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By that time the girl’s medical record had been brought to Char-cot from the office; on opening, it proved to contain only a single sheet of paper. Turning to me, Charcot read rapidly from it. “She has been telling the same story all along: that she is the child of an IrishRussian revolutionary couple, brought to Paris by her parents when they came, with others of like mind, to join the Commune in ’71. But that is absurd on the face of it, for the girl cannot be more than twenty years old at the very most.”

Another brief notation in the record stated that Lucy on first being admitted to the hospital had been housed in a regular ward. There she had displayed an almost incredible skill at slipping away during the night, but was always to be found in her bed again at dawn, the means of her return as mysterious as that of her disappearance. Irked by this disregard of regulations, the doctor in immediate charge of her case had transferred her to a private cell, in the section set aside for patients who are violent or otherwise present unusual difficulties. Even there she had at least twice somehow managed to leave the locked cell at night, so that a search of the hospital wards and grounds was ordered.

“Without result, I may add,”Char cot informed me. “But each time, in the morning, she was found in her cell again, wanting to do nothing but sleep through the day. I found it necessary to dismiss two employees for carelessness.”

“She seems a real challenge,”was the only comment I could make.

By then it was obvious that the doctor was growing more and more intrigued. But his voice maintained the same calm, professional tone as he turned back to the girl and asked, “What did you do in the land beyond the forest?”

The trouble in Lucy’s countenance cleared briefly. “I slept and woke . . . feasted and fasted. . . . danced and loved . . . in a great house . . .”

“What sort of a great house?”

“It was a castle . . .”

The doctor raised an eyebrow, expressing in a French way considerable doubt. “A castle, you say.”

“Yes.”Sh e nodded solemnly. “But later he was cruel to me there . . . so I ran away again.”

“Who was it that was cruel to you? What was his name?”

At this the girl became quite agitated, displaying a mixture of emotions . . .

“He who brought me there . . . the prince of that land,” she finally got out. Then one more sentence burst forth, after which she seemed relieved.“He made me the dearg-due.”

“I did not understand that word,”Char cot complained briskly. But the girl could not be induced to repeat it, and could not or would not explain.

All this time I said nothing; but I had understood the Gaelic all too well.My hand strayed unconsciously to touch the small marks on my throat.

The questioning went on.Why had Lucy come back to Paris? She had been “following the little Irishman, who is so sweet.”(Sh e said this without looking in my direction; and I was much relieved that neither Charcot nor the attendants standing by imagined “the little Irishman”c ould possibly mean me.)

She went on, in a voice increasingly tight with strain, “I am afraid to return to the dark land. And I yearn to go back to blessed Ireland, but I dare not, or he will find me, and take me back to his domain, the land beyond the forest . . .”

Thinking quickly and decisively, as is his wont, Charcot abruptly announced that he had decided to try hypnotism. In a few minutes we had adjourned to a small room that is kept reserved for such experiments. There he soon began to employ his preferred method of inducing trance, which is visual fixation on a small flame—a candle against a background of dark velvet.

Lucy was seated in a chair, directly facing the candle. Charcot stationed himself just behind her, murmuring in a low, soothing voice, whilst I stood somewhat farther back.What happened next I cannot explain. It seemed that even as the girl began to sink into a trance I could feel the same darkness reaching for me, as if my mind and Lucy