  On a high cliff overlooking the ocean, on the western coast of Ireland, stand the ruins of an old castle. The short grass grows on the floor of the great hall, and the wind sighs and howls through its broken walls, with a sound half human, half animal. The peasants for generations have named it “The Wolf’s Castle.” Even long years ago, when it was tenanted by kindly folk and was running over with life and happiness, it had already earned its grim name. Max had been out hunting. He had spent the day in the woods and fields, and now as night fell, dark and lowering, he hastened his steps. The first scattering drops of rain struck his face, and the wind was rising. It moaned and howled like the distant cry of a wolf; it made Max feel strangely nervous and frightened. “Frightened!”—he laughed at the thought. “A boy of twelve frightened by the wind!” And yet, listen! the patter of the rain (coming faster now) sounds on the leaves like the stealthy tread of some animal. “If it is a wolf, it is the ghost of one; for there are no wolves in this country now,” thought Max. “How like a sigh from human lips the wind sounds!” “Home at last, I am thankful to say;” and Max ran swiftly round to the back door. As he closed it, the wind gave a long-drawn wail, and he almost fancied a hand strove to draw him back into the darkness. “I think I need my supper,” thought he. “Fasting makes a fellow light-headed.” Entering the kitchen with exultant heart but studied indifference, he threw his game down on the table before the admiring cook, and then hastened to change his dress. Soon, over a good supper, he had forgotten the uncanny night outside, though the wind still howled and the rain beat against the window. After supper Max went into the library. How cosy and comfortable it was, with a fire in the grate, an easy-chair drawn in front of it, and the shadows dancing over books and pictures! “I’ll sit here in front of the fire and rest,” thought he. He sat there mentally reviewing the day’s sport. “I need a good dog,” he said. “I must have one. Why, what is that?” For there, lying in front of the fire, basking in the heat, was an immense dog, with shaggy coat and pointed ears. Max called to him:— “Here, old fellow; here, Bran,—why, he knows his name. How did I come to know it, I wonder!” For at the first call, the dog had raised his head and beat his great tail upon the floor. At the mention of his name he sprang to his feet, and came crouching and trembling with joy to lick the hands and shoes of the lad. “What is it then, good dog? Tell me your story, for I’m sure you have one to tell,” coaxed Max. Did he tell it, or did Max dream? For as the dog rested his head on the boy’s knee and looked with liquid, loving eyes into his face, Max glanced round the room and saw a strange transformation: the walls widened, the ceiling rose to a greater height, and was crossed by great black beams. On the walls hung shields, spears, great swords, and numerous other articles of war and of the chase. The polished grate had grown into an immense fireplace, and the floor was covered with what Max supposed were rushes. But the people in the room interested him most of all. On the opposite side of the fireplace, in a great carven chair, sat a lady, young and very lovely,—her dress some rich dark green material clasped at the throat and waist by heavy golden clasps, her bare arms heavy with gold armlets, her long black hair falling in shining waves around her, and her eyes,—the sea was in them,—gray or dark blue, and in moments of anger flashing greenish yellow like the eyes of some animal. She sat with her elbow on the arm of her chair, her head resting on her hand, looking into the fire and listening to the music of an ancient harper, who sat in the background, softly striking the chords of his harp. The firelight, dancing over the room, caused strange shadows; and Max fancied himself one of the shadows, for his chair was filled by a boy of his own age, sitting just as he had been sitting, with the great dog’s head on his knee; and notwithstanding his strange dress, Max started with a feeling almost of terror, for the boy was his double; it was like seeing himself in the glass. A storm was raging around the castle, and above the soft music of the harp could be heard the rush of the wind, and the roar of the ocean dashing at the foot of the cliff. The lady shivered and glanced round the room. “I wish your father were home, Patrick. How glad I shall be when peace comes again.” “I wish I were old enough to lead the clan to battle, then father could remain with you.” In a great carven chair sat a lady. In a great carven chair sat a lady. “What? become a dotard? Out upon you!” Her eyes flashed at the boy, and the dog, raising his head, gave a low growl. “Why do you not have that beast speared? You know I hate him,” said the lady. “He was given to me (as you know) by the good fathers at the monastery. They told me always to cherish Bran, for he would save me from demons, as well as wolves. See the silver crosses on his collar. Nothing can harm us while Bran is here.” The lady cast a look of fear and hatred at the boy and the dog. “Be not too sure,” she said. Springing to her feet, she walked back and forth through the room. Her step was smooth and graceful; she made no sound on the rushes as she walked. Presently there came a lull in the storm, and from somewhere back in the hills came the howl of a wolf. The lady paused and listened, then turning to the boy she said in a hurried manner, while her eyes sought the floor: “I feel ill; I am going to my room. Let no one disturb me to-morrow; if I need help I will call.” And as she turned to leave the room, suddenly she paused. “Get you to bed, Patrick, chain up that dog, and—you are the hope and pride of your father—I lay my commands on you—do not hunt to-morrow.” Then the lady was gone; but Bran was trembling and growling. “He heard the wolves howl,” said Patrick to the harper. The old man looked into the fire and was silent. Presently Patrick arose, and bidding the harper good-night, went to his room, closely followed at the heels by the great dog. To his surprise, awaiting him in his room was the housekeeper, an ancient woman, who had been his father’s nurse. She rose when Patrick entered, and came toward him. “My mind is troubled, child,” she said; “I must tell you my story.” “What is it, nurse?” “It is about my lady Eileen, your stepmother. May I speak?” “Tell on,” said Patrick. “But remember, I will hear nothing against my lady;” for he well knew that the nurse bore the young stepmother no good