“Change!” repeated my friend; but still the figure before him changed not at all. “Then you lied when you said I could change you!” “I said that I change slowly.” “What do you mean?” “I only change as you change.” “And I have not changed, then?” “It is my business to keep you from changing.” In company with his devil my friend now went through scenes which I refrain from describing, Goethe in the Walpurgis Night having done it so well before me. Reckless, desperate, he followed his leader until he was weary and exhausted. Days, weeks passed away, like a nightmare. “Can I never get rid of you?” he asked his companion. “Yes, you can get rid of me.” “How?” “By getting rid of yourself.” “That’s easier said than done.” “Yes, that’s easier said than done.” Often they found themselves on the battlefield in the fighting line, or at the mess of the soldiers. The smell of the coffee and of cooking meats brought temporary satisfaction to my friend. He tried to drink from brandy flasks tilted to the mouths of men who could not see him or protest; he steeped himself in hungers and despairs. His companions were always changing themselves into the forms of the man he hated and the woman he loved. He witnessed their coarse love-making. Sometimes the simulacrum of the woman turned to him with a friendly word. He cursed her, but clung to her hand. But always she vanished when his mouth yearned to hers. Sometimes in a great battle the rage of war awoke in him. He hurled himself at the men of the opposing army, as if he would take revenge upon them for all he was suffering. He struggled to tear the rifles from their hands, and when one of them passed out of the body he tried to awake him from the darkness and the sleep into which he was sinking; but never could he succeed in doing this. Never could he succeed in doing anything. His very existence was failure and futility and discouragement. One day I came to him and touched him on the forehead. “You are not like these others,” he said, dully. “Where do you come from?” “I came from a distance,” I said. “Would you like to go with me?” “Anywhere away from here,” he assented. “Do you want to be alone?” “No. It is worst when I am alone.” “The worst is over,” I said. “What do you mean?” “I mean that you have exhausted for the time the springs of your lower desires. You are weary and disgusted with the life you have led since you escaped from your body.” “That is a strange expression--escaped! It is only now that I long to escape.” “And it is I who will help you to escape from another layer of your prison, another skin of the onion that shuts you in.” “And why do you do this?” “To spare you unnecessary fumbling to break the skin,” I said. “Would you like to go to sleep?” “I should like to rest a little.” While he slept I helped to loosen him further, and when he awoke into another and a freer world I was still with him. “What would you like to see?” I asked.