“Am I so hideous?” “No, but—you are——” “What am I?” “Hush, Henry, hush,” cried Marchdale. “Remember you are in this gentleman’s house.” “True, true. Why does he tempt me to say these dreadful things? I do not want to say them.” “Come away, then—come away at once. Sir Francis Varney, my friend, Mr. Bannerworth, will think over your offer, and let you know. I think you may consider that your wish to become the purchaser of the Hall will be complied with.” “I wish to have it,” said Varney, “and I can only say, that if I am master of it, I shall be very happy to see any of the family on a visit at any time.” “A visit!” said Henry, with a shudder. “A visit to the tomb were far more desirable. Farewell, sir.” “Adieu,” said Sir Francis Varney, and he made one of the most elegant bows in the world, while there came over his face a peculiarity of expression that was strange, if not painful, to contemplate. In another minute Henry and Marchdale were clear of the house, and with feelings of bewilderment and horror, which beggar all description, poor Henry allowed himself to be led by the arm by Marchdale to some distance, without uttering a word. When he did speak, he said,— “Marchdale, it would be charity of some one to kill me.” “To kill you!” “Yes, for I am certain otherwise that I must go mad.” “Nay, nay; rouse yourself.” “This man, Varney, is a vampyre.” “Hush! hush!” “I tell you, Marchdale,” cried Henry, in a wild, excited manner, “he is a vampyre. He is the dreadful being who visited Flora at the still hour of midnight, and drained the life-blood from her veins. He is a vampyre. There are such things. I cannot doubt now. Oh, God, I wish now that your lightnings would blast me, as here I stand, for ever into annihilation, for I am going mad to be compelled to feel that such horrors can really have existence.” “Henry—Henry.” “Nay, talk not to me. What can I do? Shall I kill him? Is it not a sacred duty to destroy such a thing? Oh, horror—horror. He must be killed—destroyed—burnt, and the very dust to which he is consumed must be scattered to the winds of Heaven. It would be a deed well done, Marchdale.” “Hush! hush! These words are dangerous.” “I care not.” “What if they were overheard now by unfriendly ears? What might not be the uncomfortable results? I pray you be more cautious what you say of this strange man.” “I must destroy him.” “And wherefore?” “Can you ask? Is he not a vampyre?” “Yes; but reflect, Henry, for a moment upon the length to which you might carry out so dangerous an argument. It is said that vampyres are made by vampyres sucking the blood of those who, but for that circumstance, would have died and gone to decay in the tomb along with ordinary mortals; but that being so attacked during life by a vampyre, they themselves, after death, become such.” “Well—well, what is that to me?” “Have you forgotten Flora?”