The figure opened his eyes, with a wild stare, as if he had not opened them for a hundred years before, and rose up with an uncertain motion, returning Mervyn's gaze, as if he did not know where he was.
'Who are you?' repeated Mervyn.
The phantom seemed to recover himself slowly, and only said: 'Mr. Mervyn?'
'Who are you, Sir?' cried Mervyn, again.
'Irons? what are you, and what business have you here, Sir?' demanded Mervyn.
'The Clerk of Chapelizod,' he continued, quietly and remarkably sternly, but a little thickly, like a man who had been drinking.
Mervyn now grew angry.
'The Clerk of Chapelizod—here—sleeping in my parlour! What the devil, Sir, do you mean?'
'Sleep—Sir—sleep! There's them that sleeps with their eyes open. Sir—you know who they may be; there's some sleeps sound enough, like me and you; and some that's sleep-walkers,' answered Irons; and his enigmatical talk somehow subdued Mervyn, for he said more quietly—