"You may depend, Varney, that, as long as you have an asylum with us,"
said the admiral--"and that you may have as long as you like,--you may
be at peace. I consider that you have surrendered at discretion, and,
under such circumstances, an enemy always deserves honourable treatment,
and always gets it on board such a ship as this." "There you go again," said Jack, "calling the house a ship." "What's that to you, if I were to call it a bowsprit? Ain't I your
captain, you lubber, and so, sure to be right, while you are wrong, in
the natural order of things? But you go and lay down, Master Varney, and
rest yourself, for you seem completely done up." Varney did look fearfully exhausted; and, with the assistance of Henry
and Charles, he went into another apartment, and laid down upon a couch,
showing great symptoms of debility and want of power. And now it was a calm; Varney's stay at the cottage of the Bannerworths
was productive of a different mood of mind than ever he had possessed
before. He looked upon them in a very different manner to what he had
been used to. He had, moreover, considerably altered prospects; there
could not be the same hopes and expectations that he once had. He was an
altered man. He saw in the Bannerworths those who had saved his life,
and who, without doubt, had possessed an opinion, not merely obnoxious
to him, but must have had some fearful misgivings concerning his
character, and that, too, of a nature that usually shuts out all hope of
being received into any family. But, in the hour of his need, when his life was in danger, no one else
would have done what they had done for him, especially when so
relatively placed. Moreover, he had been concealed, when to do so was both dangerous and
difficult; and then it was done by Flora Bannerworth herself. Time flew by. The mode of passing time at the cottage was calm and
serene. Varney had seldom witnessed anything like it; but, at the same
time, he felt more at ease than ever he had; he was charmed with the
society of Flora--in fact, with the whole of the little knot of
individuals who there collected together; from what he saw he was
gratified in their society; and it seemed to alleviate his mental
disquiet, and the sense he must feel of his own peculiar position. But
Varney became ill. The state of mind and body he had been in for some
time past might be the cause of it. He had been much harassed, and
hunted from place to place. There was not a moment in which his life was
not in danger, and he had, moreover, more than one case, received some
bodily injuries, bruises, and contusions of a desperate character; and
yet he would take no notice of them, but allow them to get well again,
as best they could. [Illustration]

His escapes and injuries had made a deep impression upon his mind, and
had no doubt a corresponding effect upon his body, and Varney became
very ill.

Flora Bannerworth did all that could be done for one in his painful
position, and this greatly added to the depths of thought that
occasionally beset him, and he could scarcely draw one limb after the
other. He walked from room to room in the twilight, at which time he had more
liberty permitted him than at any other, because there was not the same
danger in his doing so; for, if once seen, there could be no manner of
doubt but he would have been pursued until he was destroyed, when no
other means of escape were at hand; and Varney himself felt that there
could be no chance of his again escaping from them, for his physical
powers were fast decaying; he was not, in fact, the same man. He came out into the parlour from the room in which he had been seated
during the day. Flora and her mother were there, while Charles Holland
and Henry Bannerworth had both at that moment entered the apartment. "Good evening, Miss Bannerworth," said Sir Francis, bowing to her, and
then to her mother, Mrs. Bannerworth; "and you, Mr. Holland, I see, have
been out enjoying the free breeze that plays over the hot fields. It
must be refreshing." "It is so, sir," said Charles. "I wish we could make you a partaker in
our walks." "I wish you could with all my heart," said Varney. "Sir Francis," said Flora, "must be a prisoner for some short time
longer yet." "I ought not to consider it in any such light. It is not imprisonment. I
have taken sanctuary. It is the well spring of life to me," said Varney. "I hope it may prove so; but how do you find yourself this evening, Sir
Francis Varney?" "Really, it is difficult to say--I fluctuate. At times, I feel as though
I should drop insensible on the earth, and then I feel better than I
have done for some time previously." "Doctor Chillingworth will be here bye and bye, no doubt; and he must
see what he can do for you to relieve you of these symptoms," said
Flora. "I am much beholden to you--much beholden to you; but I hope to be able
to do without the good doctor's aid in this instance, though I must
admit I may appear ungrateful." "Not at all--not at all." "Have you heard any news abroad to-day?" inquired Varney. "None, Sir Francis--none; there is nothing apparently stirring; and now,
go out when you would, you would find nothing but what was old, quiet,
and familiar." "We cannot wish to look upon anything with mere charms for a mind at
ease, than we can see under such circumstances; but I fear there are
some few old and familiar features that I should find sad havoc in." "You would, certainly, for the burnings and razings to the ground of
some places, have made some dismal appearances; but time may efface
that, and then the evil may die away, and the future will become the
present, should we be able to allay popular feeling." "Yes," said Sir Francis; "but popular prejudices, or justice, or
feeling, are things not easily assuaged. The people when once aroused go
on to commit all kinds of excess, and there is no one point at which
they will step short of the complete extirpation of some one object or
other that they have taken a fancy to hunt." "The hubbub and excitement must subside." "The greater the ignorance the more persevering and the more brutal they
are," said Sir Francis; "but I must not complain of what is the
necessary consequence of their state." "It might be otherwise." "So it might, and no mischief arise either; but as we cannot divert the
stream, we may as well bend to the force of a current too strong to
resist." "The moon is up," said Flora, who wished to turn the conversation from
that to another topic. "I see it yonder through the trees; it rises red
and large--it is very beautiful--and yet there is not a cloud about to
give it the colour and appearance it now wears." "Exactly so," said Sir Francis Varney; "but the reason is the air is
filled with a light, invisible vapour, that has the effect you perceive. There has been much evaporation going on, and now it shows itself in
giving the moon that peculiar large appearance and deep colour."