ook at the pure innocent virgin believing
herself damned for the pleasure infused in her by the spirit! And the
wife in her marriage-bed tortured by his attacks, withstanding him,
and yet again feeling him within her!--a fearful feeling known to
those who have suffered from taenia. You feel in yourself a double
life; you trace the monster's movements, now boisterous, anon soft and
waving, and therein the more troublesome, as making you fancy yourself
on the sea. Then you rush off in wild dismay, terrified at yourself,
longing to escape, to die.

Even at such times as the demon was not raging against her, the woman
into whom he had once forced his way would wander about as one
burdened with gloom. For thenceforth she had no remedy. He had taken
fast hold of her, like an impure steam. He is the Prince of the Air,
of storms, and not least of the storms within. All this may be seen
rudely but forcefully presented under the great doorway of Strasburg
Cathedral. Heading the band of _Foolish Virgins_, the wicked woman who
lures them on to destruction is filled, blown out by the Devil, who
overflows ignobly and passes out from under her skirts in a dark
stream of thick smoke.

This blowing-out is a painful feature in the _possession_; at once her
punishment and her pride. This proud woman of Strasburg bears her
belly well before her, while her head is thrown far back. She triumphs
in her size, delights in being a monster.

To this, however, the woman we are following has not yet come. But
already she is puffed up with him, and with her new and lofty lot.
The earth has ceased to bear her. Plump and comely in these better
days, she goes down the street with head upright, and merciless in her
scorn. She is feared, hated, admired.

In look and bearing our village lady says, "I ought to be the great
lady herself. And what does she up yonder, the shameless sluggard,
amidst all those men, in the absence of her lord?" And now the rivalry
is set on foot. The village, while it loathes her, is proud thereat.
"If the lady of the castle is a baroness, our woman is a queen; and
more than a queen,--we dare not say what." Her beauty is a dreadful, a
fantastic beauty, killing in its pride and pain. The Demon himself is
in her eyes.

* * * * *

He has her and yet has her not. She is still _herself_, and preserves
_herself_. She belongs neither to the Demon nor to God. The Demon may
certainly invade her, may