look fine----" and suddenly left off. The expression in
Nina's eyes made his blood run cold.

"For Heaven's sake," he cried, "what is it? What's the matter?"

White as death again, Nina pointed a finger, and Von Grumboldt, looking
in the direction she indicated, saw--not Nippo, but an awful-looking
thing in Nippo's place--a big black object, partly dog and partly some
other animal, that grew and grew until, within a few seconds, it had
grown to at least thrice Nippo's size. With a hideous howl it rushed at
Von Grumboldt. The latter, though a strong athletic young man, was
speedily overcome, and being dashed to the ground, would soon have been
torn to pieces had not Nina, recovering from a temporary helplessness,
come to the rescue.

Catching hold of the girdle round the creature's body, she unclasped the
buckle, and in a trice the evil thing had vanished; and there was Nippo,
his own self, standing before them.

"It is a werwolf belt!" Nina exclaimed, throwing it away from her. "You
see, I was right; it is devilish, and no doubt belongs to some one near
here who practises Black Magic--Mad Valerie, perhaps. This cross that I
wear round my neck, which is made of yew, no doubt warned me of this
danger and so saved me from an awful fate. You smile!--but I am certain
of it. The yew-tree is just as efficacious in the case of evil spirits
as the ash!"

"What shall we do with the beastly thing?" Von Grumboldt asked. "It
doesn't seem right to leave it here, in case some one else, with less
sense than you, should find it and a dreadful catastrophe result."

"We must burn it," Nina said. "That's the only way of getting rid of the
evil influence. Let us do so at once."

Von Grumboldt was nothing loath, and in a few minutes all that remained
of the lycanthropous girdle was a tiny heap of ashes.

To burn the object to which the lycanthropous property is attached is
the only recognized method of destroying that property. I have had many
proofs, too, of the efficacy of burning in the case of superphysical
influences other than lycanthropy; such, for example, as haunted
furniture, trees, and buildings; and I am quite sure the one and only
way to get rid of an occult presence attached to any particular object
is to burn that object.

I have been told of "burning" having been successfully practised in the
following cases:--

     _Case No. 1._--A barrow in the North of England that had long
     been haunted by a Barrowian order of Elemental. (The barrow
     was excavated, and when the remains therein had been burnt,
     the hauntings ceased.)

     _Case No. 2._--A cave in Wales haunted by the phantasm of a
     horse, though, whether the real spirit of the horse or merely
     an Elemental I cannot say. (On the soil in the cave being
     excavated, and the several skeletons, presumably of
     prehistoric animals, found being burnt, there were no longer
     any disturbances.)

     _Case No. 3._--A house in London containing an oak chest,
     attached to which was the phantasm of an old woman, who used
     to disturb the inmates of the place nightly. (On the chest
     being burnt she was seen no more.)

     _Case No. 4._--A tree in Ireland, haunted every night by a
     Vagrarian. (Immediately after the tree had been burnt the
     manifestations ceased.)

Burial is a great mistake. As long as a single bone remains, the spirit
of the dead person may still be attracted to it, and consequently remain
earthbound; but when the corpse is cremated, and the ashes scattered
abroad, then the spirit is set free. And, for this reason alone, I
advocate cremation as the best method possible of dealing with a corpse.

Before concluding this chapter on the werwolf in Belgium, let me add
that werwolfery was not the only form of lycanthropy in that country.
According to Grimm, in his "Deutsche Sagen," two warlocks who were
executed in the year 1810 at Liége for having, under the form of
werwolves, killed and eaten several children, had as their colleague a
boy of twelve years of age. The boy, in the form of a raven, consumed
those portions of the prey which the warlocks left.

WERWOLVES IN THE NETHERLANDS

Cases of werwolves are of less frequent occurrence in Holland than in
either France or Belgium. Also, they are almost entirely restricted to
the male sex.

Exorcism here is seldom practised, the working of a spell being the
usual means employed for getting rid of the evil property. The procedure
in working the spell is as follows:--

First of all, a night when the moon is in the full is selected. Then at
twelve o'clock the werwolf is seized, securely bound, and taken to an
isolated spot. Here, a circle of about seven feet in diameter is
carefully inscribed on the ground, and in the exact centre of it the
werwolf is placed, and so fastened that he cannot possibly get away.
Then three girls--always girls--come forward armed with ash twigs with
which they flog him most unmercifully, calling out as they do so:--

     "Greywolf ugly, greywolf old,
      Do at once as you are told.
      Leave this man and fly away--
      Right away, far away,
      Where 'tis night and never day."

They keep on repeating these words and whipping him; and it is not until
the face, back, and limbs of the werwolf are covered with blood that
they desist.

The oldest person present then comes forward and gives the werwolf a
hearty kick, saying as he (or she) does so:--

     "Go, fly, away to the sky;
      Devil of greywolf, thee we defy.
      Out, out, with a howl and yell,
      'Twill carry thee faster and surer to hell."

Every one present then dips a cup or mug in a concoction of sulphur,
tar, vinegar, and castoreum, just removed from boiling-point, and,
forming a circle round the werwolf, they souse him all over with this
unpleasant and painfully hot mixture, calling out as they do so:--

          "Away, away, shoo, shoo, shoo!
           Do you think we care a jot for you?
     We'll whip thee again, with a crack, crack, crack!
     Scourge thee and beat thee till thou art black;
     Fool of a greywolf, we have thee at last,
     Back to thy hell home, out of him fast--
               Fast, fast, fast!
           Our patience won't last.
         We'll scratch thee, we'll prick thee,
         We'll prod thee, we'll scald thee.
           Fast, fast, out of him, fast!"

They keep on shouting these words over and over again till the liquid
has given out and the clock strikes one; when, with a final blow or kick
at the prostrate werwolf, they run away.

The evil spirit is then said to leave the man, who quickly recovers his
proper shape, and with a loud cry of joy rushes after his friends and
relations.

When the Spaniards invaded Holland they resorted to a surer, if a
somewhat more drastic, mode of getting rid of lycanthropy--they burned
the subject possessed of it.

One of the best known cases of a werwolf in the Netherlands is as
follows:--

A young man, whilst on his way to a shooting match at Rousse, was
suddenly startled by hearing loud screams for help proceeding from a
field a few yards distant. To jump a dike and scramble over a low wall
was but the work of a few seconds, and in less time than it takes to
tell, the young man, whose name was Van Renner, found himself face to
face with a huge grey wolf. Quick as thought, he fitted an arrow to his
bow, and shot. The missile struck the wolf in the side, and with a howl
of pain the wounded creature turned tail and fled for his life.

All might now have ended like some delightful romance, for the rescued
one proved to be an exceedingly attractive maiden, with bright yellow
hair and big blue eyes; but unfortunately--or perhaps fortunately, who
knows?--the girl had a husband, and Van Renner a wife; and so, instead
of the incident being the prelude to a love affair, it was merely an
occasion for grateful acknowledgment--and--farewell. On his return home
that evening Van Renner was met with an urgent request to visit his
friend, the Burgomaster. He hastened to obey the summons, and found the
Burgomaster in bed, suffering agonies of pain from a wound which he had
received in his side some hours previously.

"I can't die without telling you," he whispered, clutching Van Renner by
the hand. "God help me, I'm a werwolf! I've always been one. It's in my
family--it's hereditary. It was your arrow that has wounded me fatally."

Van Renner was too aghast to speak. He was really fond of the
Burgomaster, and to think of him a werwolf--well! it was too dreadful to
contemplate. The dying man gazed eagerly, hungrily, piteously into his
friend's face.

"Don't say you hate me," he cried. "There is little hope for me, if any,
in the next world; and in all probability I shall either go direct to
hell or remain earthbound; but, for God's sake, let me die in the
knowledge that I leave behind me at least one friend!"

Van Renner tried hard to speak; he made every effort to speak; his lungs
swelled, his tongue wobbled, the muscles of his lips twitched; but not a
syllable could he utter--and the Burgomaster died.

FOOTNOTES:

[215:1] A phantom horseman, that goes hunting on certain nights in the
year, accompanied by phantom dogs. The author has witnessed the
phenomenon himself.

CHAPTER XIV

THE WERWOLVES AND MARAS OF DENMARK

Since so much has already been written upon the subject of werwolves in
Denmark, it is my intention only to touch upon it briefly. It is, I
believe, generally acknowledged that, at one time, werwolves were to be
met with almost daily in Denmark, and that they were almost always of
the male sex; but I can find no records of any particular form of
exorcism practised by the Danes with the object of getting rid of the
werwolf, nor of any spell used by them for the same purpose; neither
does there appear to be, amongst their traditions, any reference to a
lycanthropous flower or stream. Opinions differ as to whether werwolves
are yet to be found in Denmark, but, from all I have heard, I am
inclined to think that they still exist in the more remote districts of
that country.

The following case may be regarded as illustrative of a typical Danish
werwolf:--

THE CASE OF PETER ANDERSEN, WERWOLF

Peter Andersen, who was a werwolf by descent, his ancestors having been
werwolves for countless generations, fell in love with a beautiful young
girl named Elisa, and without telling her he was a werwolf, for fear
that she would give him up, married her.

Shortly after his marriage, he was returning home one evening with Elisa
from a neighbouring fair, where there had been much merrymaking, when,
suddenly feeling that the metamorphosis was coming on, he got down from
the cart in which they were driving, and said to his wife, very
earnestly, "If anything comes towards you, do not be afraid, and do not
hurt it; merely strike it with your apron." He then ran off at a great
rate into the fields, leaving Elisa very much surprised and impressed. A
few minutes afterwards she heard the howl of a wild animal, and, while
she was holding in the horse and endeavouring to pacify it, a huge grey
wolf suddenly leaped into the road and sprang at her.

Recollecting what her husband had told her, with wonderful presence of
mind she whipped off her apron and struck the wolf in the face with it.
The animal tore at the apron, and biting a piece out of it, turned tail
and ran away. Some time afterwards Andersen returned, and holding out to
Elisa the missing piece of her apron, asked if she guessed how he came
by it.

"Good God, man!" Elisa cried, the pupils of her eyes dilating with
terror, "it was you! I know it by the expression in your face. Heaven
preserve me! You're a werwolf!"

"I was a werwolf," Peter said, "but thanks to your brave action in
throwing the apron in my face, I am one no longer. I know I did wrong in
not telling you of my misfortune before we were married, but I dreaded
the idea of losing you. Forgive me, forgive me, I implore you!" and
Elisa, after some slight hesitation, granted his request.

This method of getting rid of the lycanthropous spirit seems to have
been (and still to be) the one most in vogue in Denmark.

Another well-known story, of a similar kind, is to the effect that while
a party of haymakers were at work in a field, a man, who, like Andersen,
had kept the fact of his being a werwolf from his family, feeling that
he was about to be transmuted, gave his son injunctions that if an
animal approached him he was on no account to hurt it, but merely to
throw his hat at it. The boy promising to obey, the father hastily left
the field. Some minutes later a grey wolf appeared, swimming a stream.
It rushed at the boy, who, mad with terror, forgot his father's
instructions, and struck at it with a pitchfork.

The prongs of the fork, entering the wolf's side, pierced its heart; and
transmutation again taking place, to the horror of all present there lay
on the ground, not the body of a beast, but the corpse of the boy's
father.

In Denmark it is said that if a woman stretches between four sticks the
membrane of a newly born foal, and creeps through it naked, she will
bring forth children without pain, but all the boys will be werwolves
and the girls maras.

As is the case with the werwolf of other countries, the Danish werwolf
retains its human form by day; but after sunset, unlike the werwolf of
any other nationality, it sometimes adopts the shape of a dog on three
legs before it finally metamorphoses into a wolf.

In addition to these methods (alluded to above) of expelling a
lycanthropous spirit in Denmark, there may be added that of addressing
the obsessed person as a werwolf and reproaching him roundly. But as I
have no proof of the effectiveness of this crude mode of exorcism, I
cannot commit myself to any verdict with regard to it.

MARAS

The mara, to which I have briefly alluded in a foregoing chapter, is to
be met with in Denmark almost as often as the werwolf; and the
superphysical property, characteristic of the mara no less than of the
werwolf, justifies me in a somewhat detailed description of the former
here.

A mara is popularly understood to be a woman by day and at night a
spirit that torments human beings and horses by sitting astride them and
causing them nightmare.

In the main I agree with this definition; though I am inclined to think
that the mara is, in reality, less hoydenish and more subtle and complex
than public opinion would have us believe. In all probability maras are
women who have either inherited or, by the practice of Black Magic,
acquired the faculty of a certain species of projection--differing from
the projection which is common to both sexes in the following points,
viz., that it can always be accomplished (during certain hours) at will;
that it is invariably practised with the sole desire to do ill; that the
projected spirit is fully conscious of all that is happening around it;
and that it possesses most--if not all--of the faculties, motives, and
nervous susceptibilities of the physical body.

Whatever may be the character of the mara by day, she is essentially
mischievous by night--owing, no doubt, to the fact that this faculty of
projection has come to her through the occult powers inimical to man.

