“The matter? why, I’ve found him; that’s the matter, old man,” replied the first.

“What, a whale?

“No, a wampyre; the blessed wampyre! there he is,—­don’t you see him under them ere bricks?”

“Oh, that’s not him; he got away.”

“I don’t care,” replied the other, “who got away, or who didn’t; I know this much, that he’s a wampyre,—­he wouldn’t be there if he warn’t.”

This was an unanswerable argument, and nobody could deny it; consequently, there was a cessation of talk, and the people then came up, as the two first were looking at the body.

“Whose is it?” inquired a dozen voices.

[Illustration]

“Not Sir Francis Varney’s!” said the second speaker; the clothes are not his—­”

“No, no; not Sir Francis’s”

“But I tell you what, mates,” said the first speaker; “that if it isn’t Sir Francis Varney’s, it is somebody else’s as bad.  I dare say, now, he’s a wictim.”

“A what!”

“A wictim to the wampyre; and, if he sees the blessed moonlight, he will be a wampyre hisself, and so shall we be, too, if he puts his teeth into us.”

“So we shall,—­so we shall,” said the mob, and their flesh begin to run cold, and there was a feeling of horror creeping over the whole body of persons within hearing.

“I tell you what it is; our only plan will be to get him out of the ruins, then, remarked another.

“What!” said one; “who’s going to handle such cattle? if you’ve a sore about you, and his blood touches you, who’s to say you won’t be a vampyre, too!”

“No, no you won’t,” said an old woman.

“I won’t try,” was the happy rejoinder; “I ain’t a-going to carry a wampyre on my two legs home to my wife and small family of seven children, and another a-coming.”

There was a pause for a few moments, and then one man more adventurous than the rest, exclaimed,—­

“Well, vampyre, or no vampyre, his dead body can harm no one; so here goes to get it out, help me who will; once have it out, and then we can prevent any evil, by burning it, and thus destroying the whole body.

“Hurrah!” shouted three or four more, as they jumped down into the hole formed by the falling in of the materials which had crushed Marchdale to death, for it was his body they had discovered.

They immediately set to work to displace such of the materials as lay on the body, and then, having cleared it of all superincumbent rubbish, they proceeded to lift it up, but found that it had got entangled, as they called it, with some chains:  with some trouble they got them off, and the body was lifted out to a higher spot.

“Now, what’s to be done?” inquired one.

“Burn it,” said another.

“Hurrah!” shouted a female voice; “we’ve got the wampyre! run a stake through his body, and then place him upon some dry wood,—­there’s plenty to be had about here, I am sure,—­and then burn him to a cinder.”