CHAPTER XIX.
THE WEREWOLF.
At the Very moment when Photogen caught up Nycteris, the telescope of
Watho was angrily sweeping the table-land. She swung it from her in
rage, and running to her room, shut herself up. There she anointed
herself from top to toe with a certain ointment; shook down her long
red hair, and tied it round her waist; then began to dance, whirling
round and round faster and faster, growing angrier and angrier, until
she was foaming at the mouth with fury. When Falca went looking for
her, she could not find her anywhere.
As the sun rose, the wind slowly changed and went round, until it blew
straight from the north. Photogen and Nycteris were drawing near the
edge of the forest, Photogen still carrying Nycteris, when she moved a
little on his shoulder uneasily, and murmured in his ear,
"I smell a wild beast--that way, the way the wind is coming."
Photogen turned, looked back towards the castle, and saw a dark speck
on the plain. As he looked, it grew larger: it was coming across the
grass with the speed of the wind. It came nearer and nearer. It looked
long and low, but that might be because it was running at a great
stretch. He set Nycteris down under a tree, in the black shadow of its
bole, strung his bow, and picked out his heaviest, longest, sharpest
arrow. Just as he set the notch on the string, he saw that the
creature was a tremendous wolf, rushing straight at him. He loosened
his knife in its sheath, drew another arrow half-way from the quiver,
lest the first should fail, and took his aim--at a good distance, to
leave time for a second chance. He shot. The arrow rose, flew
straight, descended, struck the beast, and started again into the air,
doubled like a letter V. Quickly Photogen snatched the other, shot,
cast his bow from him, and drew his knife. But the arrow was in the
brute's chest, up to the feather; it tumbled heels over head with a
great thud of its back on the earth, gave a groan, made a struggle or
two, and lay stretched out motionless.
"I've killed it, Nycteris," cried Photogen. "It is a great red wolf."
"Oh, thank you!" answered Nycteris feebly from behind the tree. "I was
sure you would. I was not a bit afraid."
Photogen went up to the wolf. It _was_ a monster! But he was vexed
that his first arrow had behaved so badly, and was the less willing to
lose the one that had done him such good service: with a long and a
strong pull, he drew it from the brute's chest. Could he believe his
eyes? There lay--no wolf, but Watho, with her hair tied round her
waist! The foolish witch had made herself invulnerable, as she
supposed, but had forgotten that, to torment Photogen therewith, she
had handled one of his arrows. He ran back to Nycteris and told her.
She shuddered and wept, and would not look.
