monstrous wolf!

On, on he goes: the wood is cleared--the open country is gained. Tree,
hedge, and isolated cottage appear but dim points in the landscape--a
moment seen, the next left behind; the very hills appear to leap after
each other.

A cemetery stands in the monster's way, but he turns not aside--through
the sacred inclosure--on, on he goes. There are situated many tombs,
stretching up the slope of a gentle acclivity, from the dark soil of
which the white monuments stand forth with white and ghastly gleaming,
and on the summit of the hill is the church of St. Benedict the Blessed.

From the summit of the ivy-grown tower the very rooks, in the midst of
their cawing, are scared away by the furious rush and the wild howl with
which the Wehr-Wolf thunders over the hallowed ground.

At the same instant a train of monks appear round the angle of the
church--for there is a funeral at that hour; and their torches flaring
with the breeze that is now springing up, cast an awful and almost
magical light on the dark gray walls of the edifice, the strange effect
being enhanced by the prismatic reflection of the lurid blaze from the
stained glass of the oriel window.

The solemn spectacle seemed to madden the Wehr-Wolf. His speed
increased--he dashed through the funeral train--appalling cries of
terror and alarm burst from the lips of the holy fathers--and the solemn
procession was thrown into confusion. The coffin-bearers dropped their
burden, and the corpse rolled out upon the ground, its decomposing
countenance seeming horrible by the glare of the torch-light.

The monk who walked nearest the head of the coffin was thrown down by
the violence with which the ferocious monster cleared its passage; and
the venerable father--on whose brow sat the snow of eighty winters--fell
with his head against a monument, and his brains were dashed out.

On, on fled the Wehr-Wolf, over mead and hill, through valley and dale.
The very wind seemed to make way: he clove the air--he appeared to skim
the ground--to fly.

Through the romantic glades and rural scenes of Etruria the monster
sped--sounds, resembling shrieking howls, bursting ever and anon from
his foaming mouth--his red eyes glaring in the dusk of the evening like
ominous meteors--and his whole aspect so full of appalling ferocity,
that never was seen so monstrous, so terrific a spectacle!

A village is gained; he turns not aside, but dashes madly through the
little stree