"Help--help, father!--help!" shrieked the voice of the young girl whom
we have before noticed. The ferryman jumped up, and rushed to the spot where his daughter lay. "Fanny," he said--"Fanny, what ails thee--what ails thee? Tell me, my
dear child." "Oh!" she exclaimed, almost choked--"oh, father! are we all alone? I am
terrified." "What ails thee--what ails thee? Tell me what caused you to scream out
in such a manner?" "I--I--that is I, father, thought--but no, I am sure it was reality. Where is the stranger?" "A light--a light!" shouted the fisherman. In another moment a light was brought him, and he discovered the
stranger reclining in his bed, but awake, and looking around him, as if
in the utmost amazement. "What has happened?" he said--"what has happened?" "That is more than I know as yet," the man replied. "Come, Fanny," he
added, "tell me what it is you fear. What caused you to scream out in
that dreadful manner?" "Oh, father--the vampyre!" "Great God! what do you mean, Fanny, by that?" "I hardly know, father. I was fast asleep, when I thought I felt
something at my throat; but being very sound asleep, I did not
immediately awake. Presently I felt the sharp pang of teeth being driven
into the flesh of my neck--I awoke, and found the vampyre at his repast. Oh, God! oh, God! what shall I do?" "Stay, my child, let us examine the wound," said the fisherman, and he
held the candle to the spot where the vampyre's teeth had been applied. There, sure enough, were teeth marks, such as a human being's would make
were they applied, but no blood had been drawn therefrom. "Come, come, Fanny; so far, by divine Providence, you are not injured;
another moment, and the mischief would have been done entire and
complete, and you would have been his victim." Then turning to the stranger, he said,--

"You have had some hand in this. No human being but you could come into
this place. The cottage door is secured. You must be the vampyre." "I!" "Yes; who else could?" "I!--As Heaven's my judge--but there, it's useless to speak of it; I
have not been out of my bed. In this place, dark as it is, and less used
to darkness than you, I could not even find my way about.--It is
impossible." "Get out of your bed, and let me feel," said the ferryman,
peremptorily--"get out, and I will soon tell." The stranger arose, and began to dress himself, and the ferryman
immediately felt the bed on which he had been lying; but it was ice
cold--so cold that he started upon his legs in an instant, exclaiming
with vehemence,--

"It is you, vile wretch! that has attempted to steal into the cottage of
the poor man, and then to rob him of his only child, and that child of
her heart's blood, base ingrate!" "My friend, you are wrong, entirely wrong. I am not the creature you
believe me. I have slept, and slept soundly, and awoke not until your
daughter screamed." "Scoundrel!--liar!--base wretch! you shall not remain alive to injure
those who have but one life to lose." As he spoke, the ferryman made a desperate rush at the vampyre, and
seized him by the throat, and a violent struggle ensued, in which the
superior strength of the ferryman prevailed, and he brought his
antagonist to the earth, at the same time bestowing upon him some
desperate blows. "Thou shall go to the same element from which I took thee," said the
ferryman, "and there swim or sink as thou wilt until some one shall drag
thee ashore, and when they do, may they have a better return than I." As he spoke, he dragged along the stranger by main force until they came
to the bank of the river, and then pausing, to observe the deepest part,
he said,--

"Here, then, you shall go." The vampyre struggled, and endeavoured to speak, but he could not; the
grasp at his throat prevented all attempts at speech; and then, with a
sudden exertion of his strength, the ferryman lifted the stranger up,
and heaved him some distance into the river. Then in deep water sank the body. The ferryman watched for some moments, and farther down the stream he
saw the body again rise upon the current and struggling slightly, as for
life--now whirled around and around, and then carried forward with the
utmost velocity. This continued as far as the moonlight enabled the ferryman to see, and
then, with a slow step and clouded brow, he returned to his cottage,
which he entered, and closed the door. CHAPTER XC. DR. CHILLINGWORTH AT THE HALL.--THE ENCOUNTER OF MYSTERY.--THE
CONFLICT.--THE RESCUE, AND THE PICTURE. [Illustration]

There have been many events that have passed rapidly in this our
narrative; but more have yet to come before we can arrive at that point
which will clear up much that appears to be most mysterious and
unaccountable. Doctor Chillingworth, but ill satisfied with the events that had yet
taken place, determined once more upon visiting the Hall, and there to
attempt a discovery of something respecting the mysterious apartment in
which so much has already taken place. He communicated his design to no one; he resolved to prosecute the
inquiry alone. He determined to go there and await whatever might turn
up in the shape of events. He would not for once take any companion;
such adventures were often best prosecuted alone--they were most easily
brought to something like an explanatory position, one person can often
consider matters more coolly than more. At all events, there is more
secrecy than under any other circumstances. Perhaps this often is of greater consequence than many others; and,
moreover, when there is more than one, something is usually overdone. Where one adventurous individual will rather draw back in a pursuit,
more than one would induce them to urge each other on. In fact, one in such a case could act the part of a spy--a secret
observer; and in that case can catch people at times when they could not
under any other circumstances be caught or observed at all. "I will go," he muttered; "and should I be compelled to run away again,
why, nobody knows anything about it and nobody will laugh at me." This was all very well; but Mr. Chillingworth was not the man to run
away without sufficient cause. But there was so much mystery in all this
that he felt much interested in the issue of the affair. But this issue
he could not command; at the same time he was determined to sit and
watch, and thus become certain that either something or nothing was to
take place. Even the knowledge of that much--that some inexplicable action was still
going on--was far preferable to the uncertainty of not knowing whether
what had once been going on was still so or not, because, if it had
ceased, it was probable that nothing more would ever be known concerning
it, and the mystery would still be a mystery to the end of time. "It shall be fathomed if there be any possibility of its being
discovered," muttered Chillingworth. "Who would have thought that so
quiet and orderly a spot as this, our quiet village, would have suffered
so much commotion and disturbance?