From the complexity of their nature, maras present the same difficulty
of classification as werwolves--both are human, both are Elemental, and
consequently both are an anomaly.

The belief in maras is still prevalent in all parts of Scandinavia,
including Jutland, whence comes the following case which I quote for the
purpose of comparison.

A CASE OF A MARA IN JUTLAND

Some reapers in a field, near a village in Jutland, came one evening
upon a naked woman lying under a hedge, apparently asleep. Much
surprised, they regarded her closely, and at length coming to the
conclusion that her sleep was not natural, they summoned a shepherd who
was generally regarded as very intelligent. On seeing the woman the
shepherd at once said, "She is not a real person, though she looks like
one. She is a mara, and has stripped for the purpose of riding some one
to-night." At this there was loud laughter, and the reapers said, "Tell
us another, Eric. A mara indeed! If this isn't a woman, our mothers are
not women, for she is just as much of flesh and blood as they are."
"All right," the shepherd replied, "wait and see." And bending over her,
he whispered something in her ear, whereupon a queer little animal about
two inches long came out of the grass, and running up her body,
disappeared in her mouth. Then Eric pushed her, and she rolled over
three times, then sprang to her feet, and with a wild startled cry
leaped a high bush and disappeared. Nor could they, when they ran to the
other side of the bush, find any traces of her.

Another recorded case is the following:

THE MARA OF VILVORDE

Christine Jansen had two lovers--Nielsen and Osdeven. Nielsen, who was a
very good-looking young man, began to suffer from nightmare. He had the
most appalling dreams of being strangled and suffocated, and they at
last grew so frightful, and proved such a strain on his nerves, that he
was forced to consult a doctor. The doctor attributed the cause to
indigestion, and prescribed a special diet for him. But it was all of no
avail; the bad dreams still continued, and Nielsen's health became more
and more impaired.

At length, when he was almost worn out, having spent the greater part of
many nights reading instead of sleeping, in order to avoid the
frightful visions, he happened to mention his insufferable condition to
Osdeven. Far from ridiculing his rival, Osdeven, with great earnestness,
encouraged him to relate everything that had happened to him in his
sleep; and when Nielsen had done so, exclaimed, "I'll tell you what it
is--these dreams you have are not ordinary nightmares; they are due to a
mara--I know their type well."

"To a mara!" Nielsen cried; "how ridiculous! Why not say to a
mise--or--grim? It would be equally sensible; they are all idle
superstitions."

"So you say now," Osdeven rejoined, "but wait! When you get into bed
to-night, lie on your back, and in your right hand hold a sharp knife on
your breast, the point upwards. Remain in this attitude from between
eleven o'clock till two, and see what happens."

Nielsen laughed, but all the same decided to do as Osdeven suggested.
Night came, and, knife in hand, he lay in his bed.

Minutes passed, and nothing happening, he was beginning to think what a
fool he was for wasting his time thus, when suddenly he perceived
bending over him the luminous figure of a beautiful nude woman, whom, to
his utter astonishment, he identified as Christine Jansen--Christine
Jansen in all but expression. The expression in the eyes he now looked
into was not human--it was hellish. The figure got on the bed and was
in the act of sitting astride him, when it came in contact with the
knife. Then it uttered a frightful scream of baffled rage and pain, and
vanished.

Nielsen, shaking with terror and dreading another visitation, struck a
light. The point of his knife was dripping with blood.

An hour later, overcome with weariness, he fell asleep, and for the
first time for weeks his slumber was sound and undisturbed. Awaking in
the morning much refreshed, he would have attributed his experience to
imagination or to a dream, had it not been for the spots of blood on the
bedclothes and the stains on his knife, and this evidence, as to the
reality of what had happened, was strengthened by his discovery of
certain circumstances in connexion with Miss Jansen, towards whom his
sentiments had now undergone a complete change.

Curious to learn if anything had befallen her, he made cautious
inquiries, and was informed that owing to a sudden indisposition--the
nature of which was carefully hidden from him--she had been ordered
abroad, where, in all probability, she would remain indefinitely.

Nielsen now had no more nightmare, and he and Osdeven, becoming firm
friends, agreed that the next time they fell in love they would take
good care it was not with a mara.

Another method of getting rid of maras was to sprinkle the air with
sand, at the same time uttering a brief incantation. For example, in a
village on the borders of Schleswig-Holstein, a woman who suffered
agonies from nightmare consulted a man locally reported to be well
versed in occult matters.

"Make your mind easy," said this man, after she had described her dreams
to him; "I will soon put an end to your disturbances. It is a mara that
is tormenting you. Don't be frightened if she suddenly manifests herself
when I sprinkle this sand, for there will be nothing very alarming in
her appearance, and she won't be able to harm you." He then proceeded to
scatter several handfuls about the room, repeating as he did so a brief
incantation.

He was still occupied thus, when, without a moment's warning, the figure
of a very tall, naked woman appeared crouching on the bed. With a yell
of rage she leaped on to the floor, her eyes flashing, and her lips
twitching convulsively; and raising her hands as if she would like to
scratch the incantator's face to pieces, she rushed furiously at him.

Far from being intimidated, however, he quite coolly dashed a handful of
sand in her eyes, whereupon she instantly disappeared. "Now," he said,
turning to the lady, who was half dead with terror, "you won't have the
nightmare again"--which prophecy proved to be correct.

These instances will, I think, suffice to show the similarity between
werwolves and maras. Both anomalies are dependent on properties of an
entirely baneful nature; and both properties are either hereditary,
having been established in families through the intercourse of those
families in ages past with the superphysical Powers inimical to man; or
are capable of being acquired through the practice of Black Magic.

CHAPTER XV

WERWOLVES IN NORWAY AND SWEDEN

As in Denmark, werwolves were once so numerous in Norway and Sweden,
that these countries naturally came to be regarded as the true home of
lycanthropy.

With the advent of the tourist, however, and the consequent springing up
of fresh villages, together with the gradual increase of native
population, Norway and Sweden have slowly undergone a metamorphosis,
with the result that it is now only in the most remote districts, such
as the northern portion of the Kiolen Mountains and the borders of
Lapland, that werwolves are to be found.

Here, amid the primitive solitude of vast pine forests, flow
lycanthropous rivers; here, too, grow lycanthropous shrubs and flowers.

Werwolfery in Norway and Sweden is not confined to one sex; it is common
to both; and in these countries various forms of spells, both for
invoking and expelling lycanthropous spirits, are current.

As far as I can gather, a Norwegian or Swedish peasant, when he wishes
to become a werwolf, kneels by the side of a lycanthropous stream at
midnight, having chosen a night when the moon is in the full, and
incants some such words as these:--

     "'Tis night! 'tis night! and the moon shines white
        Over pine and snow-capped hill;
      The shadows stray through burn and brae
        And dance in the sparkling rill.

     "'Tis night! 'tis night! and the devil's light
        Casts glimmering beams around.
      The maras dance, the nisses prance
        On the flower-enamelled ground.

     "'Tis night! 'tis night! and the werwolf's might
        Makes man and nature shiver.
      Yet its fierce grey head and stealthy tread
        Are nought to thee, oh river!
            River, river, river.

     "Oh water strong, that swirls along,
        I prithee a werwolf make me.
      Of all things dear, my soul, I swear,
        In death shall not forsake thee."

The supplicant then strikes the banks of the river three times with his
forehead; then dips his head into the river thrice, at each dip gulping
down a mouthful of the water. This concludes the ceremony--he has
become a werwolf, and twenty-four hours later will undergo the first
metamorphosis.

Lycanthropous water is said, by those who dwell near to it, to differ
from other water in subtle details only--details that would, in all
probability, escape the notice of all who were not connoisseurs of the
superphysical. A strange, faint odour, comparable with nothing,
distinguishes lycanthropous water; there is a lurid sparkle in it,
strongly suggestive of some peculiar, individual life; the noise it
makes, as it rushes along, so closely resembles the muttering and
whispering of human voices as to be often mistaken for them; whilst at
night it sometimes utters piercing screams, and howls, and groans, in
such a manner as to terrify all who pass near it. Dogs and horses, in
particular, are susceptible to its influence, and they exhibit the
greatest signs of terror at the mere sound of it.

Another means of becoming a werwolf, resorted to by the Swedish and
Norwegian peasant, consists in the plucking and wearing of a
lycanthropous flower after sunset, and on a night when the moon is in
the full. Lycanthropous flowers, no less than lycanthropous water,
possess properties peculiar to themselves; properties which are,
probably, only discernible to those who are well acquainted with them.
Their scent is described as faint and subtly suggestive of death, whilst
their sap is rather offensively white and sticky. In appearance they are
much the same as other flowers, and are usually white and yellow.

Yet another method of acquiring the property of lycanthropy consists in
making: first, a magic circle on the ground, at twelve o'clock, on a
night when the moon is in the full (there is no strict rule as to the
magnitude of the circle, though one of about seven feet in diameter
would seem to be the size most commonly adopted); then, in the centre of
the circle, a wood fire, heating thereon an iron vessel containing one
pint of clear spring water, and any seven of the following ingredients:
hemlock (1/2 ounce to 1 ounce), aloe (30 grains), opium (2 to 4-1/2
drachms), mandrake (1 ounce to 1-1/2 ounces), solanum (1/2 ounce), poppy
seed (1/2 ounce to 1 ounce), asafœtida (3/4 ounce to 1 ounce), and
parsley (2 to 3 ounces).

Whilst the mixture is heating, the experimenter prostrates himself in
front of the fire and prays to the Great Spirit of the Unknown to confer
on him the property of metamorphosing, nocturnally, into a werwolf. His
prayers take no one particular form, but are quite extempore; though he
usually adds to them some such recognised incantation as:--

     "Come, spirit so powerful! come, spirit so dread,
      From the home of the werwolf, the home of the dead.
      Come, give me thy blessing! come, lend me thine ear!
      Oh spirit of darkness! oh spirit so drear!

     "Come, mighty phantom! come, great Unknown!
      Come from thy dwelling so gloomy and lone.
      Come, I beseech thee; depart from thy lair,
      And body and soul shall be thine, I declare.

     "Haste, haste, haste, horrid spirit, haste!
      Speed, speed, speed, scaring spirit, speed!
      Fast, fast, fast, fateful spirit, fast!"

He then makes the following formal declaration:--

"I (here insert name) offer to thee, Great Spirit of the Unknown, this
night (here insert date), my body and soul, on condition that thou
grantest me, from this night to the hour of my death, the power of
metamorphosing, nocturnally, into a wolf. I beg, I pray, I implore
thee--thee, unparalleled Phantom of Darkness, to make me a werwolf--a
werwolf!"--and striking the ground three times with his forehead, he
gets up. As soon as the concoction in the vessel is boiling, he dips a
cup into it, and sprinkles the contents on the ground, repeating the
action until he has sprinkled the whole interior of the circle.

Then he kneels on the ground close to the fire, and in a loud voice
cries out, "Come, oh come!" and, if he is fortunate, a phantom suddenly
manifests itself over the fire. Sometimes the phantom is indefinite--a
cylindrical, luminous, pillar-like thing, about seven feet in height,
having no discernible features; sometimes it assumes a definite shape,
and appears either as a monstrous hooded figure with a death's head, or
as a sub-human, sub-animal type of Elemental.

Whatever form the Unknown adopts, it is invariably terrifying. It never
speaks, but indicates its assent by stretching out an arm, or what
serves as an arm, and then disappears. It never remains visible for more
than half a minute. As soon as it vanishes the supplicant, who is always
half mad with terror, springs from the ground and rushes home--or
anywhere to get again within reach of human beings. By the morning,
however, all his fears have departed; and at sunset he creeps off into
the forest, or into some equally secluded spot, to experience, for the
first time, the extraordinary sensations of metamorphosing into a wolf,
or, perhaps, a semi-wolf, _i.e._, a creature half man and half wolf; for
the degree of metamorphosis varies according to locality. The hour of
metamorphosis also varies according to locality--though it is at sunset
that the change most usually takes place, the transmutation back to man
generally occurring at dawn.

When a werwolf, in human shape at the time, is killed, he sometimes
(not always) metamorphoses into a wolf, and if in wolf's form at the
time he is killed he sometimes (not always) metamorphoses into a human
being--here again the nature of the transmutation depending on locality.

In certain of the forests of Sweden dwell old women called Vargamors,
who are closely allied to werwolves, and exercise complete control over
all the wolves in the neighbourhood, keeping the latter well supplied in
food. As an illustration of the Vargamor I have chosen the following
story:--

LISO OF SOROA

Liso was thoroughly spoilt. Every one had told her how beautiful she was
from the day she had first learned to walk, and, consequently, it was
only natural that when she grew up she cared for no one but herself, and
for nothing so much as gazing at herself in the looking-glass and
expatiating on the loveliness of her own reflection. As a girl at home
she was allowed to do precisely what she liked--neither father nor
mother, relatives (with one exception) nor friends ever thwarted her;
and when she married it was the same: her husband bowed down to her, and
was always ready to indulge her every wish and whim.

