A thin, wild howling, like that of some creature composed only of ferocious greed, came through the tense air like a needle. The hounds! He heard it, and seemed to crumple suddenly, as if a huge invisible hand had reached inside his breast and crushed his heart. He sank back against the tapestry and put up one hand. His face was the color of a thundercloud—like a bruise, purple and angry black; and I thought: Is he going to have a stroke? And one eye (I saw with horror) had suddenly become so shot with blood that it looked as if blood was going to spill out like a cascade of scarlet tears.

“No, no—I’m imagining it! It’s not Zamiel now—it’s after midnight—He hasn’t come for me? Not for me! I’ve given him his victims, haven’t I? No, no!”

There was a bubbling, whining sound from the table, and I tore my eyes away from the dreadful spectacle of the count to see Snivelwurst, his knees knocking together, attempting to pull the tablecloth over himself in the last extremity of terror.

The hounds—again, and much, much closer! And cries from no human throat—and hoofbeats more thunderous than any that trod the good earth—and the crack of a whip that sounded as long and as vicious as a tongue of lightning. The air outside the tower was full of it now: the Wild Hunt itself, careering closer—the hounds in full cry, the air and the stone echoing, trembling, shaking with the awesome force of it. I said a prayer. The count clung to the tapestry and cried:

“No, no! Not me! I’m good! I’ve just decided to be good! I’ve repented!”

And then a voice as deep as the roots of the mountains, as majestic as the thunder that plays between them, said:

“Too late!”

The glass in the window shook; the flame of the candle flared and streamed, and the tapestries lifted themselves off the walls as if a mighty wind had blown straight through the stone. Count Karlstein staggered.

“No, no”—he cried—“it’s never too late!”

“Too late! Midnight has come and gone. Where is my prey?”

“At the hunting lodge. I locked them in—I swear I did!”

And again the voice cried: “Too late! Too late!”

“No—no—”

“For ten years I have waited for this night. Where is my prey?”

“I took them there myself! I locked the door!”

“The hunting lodge was empty, Heinrich Karlstein.”

“I don’t believe it! No—it isn’t possible!”