ascended to the landing
of the first story, and then, as he could have no choice, he opened the
first door that his eyes fell upon, and entered a tolerably large
apartment. It was quite destitute of furniture, and at the moment
Charles was about to pronounce it empty; but then his eyes fell upon a
large black-looking bundle of something, that seemed to be lying jammed
up under the window on the floor--that being the place of all others in
the room which was enveloped in the most shadow.

He started back involuntarily at the moment, for the appearance was one
so shapeless, that there was no such thing as defining, from even that
distance, what it really was.

Then he slowly and cautiously approached it, as we always approach that
of the character of which we are ignorant, and concerning the powers of
which to do injury we can consequently have no defined idea.

That it was a human form there, was the first tangible opinion he had
about it; and from its profound stillness, and the manner in which it
seemed to be laid close under the window, he thought that he was surely
upon the point of finding out that some deed of blood had been
committed, the unfortunate victim of which was now lying before him.

Upon a nearer examination, he found that the whole body, including the
greater part of the head and face, was wrapped in a large cloak; and
there, as he gazed, he soon found cause to correct his first opinion at
to the form belonging to the dead, for he could distinctly hear the
regular breathing, as of some one in a sound and dreamless sleep.

Closer he went, and closer still. Then, as he clasped his hands, he
said, in a voice scarcely above a whisper,--

"It is--it is the vampyre."

Yes, there could be no doubt of the fact. It was Sir Francis Varney who
lay there, enveloped in the huge horseman's cloak, in which, on two or
three occasions during the progress of this narrative, he had figured.
There he lay, at the mercy completely of any arm that might be raised
against him, apparently so overcome by fatigue that no ordinary noise
would have awakened him.

Well might Charles Holland gaze at him with mingled feelings. There lay
the being who had done almost enough to drive the beautiful Flora
Bannerworth distracted--the being who had compelled the Bannerworth
family to leave their ancient house, to which they had been bound by
every description of association. The same mysterious existence, too,
who, the better to c