She had three children, two boys and a girl, whom she occasionally
condescended to notice; but only when there was nothing else at hand to
entertain her.

The one person of whom Liso stood in awe was her aunt, a rich old lady
with distinct views of her own, and a vigorous method of expressing
them. Now, one of the old lady's peculiar ideas--at least peculiar in
Liso's estimation--was that woman was made to be man's helpmate, and
that married women should think of their husbands first, their children
next, and themselves last--an order of consideration which Liso thought
was exactly the reverse of what it should be.

Had her aunt been poor, it is quite certain that Liso would have had
nothing whatsoever to do with her. But circumstances alter cases. This
aunt was rich, and, moreover, had no one more nearly related to her than
Liso.

One day, in the depth of winter, Liso received a letter from her aunt
containing a pressing invitation to start off at once on a visit to the
latter at Skatea, a small town some twelve miles from Soroa. "Bring your
children," so the letter ran, "I should so love to see them, and stay
the night." Liso was greatly annoyed. She had just arranged a meeting
with one of her numerous lovers, and this invitation upset everything.
However, as it was of vital importance to her to keep in with her aunt,
she at once decided to put off her previous engagement and take her
children to see their rich old relative.

Hoping that her lover might perhaps join her on the road and thus
convert a boring journey into a pleasant pastime, Liso, in spite of her
husband's entreaties, refused to take a servant, and insisted upon
driving herself. As she had anticipated, her lover met her on the
outskirts of the town, but, to her chagrin, was unable to accompany her
any part of the way to Skatea. He was most profuse in his apologies,
adding, "I wish you weren't going; I hear the road you will be
traversing is infested with bears and wolves."

"Thank you!" she exclaimed mockingly, "I am not afraid, if you are. I
can quite understand now why you cannot come. Good-bye!" And with a
haughty inclination of her head she drove off, without deigning to
notice the young man's outstretched hand. Liso was now in a very bad
temper; and, having no other means of venting it, savagely silenced the
children whenever they attempted to speak.

The vehicle in which the party travelled was a light sledge, drawn by
one horse only--a beast of matchless beauty and size, which, under
ordinary circumstances, could cover twelve miles in an almost
inconceivably short space of time. But now, owing to a heavy fall of
snow, the track, though well beaten, was heavy, and the piled-up snow
on each side so deep that to turn back, without the risk of sticking
fast, was an impossibility.

The first half of the journey passed without accident, and they were
skirting the borders of a pine forest when Liso suddenly became
conscious of a suspicious noise behind her. Looking round, she saw, to
her horror, a troop of gaunt grey wolves issue from the forest and
commence running after the sledge. She instantly slashed the horse with
her whip, and the next moment the chase began in grim earnest. But,
gallop as fast as it would, the horse could not outpace the wolves, whom
hunger had made fleet as the wind, and it was not many minutes before
two of the biggest of them appeared on either side of the vehicle.
Though their intention was, in all probability, only to attack the
horse, yet the safety both of Liso and the children depended on the
preservation of the animal.

It was indeed a beautiful creature, and the danger only enhanced its
value; it seemed, in fact, almost entitled to claim for its preservation
an extraordinary sacrifice. And Liso did not hesitate. It was one life
against three--the world would excuse her, if God did not.

"You, Charles," she said hoarsely, "you are the eldest; it is your duty
to go first"--and before Charles had time to realize what was
happening, she had gripped him round the waist, and with strength
generated by the crisis hurled him into the snow. She did not see where
he fell--the sledge was moving far too fast for that; but she heard the
sound of the concussion, and then frantic screaming, accompanied by
howls of triumph and joyful yapping. There was a momentary lull--only
momentary--and then the patting footsteps recommenced.

Nearer and nearer they came, until she could hear a deep and regular
pant, pant, pant, drowned every now and then by prolonged howls and
piercing, nerve-racking whines. Once again two murder-breathing forms
are racing along at the side of the sledge, biting and snapping at the
horse's legs with their gleaming, foam-flecked jaws.

"George," Liso shouted, "you must go now. You are a boy, and boys and
men should always die to save their sisters." But George, though
younger, was not so easy to dispose of as Charles. Charles had been
taken unawares, but George guessed what was coming and was on his guard.

"No, no," he cried, clinging on to the sledge with both his chubby
hands. "The wolves will eat me! Take sissy."

"Wretch!" shrieked Liso, boxing his ears furiously. "Selfish little
wretch! So this is the result of all the kindness I have lavished on
you. Let go at once"--and tearing at his baby wrists with all her
might, she succeeded in loosening them, and the next instant he was in
the road.

Then there was a repetition of what had happened before--a few wild
screeches, savage howls of triumph, and snarls and grunts that suggested
much. Then--comparative quiet, and then--patterings. Mad with fear, Liso
stood up and lashed the horse. God of mercy! there was now only one more
life between hers and the fate that, of all fates in the world, seemed
to her just then to be the most dreadful. With the thick and gloomy
forest before and behind her, and the nearer and nearer trampling of her
ravenous pursuers, she almost collapsed from sheer anguish; but the
thought of all her beauty perishing in such an ignominious and painful
fashion braced her up. Perhaps, too--at least, let us hope
so--underlying it all, though so much in the background, there was a
genuine longing to save the little mite--her exact counterpart, so
people said--that nestled its sunny head in the folds of her soft and
costly sealskin coat.

She did not venture to look behind her, only in front--at the seemingly
never-ending white track; at the dense mass of trees--trees that shook
their heads mockingly at her as the wind rustled through them; at the
great splash of red right across the sky, so horribly remindful of
blood that she shuddered. Night birds hoot; wild cats glare down at her;
and shadows of every kind glide noiselessly out from behind the great
trunks, and await her approach with inexplicable flickerings and
flutterings.

All at once two rough paws are laid on her shoulders, and the wide-open,
bloody jaws of an enormous wolf hang over her head. It is the most
ferocious beast of the troop, which, having partly missed its leap at
the sledge, is dragged along with it, in vain seeking with its hinder
legs for a resting-place to enable it to get wholly on to the frail
vehicle. Liso looks down at the little girl beside her and their eyes
meet.

"Not me! not me!" the tiny one cried, clutching hold of her wrist in its
anxiety. "I have been good, have I not? You will not throw me into the
snow like the others?" Liso's lips tightened. The weight of the body of
the wolf drew her gradually backwards--another minute and she would be
out of the sledge. Her life was of assuredly more value than that of the
child. Besides, one so young would not feel the horrors of death so
acutely as she would, who was grown up. Anything rather than such a
devilish ending. Providence willed it--Providence must bear the
responsibility. And, steeling her soul to pity, she snatches up her
daughter and throws her into the gleaming jaws of the wolf, which,
springing off the sledge, hastily departs with its prey into the forest,
where it is followed by hosts of other wolves. Exhausted, stunned,
senseless--for her escape has been extremely narrow--Liso drops the
reins, and, sinking back into the luxurious cushions of the vehicle,
gives a great sigh of relief and shuts her eyes.

Meantime the trees grow thinner, and an isolated house, to which a
side-road leads, appears at no great distance off. The horse, left to
itself, follows this new path; it enters through an open gate, and,
panting and foaming, comes to a dead halt before a ponderous oak door
studded with huge iron nails. Presently Liso recovers. She finds herself
seated before a roaring fire; and a woman with a white face, dark,
piercing eyes, and a beak-like nose, is bending over her. The woman
presents such an extraordinary spectacle that Liso is oblivious of
everything else, and gazes at her with a cold sensation of fear creeping
down her spine.

"You've had a narrow escape," the woman presently exclaims in peculiarly
hoarse tones. "And the danger is not over yet! Listen!" To Liso's terror
an inferno of howls and whines sounds from the yard outside, and she
sees, gleaming in at her through the window-panes, scores of wild, hairy
faces with pale, lurid eyes. "They are there!" the woman remarks, a
saturnine smile in her eyes and playing round her lips. "There--all
ready to rend and tear you to pieces as they did your children--your
three pretty, loving children. I've only to open the door, and in they
will rush!"

"But you won't," Liso gasped feebly. "You won't be so cruel. Besides,
they could eat you, too."

"Oh no, they couldn't," the woman laughed. "I'm a Vargamor. Every one of
these wolves knows me and loves me as a mother. With you it is very
different. Shall I----?"

"Oh no! for pity's sake spare me!" Liso cried, throwing herself at the
woman's feet and catching hold of her hands. "Spare me, and I will do
anything you want."

"Well," said the woman, after some consideration, "I will spare you on
one condition, namely, that you live with me and do the housework; I'm
getting too old for it."

"I suppose I may see my family occasionally?" Liso said.

"No!" the old woman snapped, "you may not. You must never go out of
sight of this house. Now, what do you say? Recollect, it is either that
or the wolves! Quick," and she hobbled to the door as she spoke.

"I've chosen!" Liso shrieked. "I'll stay with you. Anything rather than
such an awful death. Tell me what I have to do and I'll begin at once."

The old woman took her at her word. She speedily set Liso a task, and
from that time onward, kept her so continuously employed, not allowing
her a moment to herself, that her life soon became unbearable. She tried
to escape, but each time she left the house the fierce howling of the
wolves sent her back to it in terror, and she discovered that, night and
day, certain of the beasts were supervising her movements. After she had
been there a week the old woman said to her, "I fear it is useless to
think of keeping you any longer! Times are bad--food is scarce. The
wolves are hungry--I must give you to them."

But Liso fell on her knees and pleaded so hard that the Vargamor
relented, "Well, well!" she said, "I will spare you, provided you can
procure me a substitute. If you like to sit down and write to some one I
will see that the note is delivered."

Then Liso, almost beside herself at the thought of the hungry wolves,
sat down and wrote a letter to her husband, telling him she had met with
an accident, and desiring him to come to her at once. She dared not give
him the slightest hint as to what had actually befallen her, as she knew
the old woman would read the letter.

When she had finished her note, the Vargamor took it, and for the next
twelve hours Liso had a very anxious time.

"If he doesn't come soon," the old woman at length said to her, with an
evil chuckle, "I shall have to let the wolves in. They are famishing;
and I, too, want something tastier than rabbits and squirrels."

The minutes passed, and Liso was nearly fainting with suspense, when
there suddenly broke on her ears the distant tramp of horses' feet; and
in a very few moments a droshky dashed up to the door.

"Call him in here," the Vargamor said, "and run up and hide in your
bedroom. My pets and I will enjoy him all the better by the fire, and
there won't be so much risk of them being hurt."

Liso, afraid to do otherwise, ran up the rickety ladder leading to her
room, shouting as she did so, "Oscar! Oscar! come in, come in."

The joyful note in her husband's voice as he replied to her invitation
struck a new chord in Liso's nature--a chord which had been there all
the time, but had got choked and clogged through over-indulgence. Full
of a courage that dared anything in its determination to save him, she
crept cautiously down the stairs, and just as he crossed the threshold,
and the Vargamor was about to summon the wolves, she dashed up to the
old woman and struck her with all her might. Then, seizing her husband,
she dragged him out of the house, and, hustling him into the carriage,
jumped in by his side and told the coachman to drive home with the
utmost speed.

All this was done in less time than it takes to tell, and once again the
familiar sounds of pattering--patterings on the snow in the wake of the
carriage--fell on Liso's ears, and all the old horrors of the preceding
journey came back to her with full force.

Slowly, despite the fact that there were two horses now, the wolves
gained on them, and once again the same harrowing question arose in
Liso's mind. Some one must be sacrificed. Which should it be? The
coachman! without doubt the coachman. He was only a poor, uneducated
man, a hireling, and his life was as nothing compared either with that
of her husband or her own.

But she now remembered that Oscar, though usually a mere straw in her
hands, and ready to do anything she asked him, had one or two
peculiarities--fondness for children and animals, and a great respect
for life--life in every grade. Would he consent to sacrifice the
coachman? And as she glanced at him, a feeling of awe came over her.
What a big, strong man this husband of hers was, and what strength he
had--strength of all kinds, physical as well as mental--if he cared to
exert it. But then he loved, worshipped, and adored her; he would never
treat her with anything but the utmost deference and kindness, no matter
what she said or did. Still, when she got ready to whisper the fatal
suggestion in his ear, her heart failed her. And then the new something
within her--that something that had already spoken and seemed inclined
to be painfully officious--once more asserted itself. The coachman was
married, he had children--four people dependent on him, four hearts that
loved him! With her it was different: no one was actually dependent on
her--there were no children now! Nothing but the memory of them!
Memory--what a hateful thing it was! She had forced them to give her
their lives; would it not be some atonement for her act if she were now
to offer hers? She made the offer--breathed it with a shuddering soul
into her husband's ears--and with a great round oath he rejected it.

"What! You! Let you be thrown to the wolves?" he roared. "No--sooner
than that, ten thousand times sooner, I will jump out! But I don't think
there is any need. Knowing there were wolves about, I brought arms. If
occasion arises we can easily account for half of them. But we shall
outdistance them yet."

