Even this hypothesis was not a very pleasant one; yet it was plain that if Barton could ever 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 baleful influence which it had hitherto done. He therefore reasoned, that if the annoyance were actually escaped by mere locomotion and change of scene, it obviously could not have originated in any supernatural agency. CHAPTER VII. FLIGHT. 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 depths of 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; and 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 dear 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!_—the wretch—who—where now?—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 despair.