"Not only has she recovered," said Henry, "but a spirit, which I am
rejoiced to see, because it is one which will uphold her, of resistance
now possesses her." "Yes, she actually--I forgot to tell you before--but she actually asked
me for arms to resist any second visitation." "You much surprise me." "Yes, I was surprised, as well as pleased, myself." "I would have left her one of my pistols had I been aware of her having
made such a request. Do you know if she can use fire-arms?" "Oh, yes; well." "What a pity. I have them both with me." "Oh, she is provided." "Provided?" "Yes; I found some pistols which I used to take with me on the
continent, and she has them both well loaded, so that if the vampyre
makes his appearance, he is likely to meet with rather a warm
reception." "Good God! was it not dangerous?" "Not at all, I think." "Well, you know best, certainly, of course. I hope the vampyre may come,
and that we may have the pleasure, when we return, of finding him dead. By-the-bye, I--I--. Bless me, I have forgot to get the materials for
lights, which I pledged myself to do." "How unfortunate." "Walk on slowly, while I run back and get them." "Oh, we are too far--"

"Hilloa!" cried a man at this moment, some distance in front of them. "It is Mr. Chillingworth," said Henry. "Hilloa," cried the worthy doctor again. "Is that you, my friend, Henry
Bannerworth?" "It is," cried Henry. Mr. Chillingworth now came up to them and said,--

"I was before my time, so rather than wait at the church porch, which
would have exposed me to observation perhaps, I thought it better to
walk on, and chance meeting with you." "You guessed we should come this way?' "Yes, and so it turns out, really. It is unquestionably your most direct
route to the church." "I think I will go back," said Mr Marchdale. "Back!" exclaimed the doctor; "what for?" "I forgot the means of getting lights. We have candles, but no means of
lighting them." "Make yourselves easy on that score," said Mr. Chillingworth. "I am
never without some chemical matches of my own manufacture, so that as
you have the candles, that can be no bar to our going on a once." "That is fortunate," said Henry. "Very," added Marchdale; "for it seems a mile's hard walking for me, or
at least half a mile from the hall. Let us now push on." They did push on, all four walking at a brisk pace. The church, although
it belonged to the village, was not in it. On the contrary, it was
situated at the end of a long lane, which was a mile nearly from the
village, in the direction of the hall, therefore, in going to it from
the hall, that amount of distance was saved, although it was always
called and considered the village church. It stood alone, with the exception of a glebe house and two cottages,
that were occupied by persons who held situations about the sacred
edifice, and who were supposed, being on the spot, to keep watch and
ward over it. It was an ancient building of the early English style of architecture,
or rather Norman, with one of those antique, square, short towers, built
of flint stones firmly embedded in cement, which, from time, had
acquired almost the consistency of stone itself. There were numerous
arched windows, partaking something of the more florid gothic style,
although scarcely ornamental enough to be called such. The edifice stood
in the centre of a grave-yard, which extended over a space of about half
an acre, and altogether it was one of the prettiest and most rural old
churches within many miles of the spot. Many a lover of the antique and of the picturesque, for it was both,
went out of his way while travelling in the neighbourhood to look at it,
and it had an extensive and well-deserved reputation as a fine specimen
of its class and style of building. In Kent, to the present day, are some fine specimens of the old Roman
style of church, building; and, although they are as rapidly pulled down
as the abuse of modern architects, and the cupidity of speculators, and
the vanity of clergymen can possibly encourage, in older to erect
flimsy, Italianised structures in their stead, yet sufficient of them
remain dotted over England to interest the traveller. At Walesden there
is a church of this description which will well repay a visit. This,
then, was the kind of building into which it was the intention of our
four friends to penetrate, not on an unholy, or an unjustifiable errand,
but on one which, proceeding from good and proper motives, it was highly
desirable to conduct in as secret a manner as possible. The moon was more densely covered by clouds than it had yet been that
evening, when they reached the little wicket-gate which led into the
churchyard, through which was a regularly used thoroughfare. "We have a favourable night," remarked Henry, "for we are not so likely
to be disturbed." "And now, the question is, how are we to get in?" said Mr.
Chillingworth, as he paused, and glanced up at the ancient building. "The doors," said George, "would effectually resist us." "How can it be done, then?" "The only way I can think of," said Henry, "is to get out one of the
small diamond-shaped panes of glass from one of the low windows, and
then we can one of us put in our hands, and undo the fastening, which is
very simple, when the window opens like a door, and it is but a step
into the church." "A good way," said Marchdale. "We will lose no time." They walked round the church till they came to a very low window indeed,
near to an angle of the wall, where a huge abutment struck far out into
the burial-ground. "Will you do it, Henry?" said George. "Yes. I have often noticed the fastenings. Just give me a slight hoist
up, and all will be right." George did so, and Henry with his knife easily bent back some of the
leadwork which held in one of the panes of glass, and then got it out
whole. He handed it down to George, saying,--

"Take this, George. We can easily replace it when we leave, so that
there can be no signs left of any one having been here at all." George took the piece of thick, dim-coloured glass, and in another
moment Henry had succeeded in opening the window, and the mode of
ingress to the old church was fair and easy before them all, had there
been ever so many. "I wonder," said Marchdale, "that a place so inefficiently protected has
never been robbed." "No wonder at all," remarked Mr. Chillingworth. "There is nothing to
take that I am aware of that would repay anybody the trouble of taking." "Indeed!" "Not an article. The pulpit, to be sure, is covered with faded velvet;
but beyond that, and an old box, in which I believe nothing is left but
some books, I think there is no temptation." "And that, Heaven knows, is little enough, then." "Come on," said Henry. "Be careful; there is nothing beneath the window,
and the depth is about two feet."