Guy went on down the hill till into the misty air gleamed the paraffin lamps of the Dragon public, and into his misty thoughts came the need of sharp and prompt action. He stepped inside the door, and called out, "Is Jem Outhwaite here? I want him." Two or three men were standing about, in the bar. They looked at Guy, and fell back before him with surprising readiness. "Here a be, sir," said one, pushing Jem's reluctant figure forward, as he tried to slink behind them. "Come Jem," said Guy; "your mother's bad, and I'm going to take you back to her across the bridge. Come along with me." He laid his hand on Jem's arm, and with a short "Good evening," pulled him out of the cheerful circle, into the foggy dusk. Jem, who followed him usually like a dog, now hung back, and dragged against his hold, trembling and reluctant; not drunk, he thought, but manifestly dazed with fear. He was tall and big, and perhaps it was the dead weight of his resistance that made Guy feel as if the very mist oppressed him, and forced him back. Against himself, against his poor companion, against uncomprehended forces he struggled on. "Sithee, there a be. We canna get by. He'll get me!" gasped Jem, as he struggled. "Jem," said Guy, "I have got past him, though I was just as much afraid as you. And I am not going to let him stop you. He can't do it, Jem. Say your prayers your mother taught you, and come on. He can't stop you." "Eh, but he can--but he can! He's a coomin'; he's a gripped me!" gasped Jem, flinging his arms round Guy, and dragging him back, then shrinking behind him. "No, he hasn't, Jem," said Guy, in clear, firm tones. "I'm going first over the bridge; so if he gets either of us, he'll have me. You come after, like a man, and God have mercy on us both!" Guy pushed forward. Surely the poor fellow would follow now! But again Jem held him back. "Naw, sir," said the poor half-wit, in his cracking treble, "I'll gang ower first, and yo' coom arter," and with a quick, unsteady run, he shambled on to the bridge. PART THREE, CHAPTER TEN. TWO, OR THREE? Godfrey had come to Waynflete Vicarage for a couple of nights, to make his final arrangements as to the timber. He was walking along the lane at the top of Flete Wood, in the dusk of this misty evening, when he heard an angry bark, and then a howl as of a dog in distress. "That's surely Rawdie," he thought. "What can bring Guy down there?" He hurried on to a point in the lane, where the fall of the ground made the river and the bridge visible, and looked down through the gathering dusk.