There was a strange light, almost a smile he would have deemed it had he thought that possible, in her face, "Nay, perhaps; perhaps.

For even the devils, we are told, believe and tremble." His jaw fell; for a moment he gazed at her in sheer bewilderment.

Then, as the full import of her words and her look overwhelmed him, he turned to the wall and bowed his face on his arms.

His whole being shook, his soul was sick.

What was he to say to her?
What was he to do?
Flee from her presence as from the presence of Antichrist?
Avoid her henceforth as he valued his soul?
Pluck even the memory of her from his mind?
Or wrestle with her, argue with her, snatch her from the foul spells and enchantments that now held her, the tool and chosen instrument of the evil one, in their fiendish grip?
He felt a Churchman's horror--Protestant as he was--at the thought of a woman possessed.