Penny Dreadful Multipack Vol. 1 (Illustrated. Annotated. 'Wagner The Wehr-Wolf,' 'Varney The Vampire,' 'The Mysteries of London Vol. 1' + Bonus Features) (Penny Dreadful Multipacks) by George W. M. Reynolds, James Malcolm Rymer Page B
Authors: George W. M. Reynolds, James Malcolm Rymer
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month being the one which the wealthy lords and high-born
ladies set apart for the reception of their friends.
The sun sank behind the western
hills; and even the hothouse flowers closed up their buds—as if they were
eyelids weighed down by slumber, and not to wake until the morning should
arouse them again to welcome the return of their lover—that glorious sun!
Darkness seemed to dilate upon
the sky like an image in the midst of a mirage, expanding into superhuman
dimensions—then rapidly losing its shapeliness, and covering the vault above
densely and confusedly.
But, by degrees, countless stars
began to stud the colorless canopy of heaven, like gems of orient splendor; for
the last—last flickering ray of the twilight in the west had expired in the
increasing obscurity.
But, hark! what is that wild and
fearful cry?
In the midst of a wood of
evergreens on the banks of the Arno, a man—young, handsome, and splendidly
attired—has thrown himself upon the ground, where he writhes like a stricken
serpent, in horrible convulsions.
He is the prey of a demoniac
excitement: an appalling consternation is on him—madness is in his brain—his
mind is on fire.
Lightnings appear to gleam from
his eyes, as if his soul were dismayed, and withering within his breast.
“Oh! no—no!” he cries with
a piercing shriek, as if wrestling madly, furiously, but vainly against some
unseen fiend that holds him in his grasp.
And the wood echoes to that
terrible wail; and the startled bird flies fluttering from its bough.
But, lo! what awful change is
taking place in the form of that doomed being? His handsome countenance
elongates into one of savage and brute-like shape; the rich garments which he
wears become a rough, shaggy, and wiry skin; his body loses its human contours,
his arms and limbs take another form; and, with a frantic howl of misery, to
which the woods give horribly faithful reverberations, and, with a rush like a
hurling wind, the wretch starts wildly away, no longer a man, but a 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
ladies set apart for the reception of their friends.
The sun sank behind the western
hills; and even the hothouse flowers closed up their buds—as if they were
eyelids weighed down by slumber, and not to wake until the morning should
arouse them again to welcome the return of their lover—that glorious sun!
Darkness seemed to dilate upon
the sky like an image in the midst of a mirage, expanding into superhuman
dimensions—then rapidly losing its shapeliness, and covering the vault above
densely and confusedly.
But, by degrees, countless stars
began to stud the colorless canopy of heaven, like gems of orient splendor; for
the last—last flickering ray of the twilight in the west had expired in the
increasing obscurity.
But, hark! what is that wild and
fearful cry?
In the midst of a wood of
evergreens on the banks of the Arno, a man—young, handsome, and splendidly
attired—has thrown himself upon the ground, where he writhes like a stricken
serpent, in horrible convulsions.
He is the prey of a demoniac
excitement: an appalling consternation is on him—madness is in his brain—his
mind is on fire.
Lightnings appear to gleam from
his eyes, as if his soul were dismayed, and withering within his breast.
“Oh! no—no!” he cries with
a piercing shriek, as if wrestling madly, furiously, but vainly against some
unseen fiend that holds him in his grasp.
And the wood echoes to that
terrible wail; and the startled bird flies fluttering from its bough.
But, lo! what awful change is
taking place in the form of that doomed being? His handsome countenance
elongates into one of savage and brute-like shape; the rich garments which he
wears become a rough, shaggy, and wiry skin; his body loses its human contours,
his arms and limbs take another form; and, with a frantic howl of misery, to
which the woods give horribly faithful reverberations, and, with a rush like a
hurling wind, the wretch starts wildly away, no longer a man, but a 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
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