Henry then related to the astonished Charles Holland all that had occurred, from the first alarm of Flora, up to that period when he, Holland, caught her in his arms as she was about to leave the room.

“And now,” he said, in conclusion, “I cannot tell what opinion you may come to as regards these most singular events.  You will recollect that here is the unbiassed evidence of four or five people to the facts, and, beyond that, the servants, who have seen something of the horrible visitor.”

“You bewilder me, utterly,” said Charles Holland.

“As we are all bewildered.”

“But—­but, gracious Heaven! it cannot be.”

“It is.”

“No—­no.  There is—­there must be yet some dreadful mistake.”

“Can you start any supposition by which we can otherwise explain any of the phenomena I have described to you?  If you can, for Heaven’s sake do so, and you will find no one who will cling to it with more tenacity than I.”

“Any other species or kind of supernatural appearance might admit of argument; but this, to my perception, is too wildly improbable—­too much at variance with all we see and know of the operations of nature.”

“It is so.  All that we have told ourselves repeatedly, and yet is all human reason at once struck down by the few brief words of—­’We have seen it.’”

“I would doubt my eyesight.”

“One might; but many cannot be labouring under the same delusion.”

“My friend, I pray you, do not make me shudder at the supposition that such a dreadful thing as this is at all possible.”

“I am, believe me, Charles, most unwilling to oppress anyone with the knowledge of these evils; but you are so situated with us, that you ought to know, and you will clearly understand that you may, with perfect honour, now consider yourself free from all engagements you have entered into with Flora.”

“No, no!  By Heaven, no!”

“Yes, Charles.  Reflect upon the consequences now of a union with such a family.”

“Oh, Henry Bannerworth, can you suppose me so dead to all good feeling, so utterly lost to honourable impulses, as to eject from my heart her who has possession of it entirely, on such a ground as this?”

“You would be justified.”

“Coldly justified in prudence I might be.  There are a thousand circumstances in which a man may be justified in a particular course of action, and that course yet may be neither honourable nor just.  I love Flora; and were she tormented by the whole of the supernatural world, I should still love her.  Nay, it becomes, then, a higher and a nobler duty on my part to stand between her and those evils, if possible.”

“Charles—­Charles,” said Henry, “I cannot of course refuse to you my meed of praise and admiration for your generosity of feeling; but, remember, if we are compelled, despite all our feelings and all our predilections to the contrary, to give in to a belief in the existence of vampyres, why may we not at once receive as the truth all that is recorded of them?”