“Nennius positively states that in certain Irish families, the power to change at will into a wolf—­”

“And who knows how numerous may be these abominable wizards?”

Padraig, the scribe, sat listening intently while the company around the guest-house fire discoursed in monk-Latin of werewolves in Ireland.  “In saecula saeculorum”—­“ab incunabilis horrendum”—­“quocunque nomine notandum”—­“coram diabolo”—­the sonorous many-syllabled phrases clattered like the noise of rooks in treetops.  It was January, the “wolf-month” of old English shepherds.  Meadows ran floods of icy half-melted snow; mountain winds were screaming about the cloisters, and for two days travelers had been weather-bound at the Abbey.

Some time before, there had been rumors of wolves infesting the hills and displaying in their forays an all but human boldness and cunning.  Then other tales began to be whispered.  The peasantry huddled early about their turf-fires, and the shepherds of the Abbey sought counsel from their superior.  They got small comfort from the Abbot, who curtly ordered them to attend to their duty and avoid vain babblings.

All the same, among the manuscript volumes in the nest-egg of a library the monks possessed, there were chronicles that mentioned the werewolf.  Marie de France in her “Lays” included the Breton romance of Bisclaveret, the loup-garou.  The nerves of the weaker ones began to play them tricks.  It was less and less easy to keep unbroken the orderly round of monastic life.

This little religious community, toiling earnestly and faithfully under wise direction, might in time bring some comfort and prosperity into a desolate land.  Ireland had once been known as the Isle of Saints.  Now, despoiled by warring kings, pagan Danes and finally the Norman adventurers under Strongbow, the people were in some districts hardly more than heathen.  This Abbey, set by Henry Plantagenet in a remote valley, was like a fort on the frontier of Christendom.  The people were sullen, suspicious, ignorant, and piteously poor.  To deal with them demanded all that a man had of courage, faith and wisdom.  And now came these rumors of men-wolves.

When the floods had gone down and the guests departed, Brother Basil in the scriptorium found Padraig diligently at work on a new design for the border of the manuscript he was illuminating.  The central figure was that of a wolf crouching under a thorn-bush to slip out of the shaggy skin which disguised his human form.  Under his feet lay a child unconscious.  At a distance could be seen the distracted mother, and other wolves pursued terrified people flying to shelter.  Once, before he came to the Abbey, Padraig had been chased by wolves, and had spent the night in a tree.  He drew his wolf with a lifelike accuracy, inspired by the memory of those long, cold hours under a winter moon.

Instead of pausing with a word of criticism or suggestion, as usual, Brother Basil took up the drawing and put it in his scrip.  All that he said was, “Find another design, Padraig, my son.”