And he was terrified—­he dared not move—­he dared not speak!  The idea that she had died, and that this was her spirit, come to wreak some terrible vengeance upon him, for a time possessed him, and so paralysed with fear was he, that he could neither move nor speak.

It had been well if, during that trance of indecision in which his coward heart placed him, Flora had left the place, and again sought her home; but unhappily such an impulse came not over her; she sat upon that rustic seat, where she had reposed when Charles had clasped her to his heart, and through her very dream the remembrance of that pure affection came across her, and in the tenderest and most melodious accents, she said,—­

“Charles!  Charles! and do you love me still?  No—­no; you have not forsaken me.  Save me, save me from the vampyre!”

She shuddered, and Sir Francis Varney heard her weeping.

“Fool that I am,” he muttered, “to be so terrified.  She sleeps.  This is one of the phases which a disordered imagination oft puts on.  She sleeps, and perchance this may be an opportunity of further increasing the dread of my visitation, which shall make Bannerworth Hall far too terrible a dwelling-place for her; and well I know, if she goes, they will all go.  It will become a deserted house, and that is what I want.  A house, too, with such an evil reputation, that none but myself, who have created that reputation, will venture within its walls:—­a house, which superstition will point out as the abode of evil spirits;—­a house, as it were, by general opinion, ceded to the vampyre.  Yes, it shall be my own; fit dwelling-place for a while for me.  I have sworn it shall be mine, and I will keep my oath, little such as I have to do with vows.”

He rose, and moved slowly to the narrow entrance of the summer-house; a movement he could make, without at all disturbing Flora, for the rustic seat, on which she sat, was at its further extremity.  And there he stood, the upper part of his gaunt and hideous form clearly defined upon the now much lighter sky, so that if Flora Bannerworth had not been in that trance of sleep in which she really was, one glance upward would let her see the hideous companion she had, in that once much-loved spot—­a spot hitherto sacred to the best and noblest feelings, but now doomed for ever to be associated with that terrific spectre of despair.

But she was in no state to see so terrible a sight.  Her hands were over her face, and she was weeping still.

“Surely, he loves me,” she whispered; “he has said he loved me, and he does not speak in vain.  He loves me still, and I shall again look upon his face, a Heaven to me!  Charles!  Charles! you will come again?  Surely, they sin against the divinity of love, who would tell me that you love me not!”

“Ha!” muttered Varney, “this passion is her first, and takes a strong hold on her young heart—­she loves him—­but what are human affections to me?  I have no right to count myself in the great muster-roll of humanity.  I look not like an inhabitant of the earth, and yet am on it.  I love no one, expect no love from any one, but I will make humanity a slave to me; and the lip-service of them who hate me in their hearts, shall be as pleasant jingling music to my ear, as if it were quite sincere!  I will speak to this girl; she is not mad—­perchance she may be.”