“It is,” said Sir Francis Varney—­“it is but a foretaste of the happiness you will enjoy when you are entirely free.  You see that I have trusted you.”

“You have trusted me as you might trust me, and you perceive that I have kept my word.”

“You have; and since you decline to make me the promise which I would fain have from you, to the effect that you would not mention me as one of the authors of your calamity, I must trust to your honour not to attempt revenge for what you have suffered.”

“That I will promise.  There can be but little difficulty to any generous mind in giving up such a feeling.  In consequence of your sparing me what you might still further have inflicted, I will let the past rest, and as if it had never happened really to me; and speak of it to others, but as a circumstance which I wish not to revert to, but prefer should be buried in oblivion.”

“It is well; and now I have a request to make of you, which, perhaps, you will consider the hardest of all.”

“Name it.  I feel myself bound to a considerable extent to comply with whatever you may demand of me, that is not contrary to honourable principle.”

“Then it is this, that, comparatively free as you are, and in a condition, as you are, to assert your own freedom, you will not do so hastily, or for a considerable period; in fact, I wish and expect that you should wait yet awhile, until it shall suit me to say that it is my pleasure that you shall be free.”

“That is, indeed, a hard condition to man who feels, as you yourself remark, that he can assert his freedom.  It is one which I have still a hope you will not persevere in.

“Nay, young man, I think that I have treated you with generosity, to make you feel that I am not the worst of foes you could have had.  All I require of you is, that you should wait here for about an hour.  It is now nearly one o’clock; will you wait until you hear it strike two before you actually make a movement to leave this place?”

Charles Holland hesitated for some moments, and then he said,—­

“Do not fancy that I am not one who appreciates the singular trust you have reposed in me; and, however repugnant to me it may be to remain here, a voluntary prisoner, I am inclined to do so, if it be but to convince you that the trust you have reposed in me is not in vain, and that I can behave with equal generosity to you as you can to me.”

“Be it so,” said Sir Francis Varney; “I shall leave you with a full reliance that you will keep your word; and now, farewell.  When you think of me, fancy me rather one unfortunate than criminal, and tell yourself that even Varney the vampyre had some traits in his character, which, although they might not raise your esteem, at all events did not loudly call for your reprobation.”

“I shall do so.  Oh!  Flora, Flora, I shall look upon you once again, after believing and thinking that I had bidden you a long and last adieu.  My own beautiful Flora, it is joy indeed to think that I shall look upon that face again, which, to my perception, is full of all the majesty of loveliness.”