“I did,” said Varney, with a shudder; “but why did I?”

“Well, you know best.”

“It was, then, because I did believe, and do believe, that there is something more than natural about my strangely protracted existence; but we will waive that point, and, before my failing strength, for it appears to me to be failing, completely prevents me from doing so, let me relate to you the continued particulars of the circumstances that made me what I am.”

Flora Bannerworth, although she had heard before from the lips of Charles Holland the to her dreadful fact, that her father, in addition to having laid violent hands upon his own life, was a murderer, now that that fearful circumstance was related more publicly, felt a greater pang than she had done when it was whispered to her in the accents of pure affection, and softened down by a gentleness of tone, which Charles Holland’s natural delicacy would not allow him to use even to her whom he loved so well in the presence of others.

She let her beautiful face be hidden by her hands, and she wept as she listened to the sad detail.

Varney looked inquiringly in the countenance of Charles Holland, because, having given him leave to make Flora acquainted with the circumstance, he was rather surprised at the amount of emotion which it produced in her.

Charles Holland answered the appealing look by saying,—­

“Flora is already aware of the facts, but it naturally affects her much to hear them now repeated in the presence of others, and those too, towards whom she cannot feel—­”

What Charles Holland was going to say was abruptly stopped short by the admiral, who interposed, exclaiming,—­

“Why, what do you mean, you son of a sea cook?  The presence of who do you mean?  Do you mean to say that I don’t feel for Miss Flora, bless her heart! quite as much as a white-faced looking swab like you?  Why, I shall begin to think you are only fit for a marine.”

“Nay, uncle, now do not put yourself out of temper.  You must be well aware that I could not mean anything disrespectful to you.  You should not suppose such a state of things possible; and although, perhaps, I did not express myself so felicitously as I might, yet what I intended to say, was—­”

“Oh, bother what you intended to say.  You go on, Mr. Vampyre, with your story.  I want to know what became of it all; just you get on as quick as you can, and let us know what you did after the man was murdered.”

“When the dreadful deed was committed,” said Varney, “and our victim lay weltering in his blood, and had breathed his last, we stood like men who for the first time were awakened to the frightful consequences of what they had done.

“I saw by the dim light that hovered round us a great change come over the countenance of Marmaduke Bannerworth, and he shook in every limb.

“This soon passed away, however, and the powerful and urgent necessity which arose of avoiding the consequences of the deed that we had done, restored us to ourselves.  We stooped and took from the body the ill-gotten gains of the gambler.  They amounted to an immense sum, and I said to Marmaduke Bannerworth,—­