Suddenly I became aware of a naked boy, a
bather from some neighbouring pool, I took him to be, who was
standing out on the bare hillside also watching the sunset. His
pose was so suggestive of some wild faun of Pagan myth that I
instantly wanted to engage him as a model, and in another moment I
think I should have hailed him. But just then the sun dipped out of
view, and all the orange and pink slid out of the landscape, leaving
it cold and grey. And at the same moment an astounding thing
happened--the boy vanished too!"
"What! vanished away into nothing?" asked Van Cheele excitedly.
"No; that is the dreadful part of it," answered the artist; "on the
open hillside where the boy had been standing a second ago, stood a
large wolf, blackish in colour, with gleaming fangs and cruel,
yellow eyes. You may think--"
But Van Cheele did not stop for anything as futile as thought.
Already he was tearing at top speed towards the station. He
dismissed the idea of a telegram. "Gabriel-Ernest is a werewolf"
was a hopelessly inadequate effort at conveying the situation, and
his aunt would think it was a code message to which he had omitted
to give her the key. His one hope was that he might reach home
before sundown. The cab which he chartered at the other end of the
railway journey bore him with what seemed exasperating slowness
along the country roads, which were pink and mauve with the flush of
the sinking sun. His aunt was putting away some unfinished jams and
cake when he arrived.
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