“What do you want?” he demanded again.
“Want you, Timothy!”
“Must come with us, Timothy!”
“Where to?” he demanded.
At that all the little Imps pointed over their shoulders with their thumbs, to the open window.
Timothy reflected that, as he was in the second story of the house, any attempt to go out by the window, without wings, would be preposterous. He drew his hand across his eyes to make sure that he was not asleep; then he looked again, and there were all the little Imps bowing more politely than ever. He seized a pillow, and was about to throw it at them, when they flew at him, dragged the pillow out of his hands, overpowered him, and picking him up by the arms and legs, flew out of the window, carrying him off bodily.
How far he was carried Timothy Tuttle never knew, but it seemed to him a very long distance. When he found himself again at liberty, he was lying on the bare ground in the cold moonlight. He sprang up, and saw all the little Imps standing in a circle around him, bowing and nodding with great good-humour.
He looked about. He found himself on an open plain, surrounded by forests. Nothing was in sight except a very large Gothic building in the centre of the plain. It was old, but a larger and more magnificent building Timothy had never seen. Its pointed roof rose to the skies, and stained-glass windows adorned its gray stone walls. The turrets and towers were beautifully carved, and the walls were hung here and there with green ivy. But the building was falling into decay. Some of the windows were broken, and some of the stones crumbling to ruin. A few of the arches were fallen, and the roof threatened to cave in.
Timothy Tuttle turned from surveying this building, to look at his grinning companions.
“You’re wanted, Timothy!” cried one.