Henry sprung to his feet. His whole frame quivered with emotion; the drops of perspiration stood upon his brow, as, in a strange, hoarse voice, he repeated the words,— “A vampyre!” “Even so; one who has to renew a dreadful existence by human blood—one who lives on for ever, and must keep up such a fearful existence upon human gore—one who eats not and drinks not as other men—a vampyre.” Henry dropped into his seat, and uttered a deep groan of the most exquisite anguish. “I could echo that groan,” said Marchdale, “but that I am so thoroughly bewildered I know not what to think.” “Good God—good God!” “Do not too readily yield belief in so dreadful a supposition, I pray you.” “Yield belief!” exclaimed Henry, as he rose, and lifted up one of his hands above his head. “No; by Heaven, and the great God of all, who there rules, I will not easily believe aught so awful and so monstrous.” “I applaud your sentiment, Henry; not willingly would I deliver up myself to so frightful a belief—it is too horrible. I merely have told you of that which you saw was on my mind. You have surely before heard of such things.” “I have—I have.” “I much marvel, then, that the supposition did not occur to you, Henry.” “It did not—it did not, Marchdale. It—it was too dreadful, I suppose, to find a home in my heart. Oh! Flora, Flora, if this horrible idea should once occur to you, reason cannot, I am quite sure, uphold you against it.” “Let no one presume to insinuate it to her, Henry. I would not have it mentioned to her for worlds.” “Nor I—nor I. Good God! I shudder at the very thought—the mere possibility; but there is no possibility, there can be none. I will not believe it.” “Nor I.” “No; by Heaven’s justice, goodness, grace, and mercy, I will not believe it.” “’Tis well sworn, Henry; and now, discarding the supposition that Flora has been visited by a vampyre, let us seriously set about endeavouring, if we can, to account for what has happened in this house.” “I—I cannot now.” “Nay, let us examine the matter; if we can find any natural explanation, let us cling to it, Henry, as the sheet-anchor of our very souls.” “Do you think. You are fertile in expedients. Do you think, Marchdale; and, for Heaven’s sake, and for the sake of our own peace, find out some other way of accounting for what has happened, than the hideous one you have suggested.” “And yet my pistol bullets hurt him not; he has left the tokens of his presence on the neck of Flora.” “Peace, oh! peace. Do not, I pray you, accumulate reasons why I should receive such a dismal, awful superstition. Oh, do not, Marchdale, as you love me!” “You know that my attachment to you,” said Marchdale, “is sincere; and yet, Heaven help us!” His voice was broken by grief as he spoke, and he turned aside his head to hide the bursting tears that would, despite all his efforts, show themselves in his eyes.