He was the wolf!

That low receding forehead, that sharp-pointed face, that foxy-looking
beard, bristling off both cheeks; the long meagre figure, the sinewy
limbs, the face, the cry. The attitude, declared the presence of the wild
beast half-hidden, half-revealed under a human mask!

At times he would stop for a second and listen attentively with head
awry, and then the crimson hangings would tremble with the quivering of
his limbs, like foliage shaken by the wind; then the melancholy wail
would open afresh.

Sperver, Sébalt, and I stood nailed to the floor; we held our breath,
petrified with fear.

Suddenly the count stopped. As a wild beast scents the wind, he lifted
his head and listened again.

There, there, far away, down among the thick fir forests, whitened with
dense patches of snow, a cry was heard in reply--weak at first; then the
sound rose and swelled in a long protracted howl, drowning the feebler
efforts of the hounds: it was the she-wolf answering the wolf!

Sperver, turning round awe-stricken, his countenance pale as ashes,
pointed to the mountain, and murmured low--

"Listen--there's the witch!"

And the count still crouching motionless, but with his head now raised
in the attitude of attention, his neck outstretched, his eyes burning,