As I did so, I struck my face against something icy cold.
In the darkness I could see nothing; but I felt the thing swing away from my touch; and before I could step back, or put out my hand, it returned and struck me once more, harder than before.

I clutched at it wildly; then, with a gasp of horror, flung it from me, and rushed, shouting to my men, into the open air.
For what had touched my face was the hand of a dead man! It seemed an age before, amongst us all, we could strike light enough to kindle a torch.

Then, shuddering in every limb, I returned to the house.
There, just within the open door, from a beam in the hall roof, hung a corpse, still swinging slowly to and fro.

And when I held up the torch to look at his face, there leered down upon me the eyes of my old fellow 'prentice Peter Stoupe! At the sight the torch fell from my hands, and I reeled back into my comrade's arms, stark and cold, well-nigh as the corpse itself.

Then there came upon me, with a rush, an inkling of what all this meant.