Then becoming aware of the small figure which had stolen up the path as he slept and now stood before him in the uncertain light, he fell to rubbing his eyes with the knuckles of his plump hands.

The pale night mist out of the silent depths of the forest had assumed shapes as strange.
"Who are you ?" he demanded, and his voice rumbled thickly forth from his capacious chest.

The very sound was sleek and unctuous.
"I'm Hannibal," said the small figure.

He was meditating flight; he glanced over his shoulder toward the woods.
"No, you ain't.

He's been dead a thousand years, more or less.