For as I remov'd the cloathes I hated so, the great wolf reared back and stood on its hind legs like a man, and I saw knuckles where it had seem'd to have paws. And as the hood fell across my senses, my last clear thought was that I knew the thing that had call'd out the beast.
The fight was a brutal thing, and so much of it I saw thru the smok'd lens. The other, the loup garou, to use the French word for it, had years of strength and animal cunning. It hurt the beast as nothing ever had, and the beast grew more and more savage for it. For a moment I saw my man Friday, who lunged in at the loup garou with his wooden sword, but the beast lashed out at him, driving him back. This was its fight, and none other would rob it of victory. It was a deep challenge, a savage challenge, and soon all I could discern was pain and blood, tooth and claw, and flesh and howls.
I awoke with blood in my mouth which was not my own, and it did taste sharp and warm and sweet all at once. I spat it out as one does foul food.
The pack was gone. A last few wolves stood to watch me stand, and whimper'd at my stare, and fled to the wood with their tails down.
The rest of our company was dead or gone, with only three unaccount'd for. I never saw or heard word of them again, nor did I know if they escaped the wood. Nor did I care.
In the snow across from me was the uncloathed body of an old man, his throat torn away by savage teeth. His face was long and dirty, his beard thick and matted. It was a face that had not been made use of in many, many a long year. Not since long before my first voyage at sea. I look'd upon him and saw the high cheeks and strong nose of my father, while the dull eyes were the round ones I remember always on the face of my mother.
Friday was dead.
My man lay in the snow, his eyes wide to the night sky and his great wooden sword by his hand. A mighty cut had lain him open and spillt his innards, and tho' I tried hard to tell myself it was the work of the loup garou, I recalled the beast's great anger at having its challenge interrupted.
And as I held my man there on the plains of Languedoc and the tears fell from my eyes, I knew how damned and accursed I was, I who all in one night had kill'd the most loyal servant and friend ever known, and his own years-lost brother.
My lies, my last voyage,
back to my island
In about three hours more I dragg'd my cold self to the town where we were to lodge, which I found in a terrible fright and all in arms. It seemed the night before the wolves had broke into the village and put them in such terror they were oblig'd to keep guard night and day, but especially in the night, to preserve their cattle, and, indeed, their people. None questioned my tale of the pack which had kill'd my companions, or asked of the great wooden sword I clutch'd to my bosom.
I was oblig'd to take a new guide here and go through Thoulouse to Gévaudan, where I found a warm climate, a fruitful pleasant country, and no snow, no wolves, nor any thing like them. When I told my story at Gévaudan, with certain restrictions, viz. my own nature and the fate of my friend and my companions, they told us it was nothing but what was ordinary in the great forest at the foot of the mountains when the snow lay on the ground. They inquired much what kind of a guide we had got, who would venture to bring us that way in such a severe season, and told us it was surprising even I escaped not devoured. When I told them how we placed ourselves, and the horses in the middle, they blamed us and told me it was fifty to one but we had been all destroyed. It was the sight of the horses which made the wolves so furious. At other times, they are afraid of a gun, but being excessive hungry, and raging on that account, the eagerness to come at the horses had made them senseless of danger. They told me if we had stood all together and left our horses, the wolves would have been so eager to have devoured the horses we might have come off safe, having our fire-arms in our hands, and being so many in number. I could do naught but agree, and think to myself that very little could have gotten my friend off that mountain.
I have nothing uncommon to take notice of in my passage through France, nothing but what other travelers have given an account of, with much more advantage than I can. I spent a single moon in that country and then traveled from Gévaudan to Paris, and without any considerable stay came to Calais, and landed safe at Dover, the 14th of Jan. after having a severe cold season to travel in.
Having resolv’d to dispose of my plantation in the Brasils, I wrote to Captain Amaral at Lisbon. Having offered it to the two merchants, the survivors of my trustees, who lived in the Brasils, they accepted the offer.