Flora kept her eyes fixed upon him during the utterance of these words; and as she convulsively clutched the arm of Charles, she kept on whispering,— “The vampyre! the vampyre!” “I much fear,” added the stranger, in the same bland tones, “that I have been the cause of some alarm to the young lady!” “Release me,” whispered Charles to Flora. “Release me; I will follow him at once.” “No, no—do not leave me—do not leave me. The vampyre—the dreadful vampyre!” “But, Flora——” “Hush—hush—hush! It speaks again.” “Perhaps I ought to account for my appearance in the garden at all,” added the insinuating stranger. “The fact is, I came on a visit——” Flora shuddered. “To Mr. Henry Bannerworth,” continued the stranger; “and finding the garden-gate open, I came in without troubling the servants, which I much regret, as I can perceive I have alarmed and annoyed the lady. Madam, pray accept of my apologies.” “In the name of God, who are you?” said Charles. “My name is Varney.” “Oh, yes. You are the Sir Francis Varney, residing close by, who bears so fearful a resemblance to——” “Pray go on, sir. I am all attention.” “To a portrait here.” “Indeed! Now I reflect a moment, Mr. Henry Bannerworth did incidentally mention something of the sort. It’s a most singular coincidence.” The sound of approaching footsteps was now plainly heard, and in a few moments Henry and George, along with Mr. Marchdale, reached the spot. Their appearance showed that they had made haste, and Henry at once exclaimed,— “We heard, or fancied we heard, a cry of alarm.” “You did hear it,” said Charles Holland. “Do you know this gentleman?” “It is Sir Francis Varney.” “Indeed!” Varney bowed to the new comers, and was altogether as much at his ease as everybody else seemed quite the contrary. Even Charles Holland found the difficulty of going up to such a well-bred, gentlemanly man, and saying, “Sir, we believe you to be a vampyre”—to be almost, if not insurmountable. “I cannot do it,” he thought, “but I will watch him.” “Take me away,” whispered Flora. “’Tis he—’tis he. Oh, take me away, Charles.” “Hush, Flora, hush. You are in some error; the accidental resemblance should not make us be rude to this gentleman.” “The vampyre!—it is the vampyre!” “Are you sure, Flora?” “Do I know your features—my own—my brother’s? Do not ask me to doubt—I cannot. I am quite sure. Take me from his hideous presence, Charles.” “The young lady, I fear, is very much indisposed,” remarked Sir Francis Varney, in a sympathetic tone of voice. “If she will accept of my arm, I shall esteem it a great honour.” “No—no—no!—God! no,” cried Flora. “Madam, I will not press you.” He bowed, and Charles led Flora from the summer-house towards the hall. “Flora,” he said, “I am bewildered—I know not what to think. That man most certainly has been fashioned after the portrait which is on the panel in the room you formerly occupied; or it has been painted from him.”