lived, and who keeps pursuing me after his death!

I page through the book, and my eye is caught by the part about Incubi and Succubi. The author doesn't believe in such things and ridiculizes the thought of devils. But I cannot laugh; I'm offended by what I'm reading, and I console myself with the thought that by now the author may have altered his views.

In the mean time, reading about things magical and weird isn't very suitable to induce any sleep, and I experience a certain nervous restlessness.

Therefore, the proposal to come along to the sanitary rooms is taken as a welcome distraction and a hygienic preliminary for the night, which I fear.

Provided with a lantern, we walk over the inner court, where, under a cloudy sky, the skeletons of frosted trees crash under the playful and capricious whirlwind.

"I think you're afraid of your own shadows my good fellows," laughs the doctor contemptuously. We give no answer, for the violence of the wind nearly throws us down. When we reach the place which is near the stable and under the hayloft, we are greeted by a noise over our heads, and, strange to say, it is exactly the noise which has followed me for half a year.

"Listen!" I said; "don't you hear something?"

"Yes, it is only the farm servants feeding the cattle."

I do not deny the fact, but why must they do it just as I enter the place? And how comes it that the disturbance always takes an acoustic form? There must be some unseen agent who arranges these serenades for me, and it is no mere illusion of my ears, for others hear them too. When we return to our bedroom, all is still. The poet who has behaved quietly all day, and who sleeps in an attic begins to look uneasy, and finally confesses that he cannot sleep alone, as he suffers from nightmare. I give him up my bed, and go into a large room close by, where there is an enormous one. This room, unwarmed, without blinds, and almost unfurnished, makes me feel a depression which is increased by the damp and cold. In order to distract myself, I look for books, and find on a small table a Bible illustrated by Gustave Doré, together with a number of books of devotion. Then I remember that I am an intruder into a religious home, that I, the friend of the prodigal son, am regarded as a corrupter of youth. What a humiliating rôle for a man of eight and forty!

I understand the young man's discomfort at being penned up with excellent and pious people. He must feel like a devil obliged to attend mass. And it is to drive out devils with devils that I have been invited hither. I have come in order to make this rarefied air possible to breathe by defiling it, since the young man cannot bear it, pure.

With such thoughts I retire to bed. Sleep was formerly my last and surest refuge whose pity never failed me. But now my comforter has left me in the lurch and the darkness alarms me. The lamp is lit and there is stillness after the storm. Then a strange buzzing noise rivets my attention and rouses me from my drowsiness. I observe an insect flying hither and thither in the upper part of the room. But I am astonished to find that I cannot identify it, though I am well up in entomology, and flatter myself that I know all the winged insects in Sweden. This is not a butterfly or a moth, but a fly, long and black, which makes a sound like a wasp. I get up to chase it. Chasing flies at the end of December! It disappears. I creep again under the bedclothes and resume my meditations.

But the cursed insect flies out from under my cushion cover, and, after having rested and warmed itself in my bed, it flies in all directions, and I let it go, feeling sure that I shall soon catch it by the lamp, whose flame will attract it. I have not long to wait; as soon as the fly gets within the lamp-shade a match scorches its wings. It dances its death-dance and lies lifeless on its back. I convince myself by ocular demonstration that it is an unknown winged insect, about an inch long, and of a black colour, with two fiery red spots on its wings.

What is it? I don't know, but in the morning I will give the others the opportunity of ratifying its existence.

Meanwhile, after accomplishing this auto-da-fé, I go to sleep. In the middle of the night I am awakened by a sound of whining and chattering of teeth which comes from the next room. I kindle a light and go in. My friend the doctor has thrown himself half out of bed, and writhes in terrible convulsions, with his mouth wide open. In a word, he shows all the signs of hysteria described in Charcot's treatise, which calls the stage he is in now "possession." And he a man of conspicuous intelligence and good heart, not morally worse than others, of full growth, with regular and pleasant features, now disfigured to such a degree that he looks like the picture of a mediæval devil.

In alarm, I wake him up, "Have you been dreaming, old fellow?"

"No, it was an attack of nightmare."

"Incubus!"

"Yes, indeed! It squeezed my lungs together, something like angina pectoris."

I gave him a glass of milk; he lights a cigar, and I return to my room. But now all my chance of sleep is gone. What I had seen was too terrible, and till the morning my companions continue their conflict with the invisible.

We meet at breakfast, and make a joke of the adventures of the night. But our host does not laugh, a circumstance which I ascribe to his religious way of thinking, which makes him hold the hidden Powers in awe. The delicate position in which I find myself between the seniors whom I admire, and the juniors whom I have no right to blame, makes me hasten my departure. As we rise from table the master of the house asks the doctor for a special consultation, and they retire for half an hour.

"What is the matter with the old man?" I ask, when the doctor returns.

"He cannot sleep,—has heart attacks at night."

"He also! That good and pious man! Then it is an epidemic which spares no one."

I will not deny that this circumstance restored my courage, and the old spirit of rebellion and scepticism took possession of my soul. To challenge the demons, to defy the invisible, and finally to subdue it,—that, was the task I proposed to myself as I left this hospitable family in order to proceed upon my projected excursion in Schonen.

Reaching the town Höganäs the same evening, I take my evening meal in the large dining-hall of the hotel, and have a journalist for my companion. As soon as we have sat down to table, the usual noise is heard overhead. In order to guard against any possibility of illusion on my part, I let the journalist describe the phenomenon, and find him convinced of its reality. As we went out after finishing our meal, the unknown woman who had accosted me before my departure from Lund, stood motionless before the door, and let me and my companion pass by. I forget the demons and the invisible, and begin again to suspect that I am persecuted by visible foes. Terrible doubts gnaw at my brain, fever my blood, and make me feel disgusted with life.

But the night has a surprise in store for me which alarms me more than all the last days together. Tired with my journey, I go to bed at eleven o'clock. All is silent in the hotel, and no noise audible. My courage rises, and I fall into a deep sleep, but to be awoken in half an hour by a tremendous noise overhead. There seems to be at least a score of young people who sing, stamp on the ground, and push chairs about. The disturbance lasts till morning. Why don't I complain to the manager? Because never once in my life have I succeeded in obtaining justice. Being born and predestinated to suffer injustice, I have ceased to complain.

In the morning I continue my journey in order to visit the coal mines near Höganäs. At the very moment that I enter the inn, to order a carriage, the usual witches' Sabbath commences overhead. Under some pretext or other, I don't remember what, I ascend the stairs, only to find a large empty room above. Since the mines cannot