They drudged on in silence until they came to the black wood.
The worm had drawn in its ringed head, and backed out of sight. The earwig dropped the light and turned away.
"They cannot get in—the wood is too new," said he, retreating.
"I shall!" said Pluizer, and with his crooked fingers he tore long white cracking splinters out of the wood.
A fearful pressure lay on poor Johannes. Yet he had to do it—he could not resist.
At last, the dark space was open. Pluizer snatched the light and scrambled inside.
"Here, here!" he called, and ran toward the other end.
But when Johannes had come as far as the hands, that lay folded upon the breast, he was forced to stop. He stared at the thin, white fingers, dimly lighted on the upper side. He recognized them at once. He knew the form of the fingers and the creases in them, as well as the shape of the long nails now dark and discolored. He recognized a brown spot on the forefinger.
They were his own hands.
"Here, here!" called Pluizer from the head. "Look! do you know him?"