Thy were amiable, accomplished; they were in the same mind at all times, and nothing seemed to ruffle them; and when night came, he could not but acknowledge to himself that he had never formed half the opinion of them they were deserving of.

Of course during that day he was compelled to lie close, so as not to be seen by any one, save the family.  He sat in a small room, which was overlooked by no other in the neighbourhood, and he remained quiet, sometimes conversing, and sometimes reading, but at the same time ever attentive to the least sound that appeared at all of a character to indicate the approach of persons for any purpose whatever.

At supper time he spoke to Flora and to Charles Holland, saying,—­

“There are certain matters connected with myself—­I may say with you now—­sure all that has happened will make it so—­of which you would be glad to hear some thing.”

“You mean upon the same subject upon which I had some conversation with you a day or two back?”

“Yes, the same.  Allow me one week, and you shall know all.  I will then relate to you that which you so much desire to know—­one week, and all shall be told.”

“Well,” said Charles Holland, “this has not been exacted from you as the price of your safety, but you can choose your own time, of course; what you promise is most desired, for it will render those happy who now are much worse than they were before these occurrences took place.”

“I am aware of all that; grant me but one week, and then you shall be made acquainted with all.”

“I am satisfied, Sir Francis,” said Flora; “but while here under our roof, we should never have asked you a question.”

“Of this, Miss Bannerworth, the little I have seen of you assures me you would not do so; however, I am the more inclined to make it—­I am under so deep an obligation to you all, that I can never repay it.”

* * * * *

Sir Francis Varney retired to rest that night—­his promise to the Bannerworths filled his mind with many reflections—­the insecurity of his own position, and the frail tenure which he even held in the hands of those whom he had most injured.

This produced a series of reflections of a grave and melancholy nature, and he sat by his window, watching the progress of the clouds, as they appeared to chase each other over the face of the scene—­now casting a shade over the earth, and then banishing the shadows, and throwing a gentle light over the earth’s surface, which was again chased away, and shadows again fell upon the scene below.

How long he had sat there in melancholy musing he knew not; but suddenly he was aroused from his dreams by a voice that shook the skies, and caused him to start to his feet.

“Hurrah!—­hurrah!—­hurrah!” shouted the mob, which had silently collected around the cottage of the Bannerworths.

“Curses!” muttered Sir Francis, as he again sank in his chair, and struck his head with his hand.  “I am hunted to death—­they will not leave me until my body has graced a cross-road.”