A consultation was suddenly held among
the inmates, as to what was to be done, but no one could advise, and
each was well aware of the utter impossibility of keeping the mob out. "I do not see what is to become of me," said Sir Francis Varney,
suddenly appearing before them. "You must let them in; there is no
chance of keeping them off, neither can you conceal me. You will have no
place, save one, that will be sacred from their profanation." "And which is that?" "Flora's own room." All started at the thought that Flora's chamber could in any way be
profaned by any such presence as Sir Francis Varney's. However, the doors below were suddenly burst open, amid loud cries from
the populace, who rushed in in great numbers, and began to search the
lower rooms, immediately. "All is lost!" said Sir Francis Varney, as he dashed away and rushed to
the chamber of Flora, who, alarmed at the sounds that were now filling
the house, stood listening to them. "Miss Bannerworth--" began Varney. "Sir Francis!" "Yes, it is indeed I, Miss Bannerworth; hear me, for one moment." "What is the matter?" "I am again in peril--in more imminent peril than before; my life is not
worth a minute's purchase, unless you save me. You, and you alone, can
now save me. Oh! Miss Bannerworth, if ever pity touched your heart, save
me from those only whom I now fear. I could meet death in any shape but
that in which they will inflict it upon me. Hear their execrations
below!" "Death to the vampyre! death to Varney! burn him! run a stake through
his body!" [Illustration]

"What can I do, Sir Francis?" "Admit me to your chamber." "Sir Francis, are you aware of what you are saying?" "I am well. It is a request which you would justly scorn to reply to,
but now my life--recollect you have saved me once--my life,--do not now
throw away the boon you have so kindly bestowed. Save me, Miss
Bannerworth." "It is not possible. I--"

"Nay, Miss Bannerworth, do you imagine this is a time for ceremony, or
the observances of polished life! On my honour, you run no risk of
censure." "Where is Varney? Where is the vampyre? He ain't far off." "Hear--hear them, Miss Bannerworth. They are now at the foot of the
stairs. Not a moment to lose. One minute more, and I am in the hands of
a crew that has no mercy." "Hurrah! upstairs! He's not below. Upstairs, neighbours, we shall have
him yet!" These words sounded on the stairs: half-a-dozen more steps, and Varney
would be seen. It was a miracle he was not heard begging for his life. Varney cast a look of despair at the stairhead and felt for his sword,
but it was not there, he had lost it. He struck his head with his
clenched hand, and was about to rush upon his foes, when he heard the
lock turn; he looked, and saw the door opened gently, and Flora stood
there; he passed in, and sank cowering into a chair, at the other end of
the room, behind some curtains. The door was scarcely shut ere some tried to force it, and then a loud
knocking came at the door. "Open! open! we want Varney, the vampyre. Open! or we will burst it
open." Flora did open it, but stood resolutely in the opening, and held up her
hand to impose silence. "Are you men, that you can come thus to force yourselves upon the
privacy of a female? Is there nothing in the town or house, that you
must intrude in numbers into a private apartment? Is no place sacred
from you?" "But, ma'am--miss--we only want Varney, the vampyre." "And can you find him nowhere but in a female's bedroom? Shame on you! shame on you! Have you no sisters, wives, or mothers, that you act
thus?" "He's not there, you may be sure of that, Jack," said a gruff voice. "Let the lady be in quiet; she's had quite enough trouble with him to
sicken her of a vampyre. You may be sure that's the last place to find
him in." With this they all turned away, and Flora shut the door and locked it
upon them, and Varney was safe. "You have saved me," said Varney. "Hush!" said Flora. "Speak not; there maybe some one listening." Sir Francis Varney stood in the attitude of one listening most anxiously
to catch some sounds; the moon fell across his face, and gave it a
ghastly hue, that, added to his natural paleness and wounds, gave him an
almost unearthly aspect. The sounds grew more and more distant; the shouts and noise of men
traversing the apartments subsided, and gradually the place became
restored to its original silence. The mob, after having searched every
other part of the house, and not finding the object of their search,
they concluded that he was not there, but must have made his escape
before. *       *       *       *       *

This most desperate peril of Sir Francis Varney seemed to have more
effect upon him than anything that had occurred during his most strange
and most eventful career. When he was assured that the riotous mob that had been so intent upon
his destruction was gone, and that he might emerge from his place of
concealment, he did so with an appearance of such utter exhaustion that
the Bannerworth family could not but look upon him as a being who was
near his end. At any time his countenance, as we long have had occasion to remark, was
a strange and unearthly looking one; but when we come to superadd to the
strangeness of his ordinary appearance the traces of deep mental
emotion, we may well say that Varney's appearance was positively of the
most alarming character. When he was seated in the ordinary sitting apartment of the
Bannerworths, he drew a long sighing breath, and placing his hand upon
his heart, he said, in a faint tone of voice,--

"It beats now laboriously, but it will soon cease its pulsations for
ever." These words sounded absolutely prophetic, there was about them such a
solemn aspect, and he looked at the same time that he uttered them so
much like one whose mortal race was run, and who was now a candidate for
the grave. "Do not speak so despairingly," said Charles Holland; "remember, that if
your life has been one of errors hitherto, how short a space of time may
suffice to redeem some of them at least, and the communication to me
which you have not yet completed may to some extent have such an
effect." "No, no. It may contribute to an act of justice, but it can do no good
to me. And yet do not suppose that because such is my impression that I
mean to hesitate in finishing to you that communication." "I rejoice to hear you say so, and if you would, now that you must be
aware of what good feelings towards you we are all animated with, remove
the bar of secrecy from the communication, I should esteem it a great
favour." Varney appeared to be considering for a few moments, and then he said,--

"Well, well. Let the secrecy no longer exist. Have it removed at once. I
will no longer seek to maintain it. Tell all, Charles Holland--tell
all."