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THE BOOK OF WERE-WOLVES.
of his passion drove him over the country, howling like a wolf, and demeaning himself more like an irrational beast than a rational man.
He commemorates his lupine madness in the poem A tal Donna:—[1]
Crowned with immortal joys I mountThe proudest emperors above,For I am honoured with the loveOf the fair daughter of a count.A lace from Na Raymbauda's handI value more than all the landOf Richard, with his Poïctou,His rich Touraine and famed Anjou. When loup-garou the rabble call me,When vagrant shepherds hoot,Pursue, and buffet me to boot,It doth not for a moment gall me;I seek not palaces or halls,Or refuge when the winter falls;Exposed to winds and frosts at night,My soul is ravished with delight. Me claims my she-wolf (Loba) so divine:And justly she that claim prefers,For, by my troth, my life is hersMore than another's, more than mine.
Job Fincelius[2] relates the sad story of a farmer of Pavia, who, as a wolf, fell upon many men in the open country and tore them to pieces. After much trouble