Not far from this canvas are several parcels of halfpenny books, likewise
from the Friburg press, which relate by what an astounding miracle Morok,
the Idolater, acquired a supernatural power almost divine, the moment he
was converted--a power which the wildest animal could not resist, and
which was testified to every day by the lion tamer's performances, "given
less to display his courage than to show his praise unto the Lord."

Through the trap-door which opens into the loft, reek up puffs of a rank,
sour, penetrating odor. From time to time are heard sonorous growls and
deep breathings, followed by a dull sound, as of great bodies stretching
themselves heavily along the floor.

A man is alone in this loft. It is Morok, the tamer of wild beasts,
surnamed the Prophet.

He is forty years old, of middle height, with lank limbs, and an
exceedingly spare frame; he is wrapped in a long, blood-red pelisse,
lined with black fur; his complexion, fair by nature is bronzed by the
wandering life he has led from childhood; his hair, of that dead yellow
peculiar to certain races of the Polar countries, falls straight and
stiff down his shoulders; and his thin, sharp, hooked nose, and prominent
cheek-bones, surmount a long beard, bleached almost to whiteness.
Peculiarly marking the physiognomy of this man is the wide open eye, with
its tawny pupil ever encircled by a rim of white. This fixed,
extraordinary look, exercises a real fascination over animals--which,
however, does not prevent the Prophet from also employing, to tame them,
the terrible arsenal around him.

Seated at a table, he has just opened the false bottom of a box, filled
with chaplets and other toys, for the use of the devout. Beneath this
false bottom, secured by a secret lock, are several sealed envelopes,
with no other address than a number, combined with a letter of the
alphabet. The Prophet takes one of these packets, conceals it in the
pocket of his pelisse, and, closing the secret fastening of the false
bottom, replaces the box upon a shelf.

This scene occurs about four o'clock in the afternoon, in the White
Falcon, the only hostelry in the little village of Mockern, situated near
Leipsic, as you come from the north towards France.

After a few moments, the loft is shaken by a hoarse roaring from below.

"Judas! be quiet!" exclaims the Prophet, in a menacing tone, as he turns
his head towards the trap door.

Another deep growl is heard, formidable