It was a night of more than usual dullness, and, as Sir Francis Varney
removed the massy stone, which hid the narrow and tortuous entrance to
the dungeons, a chilly feeling crept over him, and he could not help
supposing, that even then Marchdale might have played him false, and
neglected to supply the prisoner food, according to his promise. Hastily he descended to the dungeons, and with a step, which had in it
far less of caution, than had usually characterised his proceedings, he
proceeded onwards until he reached that particular dungeon, in which our
young friend, to whom we wished so well, had been so long confined from
the beautiful and cheering light of day, and from all that his heart's
best affections most cling to. "Speak," said Sir Francis Varney, as he entered the dungeon--"If the
occupant of this dreary place live, let him answer one who is as much
his friend as he has been his enemy." "I have no friend," said Charles Holland, faintly; "unless it be one who
would come and restore me to liberty." "And how know you that I am not he?" "Your voice sounds like that of one of my persecutors. Why do you not
place the climax to your injuries by at once taking away life. I should
be better pleased that you would do so, than that I should wear out the
useless struggle of existence in so dreary and wretched an abode as
this." "Young man," said Sir Francis Varney, "I have come to you on a greater
errand of mercy than, probably, you will ever give me credit for. There
is one who would too readily have granted your present request, and who
would at once have taken that life of which you profess to be so
wearied; but which may yet present to you some of its sunniest and most
beautiful aspects." "Your tones are friendly," said Charles; "but yet I dread some new
deception. That you are one of those who consigned me by stratagem, and
by brute force, to this place of durance, I am perfectly well assured,
and, therefore, any good that may be promised by you, presents itself to
me in a very doubtful character." "I cannot be surprised," said Sir Francis Varney, "at such sentiments
arising from your lips; but, nevertheless, I am inclined to save you. You have been detained here because it was supposed by being so, a
particular object would be best obtained by your absence. That object,
however has failed, notwithstanding, and I do not feel further inclined
to protract your sufferings. Have you any guess as to the parties who
have thus confined you?" --"I am unaccustomed to dissemble, and,
therefore I will say at once that I have a guess." "In which way does it tend?" --

"Against Sir Francis Varney, called the vampyre." "Does it not strike you that this may be a dangerous candour?" --"It may,
or it may not be; I cannot help it. I know I am at the mercy of my foes,
and I do not believe that anything I can say or do will make my
situation worse or better." "You are much mistaken there. In other hands than mine, it might make it
much worse; but it happens to be one of my weaknesses, that I am charged
with candour, and that I admire boldness of disposition."--"Indeed! and
yet can behave in the manner you have done towards me." "Yes. There are more things in heaven and on earth than are dreamt of in
your philosophy. I am the more encouraged to set you free, because, if I
procure from you a promise, which I intend to attempt, I am inclined to
believe that you will keep it." --"I shall assuredly keep whatever
promise I may make. Propound your conditions, and if they be such as
honour and honesty will permit me to accede to, I will do so willingly
and at once. Heaven knows I am weary enough of this miserable
imprisonment." "Will you promise me then, if I set you free, not to mention your
suspicions that it is to Sir Francis Varney you owe this ill turn, and
not to attempt any act of vengeance against him as a retaliation for
it." --"I cannot promise so much as that. Freedom, indeed, would be a
poor boon, if I were not permitted freely to converse of some of the
circumstances connected with my captivity." "You object?" --"I do to the former of your propositions, but not to the
latter. I will promise not to go at all out of my way to execute any
vengeance upon you; but I will not promise that I will not communicate
the circumstances of my forced absence from them, to those friends whose
opinion I so much value, and to return to whom is almost as dear to me
as liberty itself." Sir Francis Varney was silent for a few moments, and then he said, in a
tone of deep solemnity,--

"There are ninety-nine persons out of a hundred who would take your life
for the independence of your tongue; but I am as the hundredth one, who
looks with a benevolent eye at your proceedings. Will you promise me, if
I remove the fetters which now bind your limbs, that you will make no
personal attack upon me; for I am weary of personal contention, and I
have no disposition to endure it. Will you make me this promise?" --"I
promise?" --"I will." Without another word, but trusting implicitly to the promise which had
been given to him, Sir Francis Varney produced a small key from his
pocket, and unlocked with it a padlock which confined the chains about
the prisoner. With ease, Charles Holland was then enabled to shake them off, and then,
for the first time, for some weeks, he rose to his feet, and felt all
the exquisite relief of being comparatively free from bondage. "This is delightful, indeed," he said. "It is," said Sir Francis Varney--"it is but a foretaste of the
happiness you will enjoy when you are entirely free. You see that I have
trusted you." "You have trusted me as you might trust me, and you perceive that I have
kept my word." "You have; and since you decline to make me the promise which I would
fain have from you, to the effect that you would not mention me as one
of the authors of your calamity, I must trust to your honour not to
attempt revenge for what you have suffered." "That I will promise. There can be but little difficulty to any generous
mind in giving up such a feeling. In consequence of your sparing me what
you might still further have inflicted, I will let the past rest, and as
if it had never happened really to me; and speak of it to others, but as
a circumstance which I wish not to revert to, but prefer should be
buried in oblivion." "It is well; and now I have a request to make of you, which, perhaps,
you will consider the hardest of all." "Name it. I feel myself bound to a considerable extent to comply with
whatever you may demand of me, that is not contrary to honourable
principle." "Then it is this, that, comparatively free as you are, and in a
condition, as you are, to assert your own freedom, you will not do so
hastily, or for a considerable period; in fact, I wish and expect that
you should wait yet awhile, until it shall suit me to say that it is my
pleasure that you shall be free."