“That is Rapport,” Vaughn whispered to me.
The worshipers crowded forward.
Without a word, he raised his long, lean forefinger and began to single them out impressively. As he did so, each spoke, as if imploring aid.
He came to Mrs. Langhorne.
“I have tried the charm,” she cried earnestly, “and the one whom I love still hates me, while the one I hate loves me!”
“Concentrate!” replied the priest, “concentrate! Think always ‘I love him. He must love me. I want him to love me. I love him. He must love me.’ Over and over again you must think it. Then the other side, ‘I hate him. He must leave me. I want him to leave me. I hate him—hate him.’”
Around the circle he went.
At last his lean finger was outstretched at Veda. It seemed as if some imp of the perverse were compelling her unwilling tongue to unlock its secrets.
“Sometimes,” she cried in a low, tremulous voice, “something seems to seize me, as if by the hand and urge me onward. I cannot flee from it.”
“Defend yourself!” answered the priest subtly. “When you know that some one is trying to kill you mentally, defend yourself! Work against it by every means in your power. Discourage! Intimidate! Destroy!”