“In which way does it tend?”—­

“Against Sir Francis Varney, called the vampyre.”

“Does it not strike you that this may be a dangerous candour?”—­“It may, or it may not be; I cannot help it.  I know I am at the mercy of my foes, and I do not believe that anything I can say or do will make my situation worse or better.”

“You are much mistaken there.  In other hands than mine, it might make it much worse; but it happens to be one of my weaknesses, that I am charged with candour, and that I admire boldness of disposition.”—­“Indeed! and yet can behave in the manner you have done towards me.”

“Yes.  There are more things in heaven and on earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy.  I am the more encouraged to set you free, because, if I procure from you a promise, which I intend to attempt, I am inclined to believe that you will keep it.”—­“I shall assuredly keep whatever promise I may make.  Propound your conditions, and if they be such as honour and honesty will permit me to accede to, I will do so willingly and at once.  Heaven knows I am weary enough of this miserable imprisonment.”

“Will you promise me then, if I set you free, not to mention your suspicions that it is to Sir Francis Varney you owe this ill turn, and not to attempt any act of vengeance against him as a retaliation for it.”—­“I cannot promise so much as that.  Freedom, indeed, would be a poor boon, if I were not permitted freely to converse of some of the circumstances connected with my captivity.”

“You object?”—­“I do to the former of your propositions, but not to the latter.  I will promise not to go at all out of my way to execute any vengeance upon you; but I will not promise that I will not communicate the circumstances of my forced absence from them, to those friends whose opinion I so much value, and to return to whom is almost as dear to me as liberty itself.”

Sir Francis Varney was silent for a few moments, and then he said, in a tone of deep solemnity,—­

“There are ninety-nine persons out of a hundred who would take your life for the independence of your tongue; but I am as the hundredth one, who looks with a benevolent eye at your proceedings.  Will you promise me, if I remove the fetters which now bind your limbs, that you will make no personal attack upon me; for I am weary of personal contention, and I have no disposition to endure it.  Will you make me this promise?”—­“I promise?”—­“I will.”

Without another word, but trusting implicitly to the promise which had been given to him, Sir Francis Varney produced a small key from his pocket, and unlocked with it a padlock which confined the chains about the prisoner.

With ease, Charles Holland was then enabled to shake them off, and then, for the first time, for some weeks, he rose to his feet, and felt all the exquisite relief of being comparatively free from bondage.

“This is delightful, indeed,” he said.