The voice that came to me from the figure beyond the fire sounded, I remember, quite young, like the voice of a boy. It was clear and level, and perhaps a little formal. So that was all. A tourist—that was all!
“Can you direct me on the way?” the voice said.
I gave the required direction slowly, for I was still confused, nervous, exhausted with my insane practices in the den. But the youth—as I supposed he was—did not move away at once.
“What are you doing by this fire?” he said. “I heard your voice calling by the torrent among the trees when I was a very long way off.”
Strangely, I did not resent the question. Still more strangely, I was impelled to give him the true answer to it.
“Raising the Devil!” he said. “And did he come to you?”
“No; of course not. You must think me mad.”
“And why do you call him?”
Suddenly a desire to confide in this stranger, whose face I could not see now, whose shadowy form I should, in all probability, never see again, came upon me. My usual nervousness deserted me. I let loose my heart in a turbulent crowd of words. I explained my impotence of body and of mind to this grey traveller in the twilight. I dwelt upon my misery. I repeated the cry of the burn and related my insane dream of imitating Faust, of making my poor pact with Lucifer, with the Sphinx of mediæval terrors. When I ceased, the boy's voice answered:—