By Charles Dickens
“HALLOA！ Below there！”
When he heard a voice thus calling to him， he was standingat the door of his box， with a flag in his hand， furled round itsshort pole. One would have thought， considering the nature ofthe ground， that he could not have doubted from what quarterthe voice came； but instead of looking up to where I stoodon the top of the steep cutting nearly over his head， he turnedhimself about， and looked down the Line. There was somethingremarkable in his manner of doing so， though I could not havesaid for my life what. But I know it was remarkable enough toattract my notice， even though his figure was foreshortened andshadowed， down in the deep trench， and mine was high abovehim， so steeped in the glow of an angry sunset， that I had shadedmy eyes with my hand before I saw him at all.
“Halloa！ Below！”
From looking down the Line， he turned himself about again，and， raising his eyes， saw my figure high above him.
“Is there any path by which I can come down and speak toyou？”
He looked up at me without replying， and I looked downat him without pressing him too soon with a repetition of myidle question. Just then there came a vague vibration in theearth and air， quickly changing into a violent pulsation， andan oncoming rush that caused me to start back， as though ithad force to draw me down. When such vapour as rose to myheight from this rapid train had passed me， and was skimmingaway over the landscape， I looked down again， and saw himrefurling the flag he had shown while the train went by.
I repeated my inquiry. After a pause， during which heseemed to regard me with fixed attention， he motioned withhis rolled-up flag towards a point on my level， some two orthree hundred yards distant. I called down to him， “All right！”
and made for that point. There， by dint of looking closelyabout me， I found a rough zigzag descending path notched out，which I followed.
The cutting was extremely deep， and unusually precipitate.
It was made through a clammy stone， that became oozier andwetter as I went down. For these reasons， I found the way longenough to give me time to recall a singular air of reluctance orcompulsion with which he had pointed out the path.
When I came down low enough upon the zigzag descent tosee him again， I saw that he was standing between the railson the way by which the train had lately passed， in an attitudeas if he were waiting for me to appear. He had his left hand athis chin， and that left elbow rested on his right hand， crossedover his breast. His attitude was one of such expectation andwatchfulness that I stopped a moment， wondering at it.
I resumed my downward way， and stepping out upon thelevel of the railroad， and drawing nearer to him， saw that hewas a dark， sallow man， with a dark beard and rather heavyeyebrows. His post was in as solitary and dismal a place asever I saw. On either side， a dripping-wet wall of jagged stone，excluding all view but a strip of sky； the perspective one wayonly a crooked prolongation of this great dungeon； the shorterperspective in the other direction terminating in a gloomy redlight， and the gloomier entrance to a black tunnel， in whosemassive architecture there was a barbarous， depressing， andforbidding air. So little sunlight ever found its way to this spot，that it had an earthy， deadly smell； and so much cold windrushed through it， that it struck chill to me， as if I had left thenatural world.
Before he stirred， I was near enough to him to have touchedhim. Not even then removing his eyes from mine， he steppedback one step， and lifted his hand.
This was a lonesome post to occupy （I said）， and it hadriveted my attention when I looked down from up yonder.
A visitor was a rarity， I should suppose； not an unwelcomerarity， I hoped？ In me， he merely saw a man who had beenshut up within narrow limits all his life， and who， being at lastset free， had a newly-awakened interest in these great works.
To such purpose I spoke to him； but I am far from sure of theterms I used； for， besides that I am not happy in opening anyconversation， there was something in the man that daunted me.
He directed a most curious look towards the red light nearthe tunnel’s mouth， and looked all about it， as if somethingwere missing from it， and then looked at me.
That light was part of his charge？ Was it not？
He answered in a low voice，—“Don’t you know it is？”
The monstrous thought came into my mind， as I perused thefixed eyes and the saturnine face， that this was a spirit， not aman. I have speculated since， whether there may have beeninfection in his mind.
In my turn， I stepped back. But in making the action， Idetected in his eyes some latent fear of me. This put themonstrous thought to flight.
“You look at me，” I said， forcing a smile， “as if you had adread of me.”
“I was doubtful，” he returned， “whether I had seen youbefore.”
“Where？”
He pointed to the red light he had looked at.
“There？” I said.
Intently watchful of me， he replied （but without sound），“Yes.”
“My good fellow， what should I do there？ However， be thatas it may， I never was there， you may swear.”
“I think I may，” he rejoined. “Yes； I am sure I may.”
