“It is not possible.  I—­”

“Nay, Miss Bannerworth, do you imagine this is a time for ceremony, or the observances of polished life!  On my honour, you run no risk of censure.”

“Where is Varney?  Where is the vampyre?  He ain’t far off.”

“Hear—­hear them, Miss Bannerworth.  They are now at the foot of the stairs.  Not a moment to lose.  One minute more, and I am in the hands of a crew that has no mercy.”

“Hurrah! upstairs!  He’s not below.  Upstairs, neighbours, we shall have him yet!”

These words sounded on the stairs:  half-a-dozen more steps, and Varney would be seen.  It was a miracle he was not heard begging for his life.

Varney cast a look of despair at the stairhead and felt for his sword, but it was not there, he had lost it.  He struck his head with his clenched hand, and was about to rush upon his foes, when he heard the lock turn; he looked, and saw the door opened gently, and Flora stood there; he passed in, and sank cowering into a chair, at the other end of the room, behind some curtains.

The door was scarcely shut ere some tried to force it, and then a loud knocking came at the door.

“Open! open! we want Varney, the vampyre.  Open! or we will burst it open.”

Flora did open it, but stood resolutely in the opening, and held up her hand to impose silence.

“Are you men, that you can come thus to force yourselves upon the privacy of a female?  Is there nothing in the town or house, that you must intrude in numbers into a private apartment?  Is no place sacred from you?”

“But, ma’am—­miss—­we only want Varney, the vampyre.”

“And can you find him nowhere but in a female’s bedroom?  Shame on you! shame on you!  Have you no sisters, wives, or mothers, that you act thus?”

“He’s not there, you may be sure of that, Jack,” said a gruff voice.  “Let the lady be in quiet; she’s had quite enough trouble with him to sicken her of a vampyre.  You may be sure that’s the last place to find him in.”

With this they all turned away, and Flora shut the door and locked it upon them, and Varney was safe.

“You have saved me,” said Varney.

“Hush!” said Flora.  “Speak not; there maybe some one listening.”

Sir Francis Varney stood in the attitude of one listening most anxiously to catch some sounds; the moon fell across his face, and gave it a ghastly hue, that, added to his natural paleness and wounds, gave him an almost unearthly aspect.

The sounds grew more and more distant; the shouts and noise of men traversing the apartments subsided, and gradually the place became restored to its original silence.  The mob, after having searched every other part of the house, and not finding the object of their search, they concluded that he was not there, but must have made his escape before.

* * * * *

This most desperate peril of Sir Francis Varney seemed to have more effect upon him than anything that had occurred during his most strange and most eventful career.