He almost fancied, when first on waking he thought over it, that a third must have been in the room--for his protection.

The face that stared at him was a brown and red and weather--beaten face, cut across with a great scar, and wearing an expression of horror trying not to look horrible.

His fear threatened to turn him into clay, but he met it with scorn, strove against it, would not and did not yield.

Still the figure stared, as if it would fascinate him into limpest submission.

Slowly at length it rose, and with a look that seemed meant to rivet the foregone stare--a look of mingled pain and fierceness, turned, and led the way from the room, whereupon the spell was so far broken or changed, that he was able to rise and follow him: even in his dreams he was a boy of courage, and feared nothing so much as yielding to fear.