On the tray which the servant brought into the room, were refreshments of different kinds, including wine, and after waving his hand for the domestic to retire, Sir Francis Varney said—

      "You will be better, Mr. Bannerworth, for a glass of wine after your walk, and you too, sir. I am ashamed to say, I have quite forgotten your name."

      "Marchdale."

      "Mr. Marchdale. Ay, Marchdale. Pray, sir, help yourself."

      "You take nothing yourself?" said Henry.

      "I am under a strict regimen," replied Varney. "The simplest diet alone does for me, and I have accustomed myself to long abstinence."

      "He will not eat or drink," muttered Henry, abstractedly.

      "Will you sell me the Hall?" said Sir Francis Varney.

      Henry looked in his face again, from which he had only momentarily withdrawn his eyes, and he was then more struck than ever with the resemblance between him and the portrait on the panel of what had been Flora's chamber. What made that resemblance, too, one about which there could scarcely be two opinions, was the mark or cicatrix of a wound in the forehead, which the painter had slightly indented in the portrait, but which was much more plainly visible on the forehead of Sir Francis Varney. Now that Henry observed this distinctive mark, which he had not done before, he could feel no doubt, and a sickening sensation came over him at the thought that he was actually now in the presence of one of those terrible creatures, vampyres.

      "You do not drink," said Varney. "Most young men are not so modest with a decanter of unimpeachable wine before them. I pray you help yourself."

      "I cannot."

      Henry rose as he spoke, and turning to Marchdale, he said, in addition—

      "Will you come away?"

      "If you please," said Marchdale, rising.

      "But you have not, my dear sir," said Varney, "given me yet any answer about the Hall?"

      "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."

      "I care not."

      "What if they were overheard now by unfriendly ears? What might not be the uncomfortable results? I pray you be more cautious what you say of this strange man."

      "I must destroy him."

      "And wherefore?"

      "Can you ask? Is he not a vampyre?"

      "Yes; but reflect, Henry, for a moment upon the length to which you might carry out so dangerous an argument. It is said that vampyres are made by vampyres sucking the blood of those who, but for that circumstance, would have died and gone to decay in the tomb along with ordinary mortals; but that being so attacked during life by a vampyre, they themselves, after death, become such."

      "Well—well, what is that to me?"

      "Have you forgotten Flora?"

      A