With the calmest despair, Sir Francis Varney lay still and motionless on the house-top, and listened to the sounds that proceeded from below.  Shout after shout arose on the still, calm air of the night; knock after knock came upon the stout old door, which awakened responsive echoes throughout the house that had for many years lain dormant, and which now seemed disturbed, and resounded in hollow murmurs to the voices from without.

Then a loud voice shouted from below, as if to be heard by any one who might be within,—­

“Sir Francis Varney, the vampyre, come out and give yourself up at discretion!  If we have to search for you, you may depend it will be to punish you; you will suffer by burning.  Come out and give yourself up.”

There was a pause, and then a loud shout.

Sir Francis Varney paid no attention to this summons, but sat, motionless, on the house-top, where he could hear all that passed below in the crowd.

“He will not come out,” said one.

“Ah! he’s much too cunning to be caught in such a trap.  Why, he knows what you would do with him; he knows you would stake him, and make a bonfire about him.”

“So he has no taste for roasting,” remarked another; “but still, it’s no use hiding; we have too many hands, and know the house too well to be easily baffled.”

“That may be; and, although he don’t like burning, yet we will unearth the old fox, somehow or other; we have discovered his haunt at last, and certainly we’ll have him out.”

“How shall we get in?”

“Knock in the door—­break open the door! the front door—­that is the best, because it leads to all parts of the house, and we can secure any one who attempts to move from one to the other, as they come down.”

“Hurrah!” shouted several men in the crowd.

“Hurrah!” echoed the mob, with one accord, and the shout rent the air, and disturbed the quietude and serenity that scarce five minutes before reigned through the place.

Then, as if actuated by one spirit, they all set to work to force the door in.  It was strong, and capable of great defence, and employed them, with some labour, for fifteen or twenty minutes, and then, with a loud crash, the door fell in.

“Hurrah!” again shouted the crowd.

These shouts announced the fall of the door, and then, and not until then, did Sir Francis Varney stir.

“They have broken in the door,” he muttered, “well, if die I must, I will sell my life dearly.  However, all is not yet lost, and, in the struggle for life, the loss is not so much felt.”

He got up, and crept towards the trap that led into the house, or out of it, as the occasion might require.

“The vampyre! the vampyre!” shouted a man who stood on a garden wall, holding on by the arm of an apple-tree.

“Varney, the vampyre!” shouted a second.

“Hurrah! boys, we are on the right scent; now for a hunt; hurrah! we shall have him now.”