his sleep," said Varney, "and confounding his old and
new devotions. He must have more need of prayer ere I am done with
him.--What ho! holy man, most blessed penitent!--awake--awake! The devil
has not discharged you from service yet."

As Varney at the same time shook the sleeper by the arm, it changed the
current of his ideas, and he roared out, "Thieves!--thieves! I will die
in defence of my gold--my hard-won gold--that has cost me so dear. Where
is Janet?--Is Janet safe?"

"Safe enough, thou bellowing fool!" said Varney; "art thou not ashamed
of thy clamour?"

Foster by this time was broad awake, and sitting up in his bed, asked
Varney the meaning of so untimely a visit. "It augurs nothing good," he
added.

"A false prophecy, most sainted Anthony," returned Varney; "it augurs
that the hour is come for converting thy leasehold into copyhold. What
sayest thou to that?"

"Hadst thou told me this in broad day," said Foster, "I had rejoiced;
but at this dead hour, and by this dim light, and looking on thy pale
face, which is a ghastly contradiction to thy light words, I cannot
but rather think of the work that is to be done, than the guerdon to be
gained by it."

"Why, thou fool, it is but to escort thy charge back to Cumnor Place."

"Is that indeed all?" said Foster; "thou lookest deadly pale, and thou
art not moved by trifles--is that indeed all?"

"Ay, that--and maybe a trifle more," said Varney.

"Ah, that trifle more!" said Foster; "still thou lookest paler and
paler."

"Heed not my countenance," said Varney; "you see it by this wretched
light. Up and be doing, man. Think of Cumnor Place--thine own proper
copyhold. Why, thou mayest found a weekly lectureship, besides endowing
Janet like a baron's daughter. Seventy pounds and odd."

"Seventy-nine pounds, five shillings and fivepence half-penny, besides
the value of the wood," said Foster; "and I am to have it all as
copyhold?"

"All, man--squirrels and all. No gipsy shall cut the value of a
broom--no boy so much as take a bird's nest--without paying thee a
quittance.--Ay, that is right--don thy matters as fast as possible;
horses and everything are ready, all save that accursed villain
Lambourne, who is out on some infernal gambol."

"Ay, Sir Richard," said Foster, "you would take no advice. I ever told
you that drunken profligate would fail you at need. Now I could have
helped you to a sober young man."

"What, some slow-spoken, long-breathed bro