He spoke the truth. Bit by bit the powerful horses drew away from the
pack, and ere the last trees of the forest were passed, the howlings
were no longer heard and all danger was at an end.

Then, and not till then, did Oscar learn what had become of the
children.

He listened to Liso's explanation in silence, and it was not until she
had finished that the surprise came. She was anticipating
commiseration--commiseration for the awful hell she had undergone. She
little guessed the struggle that was taking place beneath her husband's
seemingly calm exterior. The revelation came with an abruptness that
staggered her. "Woman!" he cried, "you are a murderess. Sooner than have
sacrificed your children you should have suffered three deaths
yourself--that is the elementary instinct of all mothers, human and
otherwise. You are below the standard of a beast--of the Vargamor you
slew. Go! go back to those parents who bore you, and tell them I'll have
nought to do with you--that I want a woman for my wife, not a
monstrosity."

He bade the coachman pull up, and, alighting, told the man to drive Liso
to the home of her parents.

But Liso did not hear him--she sat huddled up on the seat with her eyes
staring blankly before her. For the first time in her life she was
conscious that she loved!

CHAPTER XVI

WERWOLVES IN ICELAND, LAPLAND, AND FINLAND

The Bersekir of Iceland are credited with the rare property of dual
metamorphosis--that is to say, they are credited with the power of being
able to adopt the individual forms of two animals--the bear and the
wolf.

For substantiation as to the _bona-fide_ existence of this rare property
of dual metamorphosis one has only to refer to the historical literature
of the country (the authenticity of which is beyond dispute), wherein
many cases of it are recorded.

The following story, illustrative of dual metamorphosis, was told to me
on fairly good authority.

A very unprepossessing Bersekir, named Rerir, falling in love with
Signi, the beautiful daughter of a neighbouring Bersekir, proposed to
her and was scornfully rejected. Smarting under the many insults that
had been heaped on him--for Signi had a most cutting tongue--Rerir, who,
like most of the Bersekir, was both a werwolf and a wer-bear, resolved
to be revenged. Assuming the shape of a bear--the animal he deemed the
more formidable--Rerir stole to the house where Signi and her parents
lived, and climbing on the roof, tore away at it with his claws till he
had made a hole big enough to admit him. Dropping through the aperture
he had thus effected, he alighted on the top of some one in bed--one of
the servants of the house--whom he hugged to death before she had time
to utter a cry. He then stole out into the passage and made his way,
cautiously and noiselessly, to the room in which he imagined Signi
slept. Here, however, instead of finding the object of his passions, he
came upon her parents, one of whom--the mother--was awake; and aiming a
blow at the latter's head, he crushed in her skull with one stroke of
his powerful paw. The noise awoke Signi's father, who, taking in the
situation at a glance, also metamorphosed into a bear and straightway
closed with his assailant. A desperate encounter between the two
wer-animals now commenced, and the whole household, aroused from their
slumber, came trooping in. For some time the issue of the combat was
dubious, both adversaries being fairly well matched. But at length
Rerir began to prevail, and Signi's father cried out for some one to
help him. Then Signi, anxious to save her parent's life, seized a knife,
and, aiming a frantic blow, inadvertently struck her father, who
instantly sank on the ground, leaving her at the mercy of his furious
opponent.

With a loud snarl of triumph, Rerir rushed at the girl, and was bearing
her triumphantly away, when the cook--an old woman who had followed the
fortunes of the Bersekir all her life--had a sudden inspiration.
Standing on a shelf in the corner of the room was a jar containing a
preparation of sulphur, asafœtida, and castoreum, which her mistress
had always given her to understand was a preventive against evil
spirits. Snatching it up, she darted after the wer-bear and flung the
contents of it in its face, just as it was about to descend the stairs
with Signi. In a moment there was a sudden and startling metamorphosis,
and in the place of the bear stood the ugly, misshapen man, Rerir.

The hunchback now would gladly have departed without attempting further
mischief; for although the household boasted no man apart from its
incapacitated master, there were still three formidable women and some
big dogs to be faced.

But to let him escape, after the irreparable harm he had done, was the
very last thing Signi would permit; and with an air of stern authority
she commanded the servants to fall on him with any weapons they could
find, whilst she would summon the hounds.

Now, indeed, the tables were completely turned. Rerir was easily
overpowered and bound securely hand and foot by Signi and her servants,
and after undergoing a brief trial the following morning he was
summarily executed.

Those Icelanders who possessed the property of metamorphosis into wolves
and bears (they were always of the male sex), more often than not used
it for the purpose of either wreaking vengeance or of executing justice.
The terrible temper--for the rage of the Bersekir has been a byword for
centuries--commonly attributed to Icelanders and Scandinavians in
general, is undoubtedly traceable to the werwolves and wer-bears into
which the Bersekirs metamorphosed.

It is said that in Iceland there are both lycanthropous streams and
flowers, and that they differ little if at all from those to be met with
in other countries.

THE WERWOLVES OF LAPLAND

In Lapland werwolves are still much to the fore. In many families the
property is hereditary, whilst it is not infrequently sought and
acquired through the practice of Black Magic. Though, perhaps, more
common among males, there are, nevertheless, many instances of it among
females.

The following case comes from the country bordering on Lake Enara.

The child of a peasant woman named Martha, just able to trot alone, and
consequently left to wander just where it pleased, came home one morning
with its forehead apparently licked raw, all its fingers more or less
injured, and two of them seemingly sucked and mumbled to a mere pulp.

On being interrogated as to what had happened, it told a most astounding
tale: A very beautiful lady had picked it up and carried it away to her
house, where she had put it in a room with her three children, who were
all very pretty and daintily dressed. At sunset, however, both the lady
and her children metamorphosed into wolves, and would undoubtedly have
eaten it, had they not satiated their appetites on a portion of a girl
which had been kept over from the preceding day. The newcomer was
intended for their meal on the morrow, and obeying the injunctions of
their mother, the young werwolves had forborne to devour the child,
though they had all tasted it.

The child's parents were simply dumbfounded--they could scarcely credit
their senses--and made their offspring repeat its narrative over and
over again. And as it stuck to what it had said, they ultimately
concluded that it was true, and that the lady described could be none
other than Madame Tonno, the wife of their landlord and patron--a person
of immense importance in the neighbourhood.

But what could they do? How could they protect their children from
another raid?

To accuse the lady, who was rich and influential, of being a werwolf
would be useless. No one would believe them--no one dare believe
them--and they would be severely punished for their indiscretion. Being
poor, they were entirely at her mercy, and if she chose to eat their
children, they could not prevent her, unless they could catch her in the
act.

One evening the mother was washing clothes before the door of her house,
with her second child, a little girl of four years of age, playing about
close by. The cottage stood in a lonely part of the estate, forming
almost an island in the midst of low boggy ground; and there was no
house nearer than that of M. Tonno. Martha, bending over her wash-tub,
was making every effort to complete her task, when a fearful cry made
her look up, and there was the child, gripped by one shoulder, in the
jaws of a great she-wolf, the arm that was free extended towards her.
Martha was so close that she managed to clutch a bit of the child's
clothing in one hand, whilst with the other she beat the brute with all
her might to make it let go its hold. But all in vain: the relentless
jaws did not show the slightest sign of relaxing, and with a saturnine
glitter in its deep-set eyes it emitted a hoarse burr-burr, and set off
at full speed towards the forest, dragging the mother, who was still
clinging to the garment of her child, with it.

But they did not long continue thus. The wolf turned into some low-lying
uneven track, and Martha, falling over the jagged trunk of a tree, found
herself lying on the ground with only a little piece of torn clothing
tightly clasped in her hand. Hitherto, comforted by Martha's presence,
the little one had not uttered a sound; but now, feeling itself
deserted, it gave vent to the most heartrending screams--screams that
abruptly disturbed the silence of that lonely spot and pierced to the
depths of Martha's soul. In an instant she rose, and, dashing on,
bounded over stock and stone, tearing herself pitiably, but heeding it
not in her intense anxiety to save her child. But the wolf had now
increased its speed; the undergrowth was thick, the ground heavier, and
soon screams became her only guide. Still on and on she dashed, now
snatching up a little shoe which was clinging to the bushes, now
shrieking with agony as she saw fragments of the child's hair and
clothes on the low jagged boughs obstructing her path. On, on, on, until
the screams grew fainter, then louder, and then ceased altogether.

Late that night the husband, Max, found his wife lying dead, just
outside the grounds of his patron's château. Guessing what had happened,
and having but one thought in his mind--namely, revenge--Max, arming
himself with the branch of a tree, marched boldly up to the house, and
rapped loudly at the door.

M. Tonno answered this peremptory summons himself, and demanded in an
angry voice what Max meant by daring to announce himself thus.

Max pointed in the direction of the corpse. "That!" he shrieked; "that
is the reason of my visit. Madame Tonno is a werwolf--she has murdered
both my wife and child, and I am here to demand justice."

"Come inside," M. Tonno said, the tone of his voice suddenly changing.
"We can discuss the matter indoors in the privacy of my study." And he
conducted Max to a room in the rear of the house.

But no sooner had Max crossed the threshold than the door was slammed
on him, and he found himself a prisoner. He turned to the window, but
there was no hope there--it was heavily barred. But although a
peasant--and a fool, so he told himself, to have thus deliberately
walked into a trap--Max was not altogether without wits, and he searched
the room thoroughly, eventually discovering a loose board. Tearing it
up, he saw that the space under the floor--that is to say, between the
floor and the foundation of the house--was just deep enough for him to
lie there at full length. Here, then, was a possible avenue of escape.
Setting to work, he succeeded, after much effort, in wrenching up
another board, and then another, and getting into the excavation thus
made, he worked his way along on his stomach, until he came to a
grating, which, to his utmost joy, proved to be loose. It was but the
work of a few minutes to force it out and to dislodge a few bricks, and
Max was once again free. His one idea now was to tell his tale to his
brother peasants and rouse them to immediate action, and with this end
in view he set off running at full speed to the nearest settlement.

The peasants of Lapland are slow and stolid and take a lot of rousing,
but when once they are roused, few people are so terrible.

Fortunately for Max, he was not the only sufferer; several other people
in the neighbourhood had lately lost their children, and the story he
told found ready credence. In less than an hour a large body of men and
women, armed with every variety of weapon, from a sword to a pitchfork,
had gathered together, and setting off direct to the château, they
surrounded it on all sides, and forcing an entrance, seized M. Tonno and
his werwolf wife and werwolf children, and binding them hand and foot,
led them to the shores of Lake Enara and drowned them. They then went
back to the house and, setting fire to it, burned it to the ground, thus
making certain of destroying any werwolf influence it might still
contain.

With this wholesale extermination a case that may be taken as a
characteristic type of Lapland lycanthropy in all its grim and sordid
details concludes.

FINLAND WERWOLVES

Finland teems with stories of werwolves--stories ancient and modern, for
the werwolf is said to still flourish in various parts of the country.

The property is not restricted to one sex; it is equally common to both.
Spells and various forms of exorcism are used, and certain streams are
held to be lycanthropous.

However, in Finland as in Scandinavia, it is very difficult to procure
information as to werwolves. The common peasant, who alone knows
anything about the anomaly, is withheld by superstition from even
mentioning its name; and if he mentions a werwolf at all, designates him
only as the "old one," or the "grey one," or the "great dog," feeling
that to call this terror by its true name is a sure way to exasperate
it. It is only by strategy one learns from a peasant that when a fine
young ox is found in the morning breathing hard, his hide bathed in
foam, and with every sign of fright and exhaustion, while, perhaps, only
one trifling wound is discovered on the whole body, which swells and
inflames as if poison had been infused, the animal generally dying
before night; and that when, on examination of the corpse, the
intestines are found to be torn as with the claws of a wolf, and the
whole body is in a state of inflammation, it is accounted certain that
the mischief has been caused by a werwolf.

It is thus a werwolf serves his quarry when he kills for the mere love
of killing, and not for food.

In Finland, perhaps more than in other countries, werwolves are credited
with demoniacal power, and old women who possess the property of
metamorphosing into wolves are said to be able to paralyse cattle and
children with their eyes, and to have poison in their nails, one wound
from which causes certain death.

To illustrate the foregoing I have selected an incident which happened
near Diolen, a village on the eastern shore of the Gulf of Finland, at
the distance of about a hundred wersts from the ancient city of Mawa.
Here vegetation is of a more varied and luxuriant kind than is usually
found in the Northern latitude; the oak and the bela, intermingled with
rich plots of grass, grow at the very edge of the sea--a phenomenon
accountable for by the fact that the Baltic is tideless.

For about half a werst in breadth, the shore continues a level,
luxuriant stretch, when it suddenly rises in three successive cliffs,
each about a hundred feet in height, and placed about the same space of
half a werst, one behind the other, like huge steps leading to the
table-land above. In some places the rocks are completely hidden from
the view by a thick fence of trees, which take root at their base, while
each level is covered by a minute forest of firs, in which grow a
variety of herbs and shrubs, including the English whitethorn, and wild
strawberries.

