"Vhere—vhere?" demanded the Sandman, in some trepidation.
"Look up, and you'll see him," replied the other.
Slightly altering his position, the Sandman caught sight of a figure standing upon the planks above them. It was that of a young man. His hat was off, and his features, exposed to the full radiance of the moon, looked deathly pale, and though handsome, had a strange sinister expression. He was tall, slight, and well-proportioned; and the general cut of his attire, the tightly-buttoned, single-breasted coat, together with the moustache upon his lip, gave him a military air.
"He seems a-valkin' in his sleep," muttered the Sandman. "He's a-speakin' to some von unwisible."
"Hush—hush!" whispered the other. "Let's hear wot he's a-sayin'."
"Why have you brought me here?" cried the young man, in a voice so hollow that it thrilled his auditors. "What is to be done?"
"It makes my blood run cold to hear him," whispered the Sandman. "Vot d'ye think he sees?"
"Why do you not speak to me?" cried the young man—"why do you beckon me forward? Well, I obey. I will follow you."
And he moved slowly across the plank.
"See, he's a-goin' through that door," cried the Tinker. "Let's foller him."