About midnight he took a peep around the cabin, hardly knowing whether or not he had been asleep.
The people lay at rest. Most of them appeared to be asleep—some making queer noises. The light was dim, and, in the semi-darkness, the lamps swung mysteriously to and fro, and the plants that stood upon the table were all of them quivering. One could hear, above the soft jingling and creaking everywhere, the quaking and dull throbbing of the engines. Outside, the water was hissing and rushing, and dashing along the sides of the vessel.
Beside the table sat a lone passenger—a tall, dark figure. He was motionless, his head resting upon his hand.
Johannes gave him a good look. He seemed to have on an amazingly big, spacious cloak, full of folds; on his head was a broad-brimmed hat. The one hand which Johannes could distinguish looked very thin and white.
How familiar the man looked, though! Johannes expected immediately to hear the sound of a well-known voice. He thought of Markus, then of his father....
Suddenly, the emaciated hand was removed, and the face turned slowly round toward Johannes. Only the white beard came into view. The rest remained in the shadow of the hat. Then Johannes recognized him.
"Friend Hein!" said he. And he was much more at his ease than the first time he had seen him—in fact, not at all afraid.
"How do you do?" said Death, nodding. How very kind he looked, and how much more human! Not a bundle of bones with a scythe! He looked instead more like a kind, old—very, very old, uncle.
"What are you doing here?" asked Johannes.
"Things!" replied Death, drily.