The figure was just turning from the rails of the area upon
which it had been leaning, and without waiting to see more, the old
gentleman snatched his cane and hat, and rushed down the stairs and into
the street, in the furious hope of securing the person, and punishing
the audacity of the mysterious stranger. He looked around him, but in
vain, for any trace of the form he had himself distinctly beheld. He ran
breathlessly to the nearest corner, expecting to see from thence the
retreating figure, but no such form was visible. Back and forward, from
crossing to crossing, he ran at fault, and it was not until the curious
gaze and laughing countenances of the passers-by reminded him of the
absurdity of his pursuit, that he checked his hurried pace, lowered his
walking-cane from the menacing altitude which he had mechanically given
it, adjusted his hat, and walked composedly back again, inwardly vexed
and flurried. He found Barton pale and trembling in every joint; they
both remained silent, though under emotions very different. At last
Barton whispered, "You saw it?" "It!--him--someone--you mean--to be sure I did," replied Montague,
testily. "But where is the good or the harm of seeing him? The fellow
runs like a lamplighter. I wanted to _catch_ him, but he had stolen away
before I could reach the hall door. However, it is no great matter; next
time, I dare say, I'll do better; and, egad, if I once come within
reach of him, I'll introduce his shoulders to the weight of my cane, in
a way to make him cry _peccavi_." Notwithstanding General Montague's undertakings and exhortations,
however, Barton continued to suffer from the self-same unexplained
cause. Go how, when, or where he would, he was still constantly dogged
or confronted by the hateful being who had established over him so
dreadful and mysterious an influence; nowhere, and at no time, was he
secure against the odious appearance which haunted him with such
diabolical perseverance. His depression, misery, and excitement became
more settled and alarming every day, and the mental agonies that
ceaselessly preyed upon him began at last so sensibly to affect his
general health, that Lady Rochdale and General Montague succeeded
(without, indeed, much difficulty) in persuading him to try a short tour
on the Continent, in the hope that an entire change of scene would, at
all events, have the effect of breaking through the influences of local
association, which the more sceptical of his friends assumed to be by no
means inoperative in suggesting and perpetuating what they conceived to
be a mere form of nervous illusion. General Montague, moreover, was
persuaded that the figure which haunted his intended son-in-law was by
no means the creation of his own imagination, but, on the contrary,
a substantial form of flesh and blood, animated by a spiteful and
obstinate resolution, perhaps with some murderous object in perspective,
to watch and follow the unfortunate gentleman. Even this hypothesis was
not a very pleasant one; yet it was plain that if Barton could once be
convinced that there was nothing preternatural in the phenomenon, which
he had hitherto regarded in that light, the affair would lose all its
terrors in his eyes, and wholly cease to exercise upon his health and
spirits the baneful influence which it had hitherto done. He therefore
reasoned, that if the annoyance were actually escaped from by mere
change of scene, it obviously could not have originated in any
supernatural agency. Yielding to their persuasions, Barton left Dublin for England,
accompanied by General Montague. They posted rapidly to London, and
thence to Dover, whence they took the packet with a fair wind for
Calais. The General's confidence in the result of the expedition on
Barton's spirits had risen day by day since their departure from the
shores of Ireland; for, to the inexpressible relief and delight of
the latter, he had not, since then, so much as even once fancied a
repetition of those impressions which had, when at home, drawn him
gradually down to the very abyss of horror and despair. This exemption
from what he had begun to regard as the inevitable condition of his
existence, and the sense of security which began to pervade his mind,
were inexpressibly delightful; and in the exultation of what he
considered his deliverance, he indulged in a thousand happy
anticipations for a future into which so lately he had hardly dared
to look. In short, both he and his companion secretly congratulated
themselves upon the termination of that persecution which had been to
its immediate victim a source of such unspeakable agony. It was a beautiful day, and a crowd of idlers stood upon the jetty to
receive the packet, and enjoy the bustle of the new arrivals. Montague
walked a few paces in advance of his friend, and as he made his way
through the crowd, a little man touched his arm, and said to him, in a
broad provincial _patois_,--

"Monsieur is walking too fast; he will lose his sick comrade in the
throng, for, by my faith, the poor gentleman seems to be fainting." Montague turned quickly, and observed that Barton did indeed look deadly
pale. He hastened to his side. "My poor fellow, are you ill?" he asked anxiously. The question was unheeded, and twice repeated, ere Barton stammered,--

"I saw him--by ----, I saw him!" "_Him!_--who?--where?--when did you see him?--where is he?" cried
Montague, looking around him. "I saw him--but he is gone," repeated Barton, faintly. "But where--where? For God's sake, speak," urged Montague, vehemently. "It is but this moment--_here_," said he. "But what did he look like?--what had he on?--what did he wear?--quick,
quick," urged his excited companion, ready to dart among the crowd, and
collar the delinquent on the spot. "He touched your arm--he spoke to you--he pointed to me. God be merciful
to me, there is no escape!" said Barton, in the low, subdued tones of
intense despair. Montague had already bustled away in all the flurry of mingled hope and
indignation; but though the singular _personnel_ of the stranger who had
accosted him was vividly and perfectly impressed upon his recollection,
he failed to discover among the crowd even the slightest resemblance to
him. After a fruitless search, in which he enlisted the services of
several of the bystanders, who aided all the more zealously as they
believed he had been robbed, he at length, out of breath and baffled,
gave over the attempt. "Ah, my friend, it won't do," said Barton, with the faint voice and
bewildered, ghastly look of one who has been stunned by some mortal
shock; "there is no use in contending with it; whatever it is, the
dreadful association between me and it is now established; I shall never
escape--never, never!" "Nonsense, nonsense, my dear fellow; don't talk so," said Montague, with
something at once of irritation and dismay; "you must not; never mind, I
say--never mind, we'll jockey the scoundrel yet."