ess that was still around.

The effect of the shot was then to him painfully apparent. He saw Varney
stop instantly; then make a vain attempt to stagger forward a little,
and finally fall heavily to the earth, with all the appearance of one
killed upon the spot.

"You have hit him," said Marchdale--"you have hit him. Bravo!"--"I
have--hit him."

"Yes, a capital shot, by Jove!"--"I am very sorry."

"Sorry! sorry for ridding the world of such a being! What was in your
pistol?"--"A couple of slugs."

"Well, they have made a lodgment in him, that's quite clear. Let's go up
and finish him at once."--"He seems finished."

"I beg your pardon there. When the moonbeams fall upon him he'll get up
and walk away as if nothing was the matter."--"Will he?" cried Tom, with
animation--"will he?"

"Certainly he will."--"Thank God for that. Now, hark you, Mr. Marchdale:
I should not have fired if you had not at the moment urged me to do so.
Now, I shall stay and see if the effect which you talk of will ensue;
and although it may convince me that he is a vampyre, and that there are
such things, he may go off, scot free, for me."

"Go off?"--"Yes; I don't want to have even a vampyre's blood upon my
hands."

"You are exceedingly delicate."--"Perhaps I am; it's my way, though. I
have shot him--not you, mind; so, in a manner of speaking, he belongs to
me. Now, mark, me: I won't have him touched any more to-night, unless
you think there's a chance of making a prisoner of him without
violence."

"There he lies; you can go and make a prisoner of him at once, dead as
he is; and if you take him out of the moonlight--"

"I understand; he won't recover."--"Certainly not."

"But, as I want him to recover, that don't suit me."--"Well, I cannot
but honour your scruples, although I do not actually share in them; but
I promise you that, since such is your wish, I will take no steps
against the vampyre; but let us come up to him and see if he be really
dead, or only badly wounded."

Tom Eccles hang back a little from this proposal; but, upon being urged
again by Marchdale, and told that he need not go closer than he chose,
he consented, and the two of them approached the prostrate form of Sir
Francis Varney, which lay upon its face in the faint moonlight, which
each moment was gathering strength and power.

"He lies upon his face," said Marchdale. "Will you go and turn him
over?"--"Who--I? God forbid I should touch him."

"Well--well,