Oh! Nisida, who art on the other side of that range, little dreamest thou of the peril that menaces thee. Joy! joy!--the danger has passed; the wolf turns aside from a loftier impediment of crag than had yet appeared in its course: and down--down again toward the groves and valleys--over the bituminous waste made by the volcano--on, on goes the monster. Away, away, through the verdant scenes once more, fresh havoc--fresh desolation--fresh ruin marking his maddening course,--away, away the Wehr-Wolf speeds. The moon rises to give a stronger and purer light to the dreadful spectacle, a light stronger and purer than that of night itself, which is never completely dark in the tropics. Away, away, and still on, on--outstripping time--running a race with the fleeting moments, till hours and hours of unrelaxing speed are numbered--thus goes the wolf. And now he snuffs the morning air: the fresh breeze from the east raises the foam of the Mediterranean waves, and allays the heat on the body of the careening, bounding, and almost flying monster. His howling grows less ferocious--his yells become less terrible; and now his pace is a trifle more measured,--that relaxation of a whirlwind speed gradually increasing. 'Tis done; the course is o'er--the race is run;--and the Wehr-Wolf falls in writhing agonies upon the fresh grass, whence in a few moments rises Fernand Wagner--a man once more! But as he throws a glance of horror around on the scene of his night's dread employment, he starts back with mingled aversion and alarm; for there--with folded arms, eyes terrible to look upon, and a countenance expressing infernal triumph and bitter scorn, stood the demon. "Fiend, what would'st thou with me?" demanded Wagner. "Are not the sufferings which I have just endured, enough to satisfy thy hatred of all human beings? are not the horrors of the past night sufficient to glut even thine insatiate heart?" "Mortal," said the demon, speaking in his profound and awe-inspiring tones, "didst thou take all thy miseries which at this moment afflict thy race, combine all the bitter woes, and crushing sorrows that madden the brains of men, mix up all the tears and collect all the sobs and sighs that tell of human agony, then multiply the aggregate by ten million, million times its sum, and go on multiplying by millions and millions, till thou wast tired of counting, thou would'st not form even an idea of that huge amount of human misery which could alone appease me. For on man do I visit the hate wherewith my own fall has animated me; powerless on high, where once I was so powerful, I make my kingdom of earth and hell--and in both my influence is great and is terrible!" "Yes--yes; too great--too terrible!" exclaimed Wagner. "But why dost thou persecute me with thy presence? I did not call thee--I did not invoke thine aid."