How unmeaningful this scene was, it did nevertheless leave me with me an unsettling impression. In the evening we stay in a village, to pass the night there. I have just entered my room, on the first floor, and washed up a little, when the usual sounds reach my ears; someone moves furniture around and I hear dance-steps. This time I don't leave it with a suspicion, but run in the company of my comrades up the servants' stairs, to get certainty. But upstairs nothing suspicious can be found, because above my room, under the roofpanes, there's nobody living. After a bad night with little sleep, we continue our journey and a couple of hours later we are in the parental home of the Poet, who almost appears as a prodigal son before religious parents, good and honest man. The day is spent with walks in a beautiful country-side and innocent conversations. The evening descends and brings an indescribable peace in a very homely environment, in which the doctor and I seem completely lost to ourselves, he even more than I, because he's an atheist. Late in the evening we retire to the room that was assigned to the Doctor and me. When I'm searching for something to read, I lay hands upon "Magic of the Middle Ages" by Viktor Rydberg. Again this writer, whom I avoided, as long as he 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."