'I dreamed,' said Barnaby, passing his arm through Varden's, and peering
close into his face as he answered in a whisper, 'I dreamed just now
that something--it was in the shape of a man--followed me--came softly
after me--wouldn't let me be--but was always hiding and crouching, like
a cat in dark corners, waiting till I should pass; when it crept out and
came softly after me.--Did you ever see me run?'

'Many a time, you know.'

'You never saw me run as I did in this dream. Still it came creeping on
to worry me. Nearer, nearer, nearer--I ran faster--leaped--sprung out
of bed, and to the window--and there, in the street below--but he is
waiting for us. Are you coming?'

'What in the street below, Barnaby?' said Varden, imagining that
he traced some connection between this vision and what had actually
occurred.

Barnaby looked into his face, muttered incoherently, waved the light
above his head again, laughed, and drawing the locksmith's arm more
tightly through his own, led him up the stairs in silence.

They entered a homely bedchamber, garnished in a scanty way with chairs,
whose spindle-shanks bespoke their age, and other furniture of very
little worth; but clean and neatly kept. Reclining in an easy-chair
before the fire, pale and weak from waste of blood, was Edward Chester,
the young gentleman who had been the first to quit the Maypole on the
previous night, and who, extending his hand to the locksmith, welcomed
him as his preserver and friend.