It was to gather the latter that Savanich and his seven-year-old son,
Peter, came one afternoon early in summer. They had filled two baskets
and were contemplating returning home with their spoil, when Caspan, the
big sheepdog, uttered a low growl.

"Hey, Caspan, what is it?" Peter cried. "Footsteps! And such curious
ones!"

"They are curious," Savanich said, bending down to examine them. "They
are larger and coarser than those of Caspan, longer in shape, and with a
deep indentation of the ball of the foot. They are those of a wolf--an
old one, because of the deepness of the tracks. Old wolves walk heavy.
And here's a wound the brute has got in its paw. See! there is a slight
irregularity on the print of the hind feet, as if from a dislocated
claw. We must be on our guard. Wolves are hungry now: the waters have
driven them up together, and the cattle are not let out yet. The beast
is not far off, either. An old wolf like this will prowl about for days
together, round the same place, till he picks up something."

"I hope it won't attack us, father," Peter said, catching hold of
Savanich by the hand. "What should you do if it did?"

But before Savanich could reply, Caspan gave a loud bark and dashed into
the thicket, and the next moment a terrible pandemonium of yells, and
snorts, and sharp howls filled the air. Drawing his knife from its
sheath, and telling Peter to keep close at his heels, Savanich followed
Caspan and speedily came upon the scene of the encounter. Caspan had
hold of a huge grey wolf by the neck, and was hanging on to it like grim
death, in spite of the brute's frantic efforts to free itself.

There was but little doubt that the brave dog would have, eventually,
paid the penalty for its rashness--for the wolf had mauled it badly, and
it was beginning to show signs of exhaustion through loss of blood--had
not Savanich arrived in the nick of time. A couple of thrusts from his
knife stretched the wolf on the ground, when, to his utmost horror, it
suddenly metamorphosed into a hideous old hag.

"A werwolf!" Savanich gasped, crossing himself. "Get out of her way,
Peter, quick!"

But it was too late. Thrusting out a skinny hand, the hag scratched
Peter on the ankle with the long curved, poisonous nail of her
forefinger. Then, with an evil smile on her lips, she turned over on her
back, and expired. And before Peter could be got home he, too, was dead.

CHAPTER XVII

THE WERWOLF IN RUSSIA AND SIBERIA

The ideal home of all things weird and uncanny--is cold, grey, gaunt,
and giant Russia. Nowhere is the werwolf so much in evidence to-day as
in the land of the Czar, where all the primitive conditions favourable
to such anomalies, still exist, and where they have undergone but little
change in the last ten thousand years.

A thinly-populated country--vast stretches of wild uncultivated land,
full of dense forests, rich in trees most favourable to Elementals, and
watered by deep, silent tarns, and stealthily moving streams,--its very
atmosphere is impregnated with lycanthropy.

At the base of giant firs and poplars, or poking out their heads
impudently, from amidst brambles and ferns, are werwolf flowers--flowers
with all the characteristics of those found in Hungary and the Balkan
Peninsula, but of a greater variety. There are, for example, in
addition to the white, yellow, and red species, those of a bluish-white
hue, that emit a glow at night like the phosphorescent glow emanating
from decaying animal and vegetable matter; and those of a brilliant
orange, covered with black, protruding spots, suggestive of some
particularly offensive disease, that show a marked preference for damp
places, and are specially to be met with growing in the slime and mud at
the edge of a pool, or in the soft, rotten mould of morasses.

Werwolves haunt the plains, too--the great barren, undulating deserts
that roll up to the foot of the Urals, Caucasus, Altai, Yablonoi, and
Stanovoi Mountains--and the Tundras along the shores of the Arctic
Ocean--dreary swamps in summer and ice-covered wastes in winter. Here,
at night, they wander over the rough, stony, arid ground, picking their
way surreptitiously through the scant vegetation, and avoiding all
frequented localities; pausing, every now and then, to slake their
thirst in deep sunk wells, or to listen for the sounds of quarry. Hazel
hen, swans, duck, geese, squirrels, hares, elk, reindeer, roes,
fallowdeer, and wild sheep, all are food to the werwolf, though nothing
is so heartily appreciated by it as fat tender children or young and
plump women.

In its nocturnal ramblings the werwolf often encounters enemies--bears,
wolves, and panthers--with which it struggles for dominion--dominion of
forest, plain and mountain; and when the combat ends to its
disadvantage, its metamorphosed corpse is at once devoured by its
conqueror.

Of all parts of Russia, the werwolf loves best the Caucasus and Ural
Mountains. They are to Russia what the Harz Mountains were to Germany,
centuries ago--the head-quarters of all manner of psychic phenomena, the
happy hunting ground of phantom and fairy; and over them still lingers,
almost, if not quite, as forcibly as ever, the glamour and mystery
inseparable from the superphysical.

Times without number have the great black beetling crags of these
mountains been scaled by the furry, sinewy feet of werwolves; times
without number have the shadows of these anomalies fallen on the
moon-kissed, snowy peaks, towering high into the sky, or mingled with
the rank and dewy herbage in the pine-clad valleys, and narrow abysmal
gorges deep down below.

It was here, in these lone Russian mountains, so legend relates, that
Peter and Paul turned an impious wife and husband, who refused them
shelter, into wolves: but Peter and Paul, apparently, had not the
monopoly of this power; for it was here, too, in a Ural village, that
the Devil is alleged to have metamorphosed half a dozen men into wolves
for not paying him sufficient homage.

There is no restriction as to the sex of werwolves in Russia and
Siberia--male and female werwolves are about equal in number, though
perhaps there is a slight preponderance in favour of the female.
Vargamors are to be encountered in almost all the less frequented woody
regions, but more especially in those in the immediate vicinity of the
Urals and Caucasus.

Though many of the werwolves inherit the property, many, too, have
acquired it through direct intercourse with the superphysical; and the
invocation of spirits, whether performed individually or collectively,
is far from uncommon.

Black Magic is said to be practised in the Urals, Caucasus, Yerkhoiansk,
and Stanovoi Mountains; in the Tundras, the Plains of East Russia, the
Timan Range, the Kola Peninsula, and various parts of Siberia.

I am told that the usual initiating ceremony consists of drawing a
circle, from seven to nine feet in radius, in the centre of which circle
a wood fire is kindled--the wood selected being black poplar, pine or
larch, never ash. A fumigation in an iron vessel, heated over the fire,
is then made out of a mixture of any four or five of the following
substances: Hemlock (2 to 3 ounces), henbane (1 ounce to 1-1/2 ounces),
saffron (3 ounces), poppy seed (any amount), aloe (3 drachms), opium
(1/4 ounce), asafœtida (2 ounces), solanum (2 to 3 drachms), parsley
(any amount).

As soon as the vessel is placed over the fire so that it can heat, the
person who would invoke the spirit that can bestow upon him the property
of metamorphosing into a wolf kneels within the circle, and prays a
preliminary impromptu prayer. He then resorts to an incantation, which
runs, so I have been told, as follows:--

     "Hail, hail, hail, great wolf spirit, hail!
      A boon I ask thee, mighty shade. Within this circle I have made,
      Make me a werwolf strong and bold,
      The terror alike of young and old.
      Grant me a figure tall and spare;
      The speed of the elk, the claws of the bear;
      The poison of snakes, the wit of the fox;
      The stealth of the wolf, the strength of the ox;
      The jaws of the tiger, the teeth of the shark;
      The eyes of a cat that sees in the dark.
      Make me climb like a monkey, scent like a dog,
      Swim like a fish, and eat like a hog.
      Haste, haste, haste, lonely spirit, haste!
      Here, wan and drear, magic spell making,
      Findest thou me--shaking, quaking.
      Softly fan me as I lie,
      And thy mystic touch apply--
      Touch apply, and I swear that when I die,
      When I die, I will serve thee evermore,
      Evermore, in grey wolf land, cold and raw."

The incantation concluded, the supplicant then kisses the ground three
times, and advancing to the fire, takes off the iron vessel, and
whirling it smoking round his head, cries out:--

     "Make me a werwolf! make me a man-eater!
      Make me a werwolf! make me a woman-eater!
      Make me a werwolf! make me a child-eater!
      I pine for blood! human blood!
      Give it me! give it me to-night!
      Great Wolf Spirit! give it me, and
      Heart, body, and soul, I am yours."

The trees then begin to rustle, and the wind to moan, and out of the
sudden darkness that envelops everything glows the tall, cylindrical,
pillar-like phantom of the Unknown, seven or eight feet in height. It
sometimes develops further, and assumes the form of a tall, thin
monstrosity, half human and half animal, grey and nude, with very long
legs and arms, and the feet and claws of a wolf. Its head is shaped like
that of a wolf, but surrounded with the hair of a woman, that falls
about its bare shoulders in yellow ringlets. It has wolf's ears and a
wolf's mouth. Its aquiline nose and pale eyes are fashioned like those
of a human being, but animated with an expression too diabolically
malignant to proceed from anything but the superphysical.

It seldom if ever speaks, but either utters some extraordinary noise--a
prolonged howl that seems to proceed from the bowels of the earth, a
piercing, harrowing whine, or a low laugh full of hellish glee, any of
which sounds may be taken to express its assent to the favour asked.

It only remains visible for a minute at the most, and then disappears
with startling abruptness. The supplicant is now a werwolf. He undergoes
his first metamorphosis into wolf form the following evening at sunset,
reassuming his human shape at dawn; and so on, day after day, till his
death, when he may once more metamorphose either from man form to wolf
form, or vice versa, his corpse retaining whichever form has been
assumed at the moment of death. However, with regard to this final
metamorphosis there is no consistency: it may or may not take place. In
the practice of exorcism, for the purpose of eradicating the evil
property of werwolfery, all manner of methods are employed. Sometimes
the werwolf is soundly whipped with ash twigs, and saturated with a
potion such as I described in a previous chapter; sometimes he is made
to lie or sit over, or lie or stand close beside, a vessel containing a
fumigation mixture composed of sulphur, asafœtida, and castoreum, or
hypericum and vinegar; or sometimes, again, he is well whipped and
rubbed all over with the juice of the mistletoe berry. Occasionally a
priest is summoned, and then a formal ceremony takes place.

An altar is erected. On it are placed lighted candles, a Bible, a
crucifix. The werwolf, in wolf form, bound hand and foot, is then placed
on the ground at the foot of the altar, and fumigated with incense and
sprinkled with holy water. The sign of the cross is made on his
forehead, chest, back, and on the palms of his hands. Various prayers
are read, and the affair concludes when the priest in a loud voice
adjures the evil influence to depart, in the name of God the Father, the
Son, the Holy Ghost, and the Virgin Mary.

I have never, however, heard of any well-authenticated case testifying
to the efficacy of this or of any other mode of exorcism. As far as I
know, once a werwolf always a werwolf is an inviolable rule.

Apparently women are more desirous of becoming werwolves than men, more
women than men having acquired the property of werwolfery through their
own act. In the case of women candidates for this evil property, the
inspiring motive is almost always one of revenge, sometimes on a
faithless lover, but more often on another woman; and when once women
metamorphose thus, their craving for human flesh is simply
insatiable--in fact, they are far more cruel and daring, and much more
to be dreaded, than male werwolves. The following story seems to bear
out the truth of this assertion:--

THE CASE OF IVAN OF SHIGANSKA

Shiganska was--for it no longer exists, having been obliterated about
fifty years ago by a blizzard--a small village on the left bank of the
Petchora, about a hundred miles from its mouth.

Owing chiefly to the character of the adjacent country, Shiganska was
wanting in every beauty and variety that charms the eye. It was situated
on a stretch of flat land between two mountain ranges, _i.e._, the Ural
on one side and the Taman on the other, and surrounded by a wood so
thick that it was with the greatest difficulty anyone could force a way
into it, supposing they had been sufficiently fortunate to escape
sticking fast in the morasses of soft, rotten mould, that lie hidden in
the least suspicious looking places, on its borders. Here were to be
found lycanthropous blue and white flowers, which those desirous of
becoming werwolves sought from far and wide, some even coming from
Siberia, and some from away down South as far as Astrakan. And the woods
abounded not only in werwolves, but in all sorts of supernatural
horrors--phantoms of the dead, _i.e._ (of murderers and suicides) Vice
Elementals and Vagrarians, vampires and ghouls; no region in Russia
boasted so many, and for this reason it was scrupulously avoided by all
sensible people after sunset.

Ivan, like most of the male inhabitants of Shiganska, lived by the
chase: the black fox, the sable, the fox with the dark-coloured throat,
the red fox, white fox, squirrel, ermine, and black bear alike fell
victims to his gun; whilst in the Petchora, when the weather permitted
it, he caught, besides many other kinds of fish, a goodly proportion of
salmon, nelma (a kind of salmon trout), bleak, sturgeon, sterlet, tochü,
muksun, omul, and _Salmo Lavaretus_.

It was a good living, that of the chase, albeit fraught with grave
dangers; and Ivan, thanks to his exceptional powers with the rod as well
as the rifle, was on the high road to prosperity.

