She went back to her own room, and tried to prepare herself for bed. But how could she hope to rest? Half undressed, she flew to the old man's bedside, took him by the wrist, and roused him from his sleep.
"What's this?" he cried, starting up in bed, and fixing his eyes upon her white face.
"I have had a dreadful dream," said the child. "I have had it once before. It is a dream of gray-haired men like you robbing sleepers of their gold. Up, up!"
The old man shook in every joint, and folded his hands like one who prays.
"Not to me," said the child, "do not pray to me—to our Father in heaven to save us from such deeds. This dream is too real. I cannot sleep, I cannot stay here, I cannot leave you alone under the roof where such dreams come. Up! We must fly."
He looked at her as if she were a spirit—she might have been one for all the look of earth she had—and shook more and more.
"There is no time to lose; I will not lose one minute," said the child. "Up, and away with me!"
"To-night?" cried the old man.
"Yes, to-night," replied the child. "To-morrow night will be too late. The dream will have come again. Nothing but flight can save us. Up!"
The old man rose from his bed, his brow bedewed with the cold sweat of fear, and, bending before the child as if she had been an angel sent to lead him where she would, made ready to follow her.