will. “Well, listen, child. You were not here when your father married my lady. You had not left the monastery where your father placed you for safety while he was beyond seas. I must tell you first how she came here. “Fingal, the huntsman, told me that one day, when your father was hunting alone, he was followed all day by a wolf. It would lurk from one hillock to another, but when he turned to pursue it, it would disappear. Finally, at noon, when he sat down to rest, it came creeping and fawning to his feet. He was tempted to spear it, but did not, out of surprise. Presently it disappeared; but in the gloaming it returned, and followed him clear to the gate of the castle. This my lord told to Fingal, and greatly did he marvel. That same night,” whispered the nurse, mysteriously, “came a call for help, and when the gate was opened, there stood a beautiful woman (my lady Eileen) who told how she had lost her way and her company as she journeyed to St. Hilda’s shrine. Your father bade her enter, and she has abode here ever since; for soon he married her, and she became our lady.” “Well, well, nurse, I knew of her coming, and I know also that she was no waif, but of a noble house and high lineage, as her coat of arms bears witness,—a wolf couchant. But why explain all this to you? Right glad am I that she came to gladden my father’s heart and brighten our home.” “Yes, child, but listen; this only brings me to my story. My lady has strange spells of illness, and always after a wolf howls.” The boy started impatiently, but the old dame, laying her hand on his arm, compelled him to listen. “The last time it was moonlight. I was up in the turret opposite her window; her lamp was lit, and I saw a strange sight. My lady was springing with long leaps backward and forward over the floor, and wringing her hands. Presently she went to her closet, took from it a wolf’s skin, slipped it over her dress, and I do not know how she got outside the walls, but I saw her presently speeding away with long leaps toward the hills.” “Nurse, nurse, are you crazy? It is my lady of whom you speak. Never let me hear you breathe that story again. Think of my father’s wrath, should this come to his ears.” Still the old woman shook her head and mumbled in wrath, and speedily betook herself away; while Patrick, laughing heartily at her foolish story, went to bed. But all night above the roar of the storm could be heard the howling of wolves. The morning broke wild and gloomy; the castle seemed lonely and dreary without the cheery presence of Lady Eileen. Patrick went once to her door and knocked, but received no answer. Presently Fingal, the huntsman, came in, armed for the chase. Bran followed close at his heels. “Will my lord hunt to-day? The wolves were among the flocks last night, the shepherds tell me.” Patrick hesitated, remembering his lady’s commands, but he decided finally to go. Soon he was ready, and issuing from the gates, he and Fingal and the dog were lost in the mists that enveloped the hills. Long did the household wait their return. Night was brooding: over the castle when Fingal’s horn was heard at the gate. In answer to the warder’s call his voice came sternly through the night: “Bring help, and come quickly; my lady is dead.” To the grievous outcries and questions that arose he would return no answer. Soon an excited group were hurrying toward the hills, and presently the torches revealed a sad sight. The first to come into view was their young lord, crouching on the ground, with the dog’s head clasped in his arms; Bran’s throat had been torn and mangled, and he had been thrust through with a spear. Patrick was wounded and torn in many places; blood was flowing down his face and throat, and his tears were falling on the dog’s head. Not far away lay Lady Eileen, quite dead. Very beautiful and placid she looked, as if sleeping; but on her throat were marks of great teeth. “Take up my lady and bear her to the castle,” said Patrick; “as for Bran, you must bury him here.” “Nay, child, he is only a dead dog,” said the old nurse, fussily. But she was met by a stern command to be quiet. “Do as I bid you,” he said to the servants, and then added, “The good dog went mad, and attacked my lady. I could not save her. Let my father know this, should I die;” and then the boy fell backward, fainting. To the father it was a sad home-coming when, a few days later, he returned from war,—his beautiful young wife lying cold and dead in the chapel; his son very ill, calling always for Bran to save him from some deadly peril. Greatly the household marvelled how their lady came to be out in the mist and the storm, alone on the hills; but Fingal, the huntsman, sought his two gossips, the nurse and the harper, and told this tale of the day’s hunt. “We had followed the wolves all day, and several had been killed. But there was one gray wolf, who seemed the leader of the pack. This one my lord singled out, and followed from valley to valley. Bran would not pursue it, but slunk and cowered after his master, whining pitifully. All day we followed it, until, late in the gloaming, it had headed toward the castle; and we pressed it hard. It finally turned at bay, and, springing at my lord’s throat, it brought him to the ground. Bran was lagging behind, and I was urging him forward. When he heard my lord’s cries, the dog flew at the wolf. The beast then turned on the dog, and as I ran to help to spear it, I saw—” here the huntsman’s voice sank into a whisper—“I saw no wolf, but my lady, tearing and rending the dog, while Bran’s teeth were buried in her throat. “‘Separate them! save them!’ cried my lord; and I, not knowing what else to do, watched my chance and thrust the dog through the body. He sank without a groan, relaxing his grasp on my lady’s throat. My lord gave a cry of despair, and my lady, hearing it, crept over to him and whispering, ‘Forgive; I could not help it,’ sank dead at his feet. But Lord Patrick passed her by, and threw himself down by the dog; while I, half distraught, came home for help.” Then said the nurse, “See that you hold your tongue, man, for if this story come to the ears of my lord, your body will want a head.” But from that time forth the Lady Eileen was spoken of as “The Wolf Lady,” and in time, the grim name of the “Wolf’s Castle” clung to her old home. In the years that came and passed, Patrick became chief in his father’s place; and then a cairn was raised over the body of the faithful dog. Max awoke to find the fire out; shivered, and sprang to his feet. “What a strange dream!” he said. |
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