He lived with his mother and two sisters in a pretty house about a kös
from Shiganska, and facing it was a level stretch of reed-grass
terminating in the hemlock-covered banks of the Petchora. A few trees,
chiefly birch and larch, dotted about the reed-grass afforded a
delightful shade from the fierce heat of the short summer sun; and birds
of all sorts, whose singing was a source of the keenest delight to Ivan
and his sisters, made their homes in them.

Unlike any other hunter in Shiganska, Ivan was fond of poetry and
music; moreover, he had a dreamy disposition, and when his day's work
was done he was content--nay, more than content--to watch the changing
colours in the sky, or see in the glowing embers of the charcoal fire
strange scenes and wildly familiar faces.

One morning, in the month of April, Ivan set off to the woods, gun in
hand, accompanied by his old and faithful dog, Dolk, in search of big
game. He paused every now and then to look at the ice on the summits of
the distant mountains. The sunlight falling on it imparted to it many
different hues, and made it sparkle like flaming jewels. He stopped
repeatedly to listen to the croaking of the raven, the cawing of the
crows, and the piping of the bullfinches--sounds of which he was never
weary, and never tired of trying to interpret.

On this occasion, as usual, it was not until long after noon that he
began seriously to think of looking for his quarry, and it was not until
he had searched for some time that he at length came upon the tracks of
a wild reindeer. Loosing Dolk, and tightening the buckles of his
snow-shoes, he set to work to stalk the animal, and eventually sighted
it browsing on a clump of reed-grass that grew on the bank of a mountain
stream. The chase now began in earnest. It was a beautiful animal, and
Ivan strained every effort to get within shooting range by leaping from
rock to rock, and springing over stream after stream. In this manner he
had progressed for more than a kös, when blood from the feet of the
reindeer began to be visible on the fresh frozen snow; from its
faltering pace the poor creature was evidently tired out, and Dolk was
drawing closer and closer to it. In these circumstances Ivan was
counting on the likelihood of his soon being near enough to fire, when
suddenly the joyful barking of the dog changed to a prodigious howl of
agony. With redoubled speed Ivan pushed ahead, and, presently, at a
distance of about two gunshots, he saw two small black objects lying on
the snow covered with blood.

They were the remains of Dolk, who, having come up with the reindeer and
driven it into a small brook, was keeping it there until Ivan arrived,
when a hungry wolf had leaped down the side of a rock and, seizing him
in his powerful jaws, had bitten him in half. The wolf had evidently
intended to eat Dolk, but, catching sight of Ivan, had made off.

Ivan was inconsolable. Dolk had hunted with him as a puppy of six months
old, and for eight years the dog had never let him know a hungry day.
Ivan had been offered ten reindeer for him, but he would not have parted
with him for any number, and without Dolk he knew not how to show
himself at home, for both his mother and sisters were devoted to the
faithful animal.

Determined on vengeance, Ivan followed the wolf's tracks, which led, by
an unfamiliar path, to the mouth of a vast and gloomy cavern. There he
lost sight of them, and he was deliberating what to do next, when a loud
peal of silvery laughter broke on his ears and awoke the silent echoes
of the grim walls around him. Ivan started in open-mouthed astonishment.
Standing before him was a girl more lovely--ten thousand times more
lovely--than any woman he had hitherto seen. To the magic of a beautiful
form in woman--the necromancy of female grace--there was no more ready
and willing subject than Ivan; and here, at last, he had found grace
personified, incarnate, the highest ideal of all his wildest and most
cherished dreams. His most magnificent "castle" had never contained a
princess half as fair as this one. Her figure was rather above the
medium height, supple and slender. Her feet and hands were small, her
wrists well rounded, her fingers long and white, and tipped with pink
and glossy almond-shaped nails--if anything a trifle too long. But it
was her face that so attracted Ivan as to almost hold him
spellbound--the neat and delicately moulded features all in perfect
harmony; the daintily cut lips; the white gleaming teeth; the low
forehead crowned with golden curls; the long, thick-lashed, blue eyes
that looked steadily into his, and seemed to read his very soul.

Moreover, in her blue eyes there was bewildering depth; a sense of
coldness that was positively benumbing, and which was reminiscent of the
blue petrifying waters of the Ural Lakes; a magnetism that was
paralysing, that held in complete obeisance both mind and limb, and was
comparable to nothing so nearly as the hypnotic influence of the tiger
or snake, but which differed from the latter inasmuch as its
inspirations were just as delightful as those of the tiger and snake are
harrowing and terrifying.

She was clad from head to foot in fur--white fur--but neither her dress
nor her presence excited any other thoughts in Ivan except those of
intense admiration--admiration which surged through every pore of his
skin.

"Well!" she demanded, "what brings you here, my good man? There is no
game in this cave."

"Isn't there?" Ivan stammered, his eyes looking at her adoringly. "All
the same I would cheerfully forgo all the pleasures of the chase to come
here."

"You are very gallant for a huntsman, sir," the girl replied with a
smile; "but for your own sake I must urge you to go away at once. I live
here with my father--a confirmed recluse who detests the sight of human
beings; were he to discover me talking to one I should get into sad
trouble, and with regard to you I could not say what might happen."

But Ivan came of a race that paid little heed to any warning when once
their blood was fired; consequently, despite the repeated admonitions of
his beautiful companion--admonitions which her eyes seemed to
contradict--he stayed and stayed, whilst--forgetful of mother and
sisters, home, and even Dolk--he made a passionate avowal of his love.
The afternoon quickly passed, and the sun was beginning to set, when the
girl, whose name he had learned was Breda, almost pushed him out of the
cavern.

"If you don't go now," she urged, "I may never see you again."

"And would you care?" he asked.

"Perhaps," she replied; "perhaps, just a little--a wee, wee bit. You
see, I don't get the opportunity of meeting many people!"

He caught her by the hand and kissed it passionately; and with the sound
of her light, intoxicating laughter thrilling through his soul, he
descended to the bed of the mountain streamlet, and turned his steps
blithely towards home.

That was the beginning, but not the end. He courted her--he married her
and she came to live with his mother and sisters, who for his sake tried
to like her and even pretended that they did like her. But in secret
they said to one another, "She has no heart; she is cold as an icicle;
her lips are thin and cruel. She would serve Ivan badly if we were not
here to check her."

And Breda certainly had her idiosyncrasies. She preferred raw to cooked
meat, and would not sleep in the same room as her husband. She grew very
angry when Ivan expostulated, saying, "You promised you would never
thwart me. If you do not keep your word, I shall despise you, scorn you,
hate you." And Ivan, who loved his wife beyond anything, yielded.

Some weeks after their marriage, neighbours complained of losing cattle
and horses. They said there was a wolf about, and that its tracks, which
they had followed, always ended under the walls of Ivan's house. They
asked Ivan if he had not heard the brute. But he had heard nothing, he
slept very soundly. Then they inquired of Ivan's sisters and mother, who
also replied in the negative; but there was hesitation in their voices,
and they looked very frightened and ashamed. And then people began to
talk. They looked at Breda curiously, and finally they cut her. One
night, when there was a downfall of snow, and the wind howled down the
chimneys of Ivan's house and blew the snow, with heavy thumps against
the window-panes, Ivan, who could not sleep for the storm, heard the
door of Breda's room open very softly, and light steps steal stealthily
down the passage. Then there came a half-suppressed, half-smothered cry,
a groan, and all was still. Ivan got out of bed and opened his door, but
his wife's voice called to him from the darkness and bade him go back.

"Do not be alarmed and make a fuss," she said; "I was ill a moment ago,
but am quite well again now. Go back to bed at once, or I shall be very
angry." And Ivan obeyed her.

In the morning his eldest sister, Beata, was found dead in bed, her
throat, breast, and stomach slit open, as is the custom with wolves, and
her flesh all mangled and eaten.

Breda took no food that day, and Ivan's mother and other sister,
Malvina, looked at her out of the corner of their eyes and shuddered.
But Ivan said nothing. A week later the same fate befell Malvina. Then
Ivan's mother spoke. She told him that he must assuredly be under some
evil spell, or he would never remain idle whilst his sisters' destroyer
was at large, and she adjured him, by all that he held holy, not to
allow himself a moment's rest till he had had ample vengeance for the
loss of two such valuable lives.

Roused at last, Ivan, instead of going to bed, sat up, gun in hand, and
watched. He passed many nights thus, and his patience was well nigh
exhausted when, during one of the vigils, he fell asleep, dreaming as
usual of the blue eyes and golden curls of Breda, whose beauty held him
just as much enthralled as ever. From this slumber he was awakened by
loud screams for help. Seizing his gun, and taking a random aim at a
huge white wolf as he went (though without stopping to see the effects
of the shot), he ran to his mother's bedside. She was dead. Her throat
and body were slit; but she was not eaten.

Wild with grief and thirsting for revenge, Ivan started off in pursuit
of the wolf, and discovered, in the passage, a track of blood which
terminated at his wife's door. Receiving no reply when he asked for
admittance, he entered the room and found Breda lying on the floor, in
her nightdress, the blood streaming from a wound in her shoulder. Ivan
knelt down and examined her. She had been struck by a bullet, and the
bullet fitted the bore of his gun.

He knew the truth then--the truth he might have known all along, had he
not, in his blind love, thrust it far from him--and, in the sudden
alteration of his feeling, he raised his knife to kill her. But Breda
opened her eyes, and the weapon fell from his hand.

"You know part of my secret now," she whispered, "but you don't know
everything. I am a werwolf, not by inheritance, but of my own free will.
In order to become one I ate the blue flowers in the wood. I did so to
be avenged on my husband."

"Your husband!" Ivan cried; "good God! then you were a widow when I met
you?"

"Yes," Breda said slowly and with apparent effort. "I was forced into my
first marriage by my all too worldly parents, and my husband ill-used
and beat me!"

"The devil! the cold-hearted, cowardly devil!" Ivan ejaculated, "I would
have killed him."

"That is what I did," Breda remarked; "I did kill him, and it was in
order to make certain of killing him that I became a werwolf."

"Did you eat him?" Ivan asked, horribly fascinated.

"Don't ask questions," Breda said, averting her eyes, "and for God's
sake don't lose any more time. As you love me, screen me from detection;
hide all traces of to-night's handiwork as quickly as possible."

As usual, Ivan did as she requested him, and giving out that his mother
had died suddenly, from heart failure, he had her interred with as
little publicity as possible.

Before very long, however, the neighbours began to ask such pointed
questions, that Ivan now lived in a state of chronic suspense. He feared
every moment that the truth would leak out, and that his beautiful young
wife would receive condign punishment.

At last, finding such a state of apprehension intolerable, he confided
in an old man who was reputed a sage and metaphysician--one who was
extremely well versed in all matters appertaining to the spiritual
world. "There is only one course to pursue," the old man said, "you must
have the evil spirit in her exorcized, and you must have it done
immediately. Otherwise, she will continue her depredations, and your
good neighbours will find her out and kill her. They more than half
suspect her now, and are talking of paying a visit some night, when you
are snug and safe in bed, to the cemetery, to see if the story you told
them about your mother's and sisters' sudden deaths is correct."

"What kind of exorcism would you use?" Ivan inquired nervously. "You
would not hurt her?"

"The form of exorcism I should make use of would do her no lasting
harm," the old man said feelingly; "you can rely on me for that."

"But is exorcism always effectual?" Ivan persisted.

"When exorcism is ineffectual it is the exception, not the rule," the
old man replied, "and there are very few cases of exorcism being
employed ineffectually upon those who have become werwolves through the
practice of magic, or the medium of flowers or of water."

"Should my wife refuse to undergo the ceremony, what would you advise
then?" Ivan asked.

"Strategy and force," the old man said, "anything to prevent her
continuing in her demoniacal ways, and being burned or drowned by an
infuriated mob."

Thus admonished, Ivan, without delay, broached the matter to Breda. But
she was so angry with him for having dared even to mention exorcism,
that he thought it best to act on the advice of the old occultist and to
catch her unawares. Consequently, one evening, when the moon was in the
full, and she had just changed into wolf form, he stole into her room
accompanied by the old man and two assistants. After a desperate
struggle, Ivan and the three exorcists overpowered her, and bound her so
securely that she could not move.

They then took her out of doors, to a lonely spot at the back of the
house, and placed her in the centre of an equilateral triangle that had
been carefully marked on the ground, in red chalk. At seven or eight
feet to the west of the triangle they then kindled a wood fire, and
placed over it a vessel containing a fumigation mixture of hypericum,
vinegar, sulphur, cayenne, and mountain ash berries.

