There was an inner casing of some crystal-like material, also moulded to mummy-case shape, and through this we could see distinctly--even too distinctly--the head of the dead man. The body had evidently been embalmed with skill, for the face was preserved as if life had only just gone out of it. That rather added to the ghastliness. I have said I do not wonder that Poyning screamed. I could have screamed aloud myself, for on those dead features was imprinted the most intense despairing horror I have ever seen: it was the countenance of a damned soul being dragged down into hell. At the moment of death, I imagine, those eyes had been wide and staring, for it had been necessary to sew the lids together to close them. But most frightful of all, to both of us, was the identity of that face. In spite of all its horrible distortion, it was quite unmistakably the face of an older Stephen Poyning. He stared transfixed at the apparition for a moment, stooped and kissed the crystal casing above the forehead, and rushed out of the tomb. I replaced the broken plaster, cleared away as best I could the evidences of our invasion, and followed him, going back to lock the door when I had got the key from Poyning. Not a word did he utter as we hurried sliding and stumbling down the hill. When I told him to wash the mud from his sandals in the rushing stream he did so mechanically, in silence, and strode on, his face set in a granite mask that concealed anguish and horror alike. I judged well to approach our house with extreme caution. The breaking of the plaster envelope to the sarcophagus might remain undiscovered for years, but it also might come to light to-morrow, in which case our having been abroad would naturally draw the first suspicion upon ourselves. Poyning, however, seemed to have thrown prudence behind him. He stalked up the steps as if the hour had been noon, flung open the doors and entered. None of the attendants appeared to be about, or even awake, and I had certainly seen nobody outside the house. It looked as if we had been lucky enough to elude observation from start to finish of the gruesome adventure. Poyning was in the very act of striking his flint when I snatched it out of his hand. 'It's late, you know, old man,' I said. 'Better go to bed in the dark to-night.' Even as I said this I had a most strange and uncanny sense that we were being looked at. I peered all round the dark central hall of the house, but could see nothing; at last, however, against the slender white pillars that marked the entrance to our inner chambers and were faintly discernible even in the gloom, my eyes came to rest on something a shade whiter. There was at the same moment a sharp sound like the hiss of a snake. Then I'm afraid my nerves, already strung taut by what we had seen that night, got the better of me. 'Who's there?' I cried, in a voice I wouldn't have known for my own.