'Those are not dreams.' 'What are,' replied the locksmith, 'if they are not ?' '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.
'Say no more, sir, say no more,' said Gabriel.