drunk the joy of
being mean and cruel. Are you not tired of the taste, Nicholas Snyders?
Wouldn't you like a change? Think of it, Nicholas Snyders--the joy of
being loved, of hearing yourself blessed, instead of cursed! Wouldn't
it be good fun, Nicholas Snyders--just by way of a change? If you don't
like it, you can return and be yourself again."

What Nicholas Snyders, recalling all things afterwards, could never
understand was why he sat there, listening in patience to the stranger's
talk; for, at the time, it seemed to him the jesting of a wandering
fool. But something about the stranger had impressed him.

"I have it with me," continued the odd pedlar; "and as for price--" The
stranger made a gesture indicating dismissal of all sordid details.
"I look for my reward in watching the result of the experiment. I am
something of a philosopher. I take an interest in these matters. See."
The stranger dived between his legs and produced from his pack a silver
flask of cunning workmanship and laid it on the table.

"Its flavour is not unpleasant," explained the stranger. "A little
bitter; but one does not drink it by the goblet: a wineglassful, such
as one would of old Tokay, while the mind of both is fixed on the
same thought: 'May my soul pass into him, may his pass into me!'
The operation is quite simple: the secret lies within the drug." The
stranger patted the quaint flask as though it had been some little dog.

"You will say: 'Who will exchange souls with Nicholas Snyders?'" The
stranger appeared to have come prepared with an answer to all questions.
"My friend, you are rich; you need not fear. It is the possession
men value the least of all they have. Choose your soul and drive your
bargain. I leave that to you with one word of counsel only: you will
find the young readier than the old--the young, to whom the world
promises all things for gold. Choose you a fine, fair, fresh, young
soul, Nicholas Snyders; and choose it quickly. Your hair is somewhat
grey, my friend. Taste, before you die, the joy of living."

The strange pedlar laughed and, rising, closed his pack. Nicholas
Snyders neither moved nor spoke, until with the soft clanging of the
massive door his senses returned to him. Then, seizing the flask the
stranger had left behind him, he sprang from his chair, meaning to fling
it after him into the street. But the flashing of the firelight on its
burnished surface stayed his hand.

"After all, the case is of