The old man then knelt down, and crossing himself on his forehead and
chest, prayed vigorously, until the preparation in the pot began to give
off strong fumes. He then arose, and both he and his assistants took up
specially prepared switches, cut from a mountain ash, and gripping them
tightly in their hands, approached the recumbent form of the werwolf.
This, however, was more than Ivan could stand--he had objected strongly
enough to the fumigation, which, being nauseous and irritating, had made
his wolf-wife gasp and choke; but when it came to flogging her--well, it
turned him sick and cold. He forgot discretion, prudence, everything,
saving the one great fact--monstrous, incredible, abominable--that the
being he loved, adored, and worshipped was about to be beaten with rods!
With a shout of wrath he rushed at the trio, and snatching their wands
from them, laid them so soundly about their backs that they all three
fled from the ground, shrieking with pain and terror. Then he knelt by
his prostrate wife, and cutting the thongs that bound her, set her free.
She rose on her feet a huge, white wolf. Regarding him steadily for a
moment from out of her gleaming grey eyes, she swung slowly round, and
with one more look, more human than animal, she darted swiftly away, and
was speedily lost in the gloom.

METHUEN'S POPULAR NOVELS

AUTUMN 1912

THE BIG FISH

By H. B. Marriott Watson, Author of 'Alise of Astra.' Crown 8vo, 6s.
[July

This strange tale of adventure in the mountains of Peru has a certain
basis in fact. 'The Big Fish' is the name by which the lost treasure of
the Incas is known, and the story describes the search for it, which
opens in a London auction room and, after many tragic adventures, ends
in the lonely mountains in a manner which neither of the seekers had
anticipated, but with which both are satisfied.

HER SERENE HIGHNESS

By Philip Laurence Oliphant. Cr. 8vo, 6s. [July

Disillusioned, and disgusted with Western civilization, the hero of this
story, a man of remarkable force and quality, turns to the ideals of the
East, becomes to all intents an Oriental, and makes for himself a great
position as the white ruler of a black people in Central India. His wife
deserted him in early life under a misunderstanding, goes in search of
him, and finding him at last, throws in her lot with his, and succeeds
in winning him back; but not until through jealousy and other passions,
he is forced to witness the sacrifice of his power and fly for very
life.

JUDITH LEE: Some Pages from her Life

By Richard Marsh, Author of 'A Royal Indiscretion.' With Four
Illustrations. Crown 8vo, 6s. [July

The world has already been introduced to the famous female detective
Judith Lee in the pages of the Strand Magazine, where her popularity
was very great. The child of parents who were teachers of the oral
system to the deaf and dumb, as soon almost as she learnt to speak she
learnt to read what people were saying by watching their lips. Devoting
her whole life to the improvement of a very singular natural aptitude,
and employing it in the discovery and frustration of crime, she has
become, as we find in this book, a constant source of wonder and
delight, and a very encyclopædia of adventure.

THE OAKUM PICKERS

By L. S. Gibson, Author of 'The Heart of Desire.' Crown 8vo, 6s. [July

A story treating of modern social life, and incidentally of the
hardships inflicted by certain phases of the Divorce Laws upon the
innocent partner in an unhappy marriage. The two very dissimilar women
are well delineated and contrasted. Cynthia and Elizabeth, each in her
own way, are so human and sympathetic that the reader can hardly fail to
endorse the quotation on the title-page, 'I do not blame such women, but
for love they pick much oakum.' The men are drawn with no less strength
and sincerity; while Lady Juliet--the brilliant, heartless, little
mondaine who precipitates the tragedy of three lives--is a thumb-nail
sketch of a fascinating, if worthless, type.

HAUNTING SHADOWS; or, The House of Terror

By M. F. Hutchinson. Crown 8vo, 6s. [August

An English girl, brought up under harsh surroundings, considers that
opportunity suddenly opens the doors of Life. But these doors swing back
to the accompaniment of sinister and terrible things. The very threshold
of the new life is a place of terror. A harsh and inexorable fate forces
her reluctant feet along a difficult way, where it seems as if none of
the joys of existence can lighten the darkness. The story shows with
what results to herself and others Elaine Westcourt became an inmate of
the 'House of Terror.'

A WILDERNESS WOOING

By W. Victor Cook, Author of 'Anton of the Alps.' Crown 8vo, 6s.
[August

A thrilling story of the early French-Canadian pioneers, and the
romantic adventures of a young heir to an English earldom. The novel,
which is full of excitement and dramatic incident, presents a series of
vivid pictures of the days when the great pathfinder La Salle was
carrying the lilies of France at utmost hazard into the Western wilds.
The love interest is strong, and attractively handled, and even such
strange-seeming affairs as the 'Ship of Women' and the marriage market
at Quebec have their historical sanction.

NANCE OF MANCHESTER

By Orme Agnus, Author of 'Sarah Fuldon's Lovers.' Crown 8vo, 6s.
[August

Dr. Anthony Belton called Nance 'the bravest girl in Manchester,' and he
was a good judge. She assumed maternal cares at an early age, and she
lived for her children. Later she took up her residence in the South of
England with Mrs. Nolliver, and there struck up a friendship with Miss
Denise Martayne, a lady whose gifts had put her in an exalted if not a
happy position. It was a friendship that dispelled gloom and created
happiness. 'Nance of Manchester' is a tribute to the omnipotence of
love.

A KINGDOM DIVIDED

By David Lisle, Author of 'A Painter of Souls.' Crown 8vo, 6s. [August

This new novel by the author of A Painter of Souls may be described as
actively controversial. It deals largely with poignant chapters in the
life of a young clergyman, and in its pages we find an amazing array of
startling facts connected with the march of Ritualism and the future of
England. Side by side with the history of a tragic struggle we find
glowing descriptions of scenery and of brilliant social life. The scene
is laid in Devon, and, later on, at Biarritz.

A WOMAN IN THE LIMELIGHT

By Charles Gleig, Author of 'The Nancy Manœuvres.' Crown 8vo, 6s.
[August

A Woman in the Limelight presents candidly a typical actress of the
Musical Comedy Stage, treating of her career and her love affairs with a
realism that is convincing, but free of offence. The heroine allures and
for a long time retains the devotion and affection of a typical solitary
Londoner, who is not less devoted to the bon motif; but the inevitable
break occurs. There is plenty of humour and of first-hand knowledge in
this study of upper Bohemian life of to-day, and the characters are
vividly drawn.

BURIED ALIVE

By Arnold Bennett, Author of 'Clayhanger.' A New Edition. Crown 8vo, 6s.
[August

This is a reprint of one of Mr. Bennett's most delightful stories. It
has been out of print for some time.

THE STREET CALLED STRAIGHT

By the Author of 'The Wild Olive.' Crown 8vo, 6s. [August

The anonymous author of those very interesting novels The Inner Shrine
and The Wild Olive has in the new book dealt with a financial man's
case of conscience. The story, which is laid for the most part in
Boston, illustrates the New England proverb, 'By the street called
straight'--should it not be strait?--'we come to the house called
beautiful.'

IT HAPPENED IN SMYRNA

By Thomas Edgelow. Crown 8vo, 6s. [August

A vivid record of Eastern travel and adventure by a new author, who is
introduced to the novel-reading public by no less a sponsor than
Baroness von Hutten--the authoress of Pam whose cheery preface in the
form of an open letter will be found in Mr. Edgelow's first book. The
story opens on a German liner off the East African coast, and leads us
via Port Said to Smyrna. There and in the interior of Turkey-in-Asia
are laid the scenes of Tony Paynter's adventures. It is in the Smyrna
bazaars that he and Sylvia Sayers first encounter the Turk who is
destined to play so important a rôle in their two lives, and it is
from Smyrna that, at last, they sail away when all has happily ended.

DEVOTED SPARKES

By W. Pett Ridge, Author of 'Thanks to Sanderson.' Crown 8vo, 6s.
[August

Mr. Pett Ridge's new novel, an animated story of London life, concerns a
girl sent out to service by her stepmother. Taking the management of
her career into her own hands, and holding the reins, goes first to a
house on the north side of Regent's Park, afterwards to the
neighbourhood of Berkeley Square; and her adventures in both situations,
her acquaintances, and the person to whom she is devoted, are described
in Mr. Pett Ridge's brightest manner.

THE ANGLO-INDIANS

By Alice Perrin, Author of 'The Charm.' Crown 8vo, 6s. [August

The background of this novel is the contrast between official life in
India and a pensioned existence in England. The theme of the story is
the affection, almost amounting to a passion, that the heroine feels
towards India, where she has spent part of her childhood and her early
girlhood; it leads to a love adventure involving the chief problem
between the East and West.

THE HEATHER MOON

By C. N. and A. M. Williamson, Authors of 'The Lightning Conductor.'
Crown 8vo, 6s. [August

The story of a motor tour in Scotland and many quests. The drama shows
us a girl in search of her mother, who has her own reasons for not
wishing to be found by a pretty grown-up daughter. A man in search of
some lost illusions is also here, and the girl helps him to discover
that they are not illusions but splendid truths. Other seekers are a
woman in search of love, and her brother in search of materials for a
novel. In finding or failing to find these things a romance of a very
original kind with many conflicting interests has been evolved.

THE QUEST OF THE GOLDEN ROSE

By John Oxenham, Author of 'The Long Road.' Crown 8vo, 6s. [August

By 'The Golden Rose' the author means the Spirit of Romance--Love--and
all that pertains thereto. The story tells how three very typical
Englishmen--surgeon--artist--barrister--encounter it in odd fashion
while tramping the High Alps, and follow it up each in his own peculiar
way to his destined end. Their various testings, mental, moral, and
physical, make the story, which is replete with the joy, the sorrow, and
the tragedy of life.

OLIVIA MARY

By E. Maria Albanesi, Author of 'The Glad Heart.' Crown 8vo, 6s.
[August

In this, her first new novel to be published since The Glad Heart,
Madame Albanesi strikes new ground. Although full of able and
sympathetic characterization and that elusive charm which belongs to all
her books, this story is unlike any that she has yet written. The author
deals with a problem which is the outcome of emotions at once simple,
even ordinary, and yet at the same time profound and most touching.

SALLY

By Dorothea Conyers, Author of 'Two Impostors and Tinker.' Crown 8vo,
6s. [August

A hunting novel of Irish life. The scene is laid in the wilds of
Connemara, where a man suffering from melancholia starts hunting over
the mountains and the bogs. A seaside lodge close to him is taken by
some strangers, and the plot of the book then turns on the lonely man,
who has not spoken for years save when obliged to, being charmed from
his loneliness by Sally Stannard, and the subsequent complications which
ensue betwixt her and her various lovers.

LAMORNA

By Mrs. A. Sidgwick, Author of 'The Severins.' Crown 8vo, 6s. [August

The story of two girls united by kinship and affection, but divided by
character and temperament. Lamorna, the elder one, has to look on while
her cousin makes a tragedy of her life and successively becomes the
victim of a roué and a mischief-monger. Lamorna's own fate is at one
time so enmeshed with her cousin's that she requires all her sense and
strength to escape from the toils set by a man who would override all
scruple and all honour to win her.

THE HAPPY FAMILY

By Frank Swinnerton, Author of 'The Young Idea.' Crown 8vo, 6s.
[August

The Happy Family is a realistic comedy of life in London suburbs. The
scenes are laid principally in Kentish Town, with excursions to
Hampstead, Highgate, and Gospel Oak; while unusual pictures of the
publishing trade form a setting to the highly-important office-life of
the chief male characters. The interplay of diverse temperaments, the
conflict between the ideal and the actual, are the basis of the story,
which, however, is concerned with people rather than problems.

DARNELEY PLACE

By Richard Bagot, Author of 'Donna Diana.' Crown 8vo, 6s. [September

The scene of Mr. Richard Bagot's new novel is laid partly in England and
partly in Italy. The story turns upon the double life led by a wealthy
English landowner in consequence of the abduction in his more youthful
days of the daughter of an old Italian house at a period when he had no
prospect of succeeding to the position he subsequently attained.
Incidentally, the novel deals with certain phases of Italian
Spiritualism, and Mr. Bagot's readers will again resume their
acquaintance with some of the most sympathetic characters described in
his previous work The Passport.

A KNIGHT OF SPAIN

By Marjorie Bowen, Author of 'I Will Maintain.' Crown 8vo, 6s.
[September

This story is laid in the stormy and sombre last half of the sixteenth
century, and deals with the fortunes of the Royal House of Spain, the
most powerful, cruel, and tragic dynasty of modern Europe. The hero is
Charles V's son, the gay, beautiful, and heroic Don Juan of Austria, who
rose to an unparalleled renown in Christendom as the victor of Lepanto,
intoxicated himself with visions of a crown and the rank of 'Infant' of
Spain, and from the moment of his apogee was swiftly cast down by his
brother, Philip II, sent to undertake the impossible task of ruling the
Low Countries, and left to die, forsaken, of a mysterious illness, at
the age of twenty-eight, in a camp outside Namur. The story embraces the
greater part of this Prince's short life, which was one glowing romance
of love and war, played in the various splendours of Spain, Genoa,
Venice, Naples, Sicily, Africa, Paris, and Brussels.

REMITTANCE BILLY

By Ashton Hilliers, Author of 'Memoirs of a Person of Quality.' Crown
8vo, 6s. [September

In this book Mr. Ashton Hilliers, again finding his material in the
world we live in, tells of the quite excusable muddling of a straight,
but rather stupid young gentleman, whose ignorance of 'business' is too
severely punished by 'business-like relations,' who regard him as
hopeless, until he, saved by his love of nature, and befriended by
outsiders who see stuff in the fellow, muddles through, to the surprise
of his family and himself. There is a nice girl in it, and a militant
suffragette, but only two unfortunate marriages, and one of these comes
right at last.

