“I cannot yet,” answered Henry, “I will think.  My present impression is, to let you have it on whatever terms you may yourself propose, always provided you consent to one of mine.”

“Name it.”

“That you never show yourself in my family.”

“How very unkind.  I understand you have a charming sister, young, beautiful, and accomplished.  Shall I confess, now, that I had hopes of making myself agreeable to her?”

“You make yourself agreeable to her?  The sight of you would blast her for ever, and drive her to madness.”

“Am I so hideous?”

“No, but—­you are—­”

“What am I?”

“Hush, Henry, hush,” cried Marchdale.  “Remember you are in this gentleman’s house.”

“True, true.  Why does he tempt me to say these dreadful things?  I do not want to say them.”

“Come away, then—­come away at once.  Sir Francis Varney, my friend, Mr. Bannerworth, will think over your offer, and let you know.  I think you may consider that your wish to become the purchaser of the Hall will be complied with.”

“I wish to have it,” said Varney, “and I can only say, that if I am master of it, I shall be very happy to see any of the family on a visit at any time.”

“A visit!” said Henry, with a shudder.  “A visit to the tomb were far more desirable.  Farewell, sir.”

“Adieu,” said Sir Francis Varney, and he made one of the most elegant bows in the world, while there came over his face a peculiarity of expression that was strange, if not painful, to contemplate.  In another minute Henry and Marchdale were clear of the house, and with feelings of bewilderment and horror, which beggar all description, poor Henry allowed himself to be led by the arm by Marchdale to some distance, without uttering a word.  When he did speak, he said,—­

“Marchdale, it would be charity of some one to kill me.”

“To kill you!”

“Yes, for I am certain otherwise that I must go mad.”

“Nay, nay; rouse yourself.”

“This man, Varney, is a vampyre.”

“Hush! hush!”

“I tell you, Marchdale,” cried Henry, in a wild, excited manner, “he is a vampyre.  He is the dreadful being who visited Flora at the still hour of midnight, and drained the life-blood from her veins.  He is a vampyre.  There are such things.  I cannot doubt now.  Oh, God, I wish now that your lightnings would blast me, as here I stand, for over into annihilation, for I am going mad to be compelled to feel that such horrors can really have existence.”

“Henry—­Henry.”

“Nay, talk not to me.  What can I do?  Shall I kill him?  Is it not a sacred duty to destroy such a thing?  Oh, horror—­horror.  He must be killed—­destroyed—­burnt, and the very dust to which he is consumed must be scattered to the winds of Heaven.  It would be a deed well done, Marchdale.”

“Hush! hush!  These words are dangerous.”