He had sat for a long time thinking, on the
hearth, when his candle burned down, and its
light went out. It was of little moment; there
was light enough in the fire. He changed his
attitude, and, leaning his arm on the chair-back,
and his chin upon that hand, sat thinking still.

But he sat between the fire and the bed, and,
as the fire flickered in the play of air from the
fast-flowing river, his enlarged shadow fluttered
on the white wall by the bedside. His attitude
gave it an air, half of mourning, and half of
bending over the bed imploring. His eyes were
observant of it, when he became troubled by
the disagreeable fancy that it was like Wilding's
shadow, and not his own.

A slight change of place would cause it to
disappear. He made the change, and the
apparition of his disturbed fancy vanished. He now
sat in the shade of a little nook beside the fire,
and the door of the room was before him.

It had a long cumbrous iron latch. He saw the
latch slowly and softly rise. The door opened
a very little, and came to again: as though only
the air had moved it. But he saw that the
latch was out of the hasp.

The door opened again very slowly, until it
opened wide enough to admit some one. It
afterwards remained still for a while, as though
cautiously held open on the other side. The
figure of a man then entered, with its face
turned towards the bed, and stood quiet just
within the door. Until it said, in a low half-
whisper, at the same time taking one step
forward: "Vendale!"

"What now?" he answered, springing from
his seat; "who is it?"

It was Obenreizer, and he uttered a cry of
surprise as Vendale came upon him from that
unexpected direction. "Not in bed?" he said,
catching him by both shoulders with an
instinctive tendency to a struggle, "Then
something is wrong!"

"What do you mean?" said Vendale, releasing
himself.

"First tell me; you are not ill?"

"Ill? No."

"I have had a bad dream about you. How
is it that I see you up and dressed?"

"My good fellow, I may as well ask you how
is it that I see you up and undressed."

"I have told you why. I have had a bad
dream about you. I tried to rest after it, but
it was impossible. I could not make up my
mind to stay where I was, without knowing you
were safe; and yet I could not make up my
mind to come in here. I have been minutes
hesitating at the door. It is so easy to laugh
at a dream that you have not dreamed. Where
is your candle?"

"Burnt out."

"I have a whole one in my room. Shall I
fetch it?"

"Do so."

His room was very near, and he was absent
for but a few seconds. Coming back with the
candle in his hand, he kneeled down on the
hearth and lighted it. As he blew with his
breath a charred billet into flame for the
purpose, Vendale, looking down at him, saw that
his lips were white and not easy of control.

"Yes!" said Obenreizer, setting the lighted
candle on the table, "it was a bad dream.
Only look at me!"

His feet were bare; his red-flannel shirt was
thrown back at the throat, and its sleeves were
rolled above the elbows; his only other
garment, a pair of under pantaloons or drawers,
reaching to the ankles, fitted him close and tight.
A certain lithe and savage appearance was on
his figure, and his eyes were very bright.

"If there had been a wrestle with a robber,
as I dreamed," said Obenreizer, "you see,
I was stripped for it."

"And armed, too," said Vendale, glancing at
his girdle.

"A traveller's dagger, that I always carry on
the road," he answered carelessly, half drawing
it from its sheath with his left hand, and putting
it back again. "Do you carry no such thing?"

"Nothing of the kind."

"No pistols?" said Obenreizer, glancing at
the table, and from it to the untouched pillow.

"Nothing of the sort."

"You Englishmen are so confident! You
wish to sleep?"

"I have wished to sleep this long time, but
I can't do it."

"I neither, after the bad dream. My fire
has gone the way of your candle. May I come
and sit by yours? Two o'clock! It will so
soon be four, that it is not worth the trouble to
go to bed again."

"I shall not take the trouble to go to bed
at all, now," said Vendale; "sit here and keep
me company, and welcome."

Going back to his room to arrange his dress,
Obenreizer soon returned in a loose cloak and
slippers, and they sat down on opposite sides of
the hearth. In the interval, Vendale had
replenished the fire from the wood-basket in his
room, and Obenreizer had put upon the table a
flask and cup from his.

"Common cabaret brandy, I am afraid," he
said, pouring out; "bought upon the road, and
not like yours from Cripple Corner. But yours is
exhausted; so much the worse. A cold night, a
cold time of night, a cold country, and a cold
house. This may be better than nothing; try it."

Vendale took the cup, and did so.

"How do you find it?"

"It has a coarse after-flavour," said Vendale,
giving back the cup with a slight shudder, "and
I don't like it."

"You are right," said Obenreizer, tasting,
and smacking his lips; "it has a coarse after-
flavour, and I don't like it. Booh! it burns,
though!" He had flung what remained in the
cup, upon the fire.

Each of them leaned an elbow on the table,
reclined his head upon his hand, and sat looking
at the flaring logs. Obenreizer remained watchful
and still; but Vendale, after certain nervous
twitches and starts, in one of which he rose to
his feet and looked wildly about him, fell into
the strangest confusion of dreams. He carried
his papers in a leather case or pocket-book, in