HONOURS EASY

By Mrs. J. O. Arnold, Author of 'The Fiddler.' Crown 8vo, 6s.
[September

The interest of this story centres in the will of a Professor Clifford,
in which a large sum of money is left to the scientist who shall within
a specified time finish the testator's life research. Failing its
completion the money is to revert to his stepdaughter. Humphrey Wyatt
undertakes the task, incidentally falling in love with the stepdaughter,
of whose relationship to the Professor he is unaware. What happens
before and after he discovers her identity makes a charming romantic
ending to the book.

LONDON LAVENDER: An Entertainment

By E. V. Lucas, Author of 'Mr. Ingleside.' Crown 8vo, 6s. [September

This will make Mr. Lucas's fourth novel, or 'Entertainment' as he
prefers to call his stories; and readers of the preceding three may find
some old acquaintances. The scene is again laid principally in London,
and again an odd company of types converse and have urbane adventures.

THE HOLIDAY ROUND

By A. A. Milne, Author of 'The Day's Play.' Crown 8vo, 6s. [September

Among our younger humorists none has so quickly found his way to the
hearts of readers as 'A. A. M.' of Punch, whose special gift and
privilege it is to touch Wednesdays with irresponsibility and fun. He
has now brought together a further collection of his contributions to
Punch, similar in character to The Day's Play published two years
ago. The history of the Rabbits is continued, and is supplemented by
'Little Plays for Amateurs,' 'Stories of Successful Lives,' and many
other of his recent dialogues and sketches.

THE ROYAL ROAD: Being the Story of the Life, Death, and Resurrection of
Edward Hankey of London

By Alfred Ollivant, Author of 'Owd Bob.' Crown 8vo, 6s. [September

In the pages of this book the reader follows the courageous spirit of a
working man down the alley of life. We hear his laughter; share his
joys; and watch the heroic struggle of his soul against the circumstance
that is oppressing him. The book, remorseless in its representation of
things as they are, is strong in hope: for it finds its inspiration in
the Love that shall some day conquer the world. It is a story for all
who seek to succour our England in her distress. To read it is to
understand something of her troubles of this present time, and to have a
glimpse of the glory that shall be revealed in her. A stern book, it is
to those who read aright a joyful one. For it is a prophecy of dawn.

MARY PECHELL

By Mrs. Belloc Lowndes, Author of 'The Uttermost Farthing,' etc. Crown
8vo, 6s. [September

In her new novel Mrs. Belloc Lowndes returns to the manner of Barbara
Rebell. It is an ample, spacious tale of English country-house life,
laid in a quiet Sussex village, dominated by the ruins of an ancient
castle, the scene of the last Lord Wolferstan's lawless but not ignoble
passion. The writer shows all her old power of presenting the passion of
love in each of its Protean phases. Mary Pechell herself is a lovely,
gracious figure, whose compelling charm the reader feels from the first.
In half-humorous, half-pathetic contrast is the middle-aged romance of
Miss Rose Charnwood, touched with the tenderest sentiment, and not
belied by the happiness in store both for her and for Mary Pechell
herself.

THE SILVER DRESS

By Mrs. George Norman, Author of 'Lady Fanny.' Crown 8vo, 6s.
[September

A novel describing the life of an attractive and still young woman whose
circumstances are those of so many others of her type in England, for
she has no acquaintances but women, is approaching 'the youth of middle
age' without yet knowing love or any vital interest. Then, quite
unexpectedly, adventure, and, subsequently, love coming to her, she
lives for the first time.

THE SUBURBAN

By H. C. Bailey, Author of 'Storm and Treasure.' Crown 8vo, 6s.
[September

In this novel Mr. H. C. Bailey, who is best known by his spirited
historical romances, has deserted the past for the present. He tells a
story of modern London. The scenes are laid in poor middle-class life,
in the worlds of journalism and theoretical revolutionaries and
business. His hero is one of the most ordinary of men, fighting his way
up from the borders of poverty to respectable suburban comfort. With him
is contrasted a much more brilliant creature, an apostle of the newest
creeds of revolt. Both have to do with the master of one of the great
modern organizations of finance and industry. In the heroine Mr. Bailey
has given us a study of one of the newest types of young women of the
middle class.

BETTY HARRIS

By Jennette Lee, Author of 'Uncle William' and 'Happy Island.' Crown
8vo, 3s. 6d. [September

Betty Harris, the only child of an American millionaire, strays one day
into the shop of a Greek fruit-dealer, Achilles Alexandrakis, and
watches the flight of a butterfly that the Greek liberates from its grey
cocoon. The story is of the friendship that grew out of this meeting,
and a rescue that grew out of the friendship. This blend of the spirit
of the old world and the new, meeting in the grimy Chicago shop and
finding out their need of each other, gives the book a piquancy.

THE FOOL IN CHRIST

By Gerhart Hauptmann. Crown 8vo, 6s. [September

A translation of Hauptmann's most wonderful novel--a work that attempts
to place the living human Christ before sophisticated twentieth-century
eyes. Whatever other effect it may have, the book cannot fail to cause
discussion. In Quint, a figure at once pathetic and inspiring, the
author has drawn a character whose divine charm should be felt by every
reader.

CHARLES THE GREAT

By Mrs. H. H. Penrose, Author of 'The Sheltered Woman,' etc. Crown 8vo,
6s. [September

Charles the Great is a very light comedy, and it therefore counts as a
new departure for Mrs. H. H. Penrose. Those who like their fiction to
provide them with 'a good laugh' will doubtless prefer this book, which
is packed from cover to cover with mirth-provoking material, to those
other books by the same author, in which humour acts chiefly as
train-bearer to tragedy. The determination of Charles to invent for
himself a greatness which he is incapable of otherwise achieving, and
its effect on his circle of intimates, are set forth in an exceedingly
lively story, the plot of which it would be unfair to give away.

THE ACE OF HEARTS

By C. Thomas-Stanford. Crown 8vo, 6s. [September

An English Member of Parliament, spending a holiday in the Portuguese
island of Madeira in January 1912, becomes unwittingly privy to a plot
against the Republican Government. The conspirators, fearful that he
will betray their secrets, make him prisoner; but he escapes to
experience a series of adventures on the rugged coast, and amid the wild
mountains of the island. Through the tangled web of plot and
counter-plot runs the thread of a love story.

METHUEN & CO. LTD., 36 ESSEX STREET, LONDON, W.C.

A SELECTION OF BOOKS
PUBLISHED BY METHUEN
AND CO. LTD., LONDON
36 ESSEX STREET
W.C.

CONTENTS

                                                             PAGE

General Literature                                              2
  Ancient Cities                                               12
  Antiquary's Books                                            12
  Arden Shakespeare                                            13
  Classics of Art                                              13
  "Complete" Series                                            13
  Connoisseur's Library                                        14
  Handbooks of English Church History                          14
  Handbooks of Theology                                        14
  "Home Life" Series                                           14
  Illustrated Pocket Library of Plain and Coloured Books       15
  Leaders of Religion                                          15
  Library of Devotion                                          16
  Little Books on Art                                          16
  Little Galleries                                             17
  Little Guides                                                17
  Little Library                                               18
  Little Quarto Shakespeare                                    19
  Miniature Library                                            19
  New Library of Medicine                                      19
  New Library of Music                                         19
  Oxford Biographies                                           19
  Three Plays                                                  20
  States of Italy                                              20
  Westminster Commentaries                                     20
  "Young" Series                                               20
  Shilling Library                                             21
Books for Travellers                                           21
Some Books on Art                                              21
Some Books on Italy                                            22
Fiction                                                        23
  Two-Shilling Novels                                          27
  Books for Boys and Girls                                     27
  Shilling Novels                                              28
  Novels of Alexandre Dumas                                    28
  Sixpenny Books                                               29

JULY 1912

A SELECTION OF
Messrs. Methuen's
PUBLICATIONS

In this Catalogue the order is according to authors. An asterisk denotes
that the book is in the press.

Colonial Editions are published of all Messrs. Methuen's Novels issued
at a price above 2s. 6d., and similar editions are published of some
works of General Literature. Colonial editions are only for circulation
in the British Colonies and India.

All books marked net are not subject to discount, and cannot be bought
at less than the published price. Books not marked net are subject to
the discount which the bookseller allows.

Messrs. Methuen's books are kept in stock by all good booksellers. If
there is any difficulty in seeing copies, Messrs. Methuen will be very
glad to have early information, and specimen copies of any books will be
sent on receipt of the published price plus postage for net books, and
of the published price for ordinary books.

This Catalogue contains only a selection of the more important books
published by Messrs. Methuen. A complete and illustrated catalogue of
their publications may be obtained on application.

Andrewes (Lancelot). PRECES PRIVATAE. Translated and edited, with Notes,
by F. E. Brightman. Cr. 8vo. 6s.

Aristotle. THE ETHICS. Edited, with an Introduction and Notes, by John
Burnet. Demy 8vo. 10s. 6d. net.

Atkinson (C. T.). A HISTORY OF GERMANY, 1715-1815. Demy 8vo. 12s. 6d.
net.

Atkinson (T. D.). ENGLISH ARCHITECTURE. Illustrated. Fcap. 8vo. 3s.
6d. net.

A GLOSSARY OF TERMS USED IN ENGLISH ARCHITECTURE. Illustrated. Second
Edition. Fcap. 8vo. 3s. 6d. net.

ENGLISH AND WELSH CATHEDRALS. Illustrated. Demy 8vo. 10s. 6d. net.

Bain (F. W.). A DIGIT OF THE MOON: A Hindoo Love Story. Ninth Edition.
Fcap. 8vo. 3s. 6d. net.

THE DESCENT OF THE SUN: A Cycle of Birth. Fifth Edition. Fcap. 8vo.
3s. 6d. net.

A HEIFER OF THE DAWN. Seventh Edition. Fcap. 8vo. 2s. 6d. net.

IN THE GREAT GOD'S HAIR. Fifth Edition. Fcap. 8vo. 2s. 6d. net.

A DRAUGHT OF THE BLUE. Fourth Edition. Fcap. 8vo. 2s. 6d. net.

AN ESSENCE OF THE DUSK. Third Edition. Fcap. 8vo. 2s. 6d. net.

AN INCARNATION OF THE SNOW. Second Edition. Fcap. 8vo. 3s. 6d.
net.

A MINE OF FAULTS. Second Edition. Fcap. 8vo. 3s. 6d. net.

THE ASHES OF A GOD. Fcap. 8vo. 3s. 6d. net.

*BUBBLES OF THE FOAM. Fcap 4to. 5s. net. Also Fcap. 8vo. 3s. 6d.
net.

Balfour (Graham). THE LIFE OF ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. Illustrated.
Fifth Edition in one Volume. Cr. 8vo. Buckram, 6s. Also Fcap.
8vo. 1s. net.

Baring (Hon. Maurice). A YEAR IN RUSSIA. Second Edition. Demy 8vo.
10s. 6d. net.

LANDMARKS IN RUSSIAN LITERATURE. Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s.
net.

RUSSIAN ESSAYS AND STORIES. Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 5s. net.

THE RUSSIAN PEOPLE. Demy 8vo. 15s. net.

Baring-Gould (S.). THE LIFE OF NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. Illustrated. Second
Edition. Royal 8vo. 10s. 6d. net.

THE TRAGEDY OF THE CÆSARS: A Study of the Characters of the Cæsars of
the Julian and Claudian Houses. Illustrated. Seventh Edition. Royal
8vo. 10s. 6d. net.

THE VICAR OF MORWENSTOW. With a Portrait. Third Edition. Cr. 8vo.
3s. 6d. *Also Fcap. 8vo. 1s. net.

OLD COUNTRY LIFE. Illustrated. Fifth Edition. Large Cr. 8vo. 6s.

A BOOK OF CORNWALL. Illustrated. Third Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s.

A BOOK OF DARTMOOR. Illustrated. Second Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s.

A BOOK OF DEVON. Illustrated. Third Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s.

Baring-Gould (S.) and Sheppard (H. Fleetwood). A GARLAND OF COUNTRY
SONG. English Folk Songs with their Traditional Melodies. Demy 4to.
6s.

SONGS OF THE WEST: Folk Songs of Devon and Cornwall. Collected from the
Mouths of the People. New and Revised Edition, under the musical
editorship of Cecil J. Sharp. Large Imperial 8vo. 5s. net.

Barker (E.). THE POLITICAL THOUGHT OF PLATO AND ARISTOTLE. Demy 8vo.
10s. 6d. net.

Bastable (C. F.). THE COMMERCE OF NATIONS. Fifth Edition. Cr. 8vo.
2s. 6d.

Beckford (Peter). THOUGHTS ON HUNTING. Edited by J. Otho Paget.
Illustrated. Third Edition. Demy 8vo. 6s.