Henry and Marchdale followed the man up a flight of stone stairs, and then they were conducted through a large apartment into a smaller one.  There was very little light in this small room; but at the moment of their entrance a tall man, who was seated, rose, and, touching the spring of a blind that was to the window, it was up in a moment, admitting a broad glare of light.  A cry of surprise, mingled with terror, came from Henry Bannerworth’s lip. The original of the portrait on the panel stood before him! There was the lofty stature, the long, sallow face, the slightly projecting teeth, the dark, lustrous, although somewhat sombre eyes; the expression of the features—­all were alike.

“Are you unwell, sir?” said Sir Francis Varney, in soft, mellow accents, as he handed a chair to the bewildered Henry.

“God of Heaven!” said Henry; “how like!”

“You seem surprised, sir.  Have you ever seen me before?”

Sir Francis drew himself up to his full height, and cast a strange glance upon Henry, whose eyes were rivetted upon his face, as if with a species of fascination which he could not resist.

“Marchdale,” Henry gasped; “Marchdale, my friend, Marchdale.  I—­I am surely mad.”

“Hush! be calm,” whispered Marchdale.

“Calm—­calm—­can you not see?  Marchdale, is this a dream? 
Look—­look—­oh! look.”

“For God’s sake, Henry, compose yourself.”

“Is your friend often thus?” said Sir Francis Varney, with the same mellifluous tone which seemed habitual to him.

“No, sir, he is not; but recent circumstances have shattered his nerves; and, to tell the truth, you bear so strong a resemblance to an old portrait, in his house, that I do not wonder so much as I otherwise should at his agitation.”

“Indeed.”

“A resemblance!” said Henry; “a resemblance!  God of Heaven! it is the face itself.”

“You much surprise me,” said Sir Francis.

[Illustration]

Henry sunk into the chair which was near him, and he trembled violently.  The rush of painful thoughts and conjectures that came through his mind was enough to make any one tremble.  “Is this the vampyre?” was the horrible question that seemed impressed upon his very brain, in letters of flame.  “Is this the vampyre?”

“Are you better, sir?” said Sir Francis Varney, in his bland, musical voice.  “Shall I order any refreshment for you?”

“No—­no,” gasped Henry; “for the love of truth tell me!  Is—­is your name really Varney!”

“Sir?”

“Have you no other name to which, perhaps, a better title you could urge?”

“Mr. Bannerworth, I can assure you that I am too proud of the name of the family to which I belong to exchange it for any other, be it what it may.”

“How wonderfully like!”

“I grieve to see you so much distressed.  Mr. Bannerworth.  I presume ill health has thus shattered your nerves?”