"But he can't have given us the slip," said one man, who was
particularly famous for a dogmatical spirit of argumentation; "how is it
possible? he must be here, and I say he is here." "Find him, then," cried several at once. "Oh! that's nothing to do with the argument; he's here, whether we find
him or not." One very cunning fellow laid his finger on his nose, and beckoned to a
comrade to retire some paces, where he delivered himself of the
following very oracular sentiment:--

"My good friend, you must know Sir Francis Varney is here or he isn't." "Agreed, agreed." "Well, if he isn't here it's no use troubling our heads any more about
him; but, otherwise, it's quite another thing, and, upon the whole, I
must say, that I rather think he is." All looked at him, for it was evident he was big with some suggestion. After a pause, he resumed,--

"Now, my good friends, I propose that we all appear to give it up, and
to go away; but that some one of us shall remain and hide among the
ruins for some time, to watch, in case the vampyre makes his appearance
from some hole or corner that we haven't found out." "Oh, capital!" said everybody. "Then you all agree to that?" "Yes, yes." "Very good; that's the only way to nick him. Now, we'll pretend to give
it up; let's all of us talk loud about going home." They did all talk loud about going home; they swore that it was not
worth the trouble of catching him, that they gave it up as a bad job;
that he might go to the deuce in any way he liked, for all they cared;
and then they all walked off in a body, when, the man who had made the
suggestion, suddenly cried,--

"Hilloa! hilloa!--stop! stop! you know one of us is to wait?" "Oh, ay; yes, yes, yes!" said everybody, and still they moved on. "But really, you know, what's the use of this? who's to wait?" That was, indeed, a knotty question, which induced a serious
consultation, ending in their all, with one accord, pitching upon the
author of the suggestion, as by far the best person to hide in the ruins
and catch the vampyre. They then all set off at full speed; but the cunning fellow, who
certainly had not the slightest idea of so practically carrying out his
own suggestion, scampered off after them with a speed that soon brought
him in the midst of the throng again, and so, with fear in their looks,
and all the evidences of fatigue about them, they reached the town to
spread fresh and more exaggerated accounts of the mysterious conduct of
Varney the vampyre. CHAPTER XLIV. VARNEY'S DANGER, AND HIS RESCUE.--THE PRISONER AGAIN, AND THE
SUBTERRANEAN VAULT. [Illustration]

We have before slightly mentioned to the reader, and not unadvisedly,
the existence of a certain prisoner, confined in a gloomy dungeon, into
whose sad and blackened recesses but few and faint glimmering rays of
light ever penetrated; for, by a diabolical ingenuity, the narrow
loophole which served for a window to that subterraneous abode was so
constructed, that, let the sun be at what point it might, during its
diurnal course, but a few reflected beams of light could ever find their
way into that abode of sorrow. The prisoner--the same prisoner of whom we before spoke--is there. Despair is in his looks, and his temples are still bound with those
cloths, which seemed now for many days to have been sopped in blood,
which has become encrusted in their folds. He still lives, apparently incapable of movement. How he has lived so
long seems to be a mystery, for one would think him scarcely in a state,
even were nourishment placed to his lips, to enable him to swallow it. It may be, however, that the mind has as much to do with that apparent
absolute prostration of all sort of physical energy as those bodily
wounds which he has received at the hands of the enemies who have
reduced him to his present painful and hopeless situation. Occasionally a low groan burst from his lips; it seems to come from the
very bottom of his heart, and it sounds as if it would carry with it
every remnant of vitality that was yet remaining to him. Then he moves restlessly, and repeats in hurried accents the names of
some who are dear to him, and far away--some who may, perchance, be
mourning him, but who know not, guess not, aught of his present
sufferings. As he thus moves, the rustle of a chain among the straw on which he lies
gives an indication, that even in that dungeon it has not been
considered prudent to leave him master of his own actions, lest, by too
vigorous an effort, he might escape from the thraldom in which he is
held. The sound reaches his own ears, and for a few moments, in the deep
impatience of his wounded spirit, he heaps malediction on the heads of
those who have reduced him to his present state. But soon a better nature seems to come over him, and gentler words fall
from his lips. He preaches patience to himself--he talks not of revenge,
but of justice, and in accents of more hopefulness than he had before
spoken, he calls upon Heaven to succour him in his deep distress. Then all is still, and the prisoner appears to have resigned himself
once more to the calmness of expectation or of despair; but hark! his
sense of hearing, rendered doubly acute by lying so long alone in nearly
darkness, and in positive silence, detects sounds which, to ordinary
mortal powers of perception, would have been by far too indistinct to
produce any tangible effect upon the senses. It is the sound of feet--on, on they come; far overhead he hears them;
they beat the green earth--that sweet, verdant sod, which he may never
see again--with an impatient tread. Nearer and nearer still; and now
they pause; he listens with all the intensity of one who listens for
existence; some one comes; there is a lumbering noise--a hasty footstep;
he hears some one labouring for breath--panting like a hunted hare; his
dungeon door is opened, and there totters in a man, tall and gaunt; he
reels like one intoxicated; fatigue has done more than the work of
inebriation; he cannot save himself, and he sinks exhausted by the side
of that lonely prisoner. The captive raises himself as far as his chains will allow him; he
clutches the throat of his enervated visitor. "Villain, monster, vampyre!" he shrieks, "I have thee now;" and locked
in a deadly embrace, they roll upon the damp earth, struggling for life
together. *       *       *       *       *

It is mid-day at Bannerworth Hall, and Flora is looking from the
casement anxiously expecting the arrival of her brothers. She had seen,
from some of the topmost windows of the Hall, that the whole
neighbourhood had been in a state of commotion, but little did she guess
the cause of so much tumult, or that it in any way concerned her.