“There he is—­there he is,” said the girl, who came to as soon as other people came up.

“Where?—­where?”

“In that closet,” she said, pointing to it with her finger.  “I see’d him go in the way above.”

Sir Francis, finding himself betrayed, immediately came out of the closet, just as two or three were advancing to open it, and dealt so hard a blow on the head of the first that came near him that he fell without a groan, and a second shared the same fate; and then Sir Francis found himself grappled with, but with a violent effort he relieved himself and rushed up stairs.

“Oh! murder—­the wampyre! what shall I do—­fire—­fire!”

These exclamations were uttered in consequence of Varney in his haste to get up stairs, having inadvertently stepped into the girl’s lap with one foot, while he kicked her in the chin with the other, besides scratching her nose till it bled.

“After him—­stick to him,” shouted the mob, but the girl kicked and sprawled so much they were impeded, till, regardless of her cries, they ran over her and pursued Varney, who was much distressed with the exertions he had made.

After about a minute’s race he turned upon the head of the stair, not so much with the hope of defending it as of taking some breathing time:  but seeing his enemies so close, he drew his sword, and stood panting, but prepared.

“Never mind his toasting-fork,” said one bulky fellow, and, as he spoke, he rushed on, but the point of the weapon entered his heart and he fell dead.

There was a dreadful execration uttered by those who came up after him, and there was a momentary pause, for none liked to rush on to the bloody sword of Sir Francis Varney, who stood so willing and so capable of using it with the most deadly effect.  They paused, as well they might, and this pause was the most welcome thing next to life to the unfortunate fugitive, for he was dreadfully distressed and bleeding.

“On to him boys!  He can hardly stand.  See how he pants.  On to him, I say—­push him hard.”

“He pushes hard, I tell you,” said another.  “I felt the point of his sword, as it came through Giles’s back.”.

“I’ll try my luck, then,” said another, and he rushed up; but he was met by the sword of Sir Francis, who pierced it through his side, and he fell back with a groan.

Sir Francis, fearful of stopping any longer to defend that point, appeared desirous of making good his retreat with some little advantage, and he rushed up stairs before they had recovered from the momentary consternation into which they had been thrown by the sudden disaster they had received.

[Illustration]

But they were quickly after him, and before he, wearied as he was, could gain the roof, they were up the ladder after him.

The first man who came through the trap was again set upon by Varney, who made a desperate thrust at him, and it took effect; but the sword snapped by the handle.