“Oh; Flora, my own, my beautiful,” he added, in those tones which come so direct from the heart, and which are so different from any assumption of tenderness.  “Speak to me, dear, dear Flora—­speak to me if it be but a word.”

“Charles,” was all she could say, and then she burst into a flood of tears, and leant so heavily upon his arm, that it was evident but for that support she must have fallen.

Charles Holland welcomed those, although, they grieved him so much that he could have accompanied them with his own, but then he knew that she would be soon now more composed, and that they would relieve the heart whose sorrows called them into existence.

He forbore to speak to her until he found this sudden gush of feeling was subsiding into sobs, and then in low, soft accents, he again endeavoured to breathe comfort to her afflicted and terrified spirit.

“My Flora,” he said, “remember that there are warm hearts that love you.  Remember that neither time nor circumstance can change such endearing affection as mine.  Ah, Flora, what evil is there in the whole world that love may not conquer, and in the height of its noble feelings laugh to scorn.”

“Oh, hush, hush, Charles, hush.”

“Wherefore, Flora, would you still the voice of pure affection?  I love you surely, as few have ever loved.  Ah, why would you forbid me to give such utterance as I may to those feelings which fill up my whole heart?”

“No—­no—­no.”

“Flora, Flora, wherefore do you say no?”

“Do not, Charles, now speak to me of affection or love.  Do not tell me you love me now.”

“Not tell you I love you!  Ah, Flora, if my tongue, with its poor eloquence to give utterance to such a sentiment, were to do its office, each feature of my face would tell the tale.  Each action would show to all the world how much I loved you.”

“I must not now hear this.  Great God of Heaven give me strength to carry out the purpose of my soul.”

“What purpose is it, Flora, that you have to pray thus fervently for strength to execute?  Oh, if it savour aught of treason against love’s majesty, forget it.  Love is a gift from Heaven.  The greatest and the most glorious gift it ever bestowed upon its creatures.  Heaven will not aid you in repudiating that which is the one grand redeeming feature that rescues human nature from a world of reproach.”

Flora wrung her hands despairingly as she said,—­

“Charles, I know I cannot reason with you.  I know I have not power of language, aptitude of illustration, nor depth of thought to hold a mental contention with you.”

“Flora, for what do I contend?”

“You, you speak of love.”

“And I have, ere this, spoken to you of love unchecked.”

“Yes, yes.  Before this.”

“And now, wherefore not now?  Do not tell me you are changed.”

“I am changed, Charles.  Fearfully changed.  The curse of God has fallen upon me, I know not why.  I know not that in word or in thought I have done evil, except perchance unwittingly, and yet—­the vampyre.”