once much-loved
spot--a spot hitherto sacred to the best and noblest feelings, but now
doomed for ever to be associated with that terrific spectre of despair.

But she was in no state to see so terrible a sight. Her hands were over
her face, and she was weeping still.

"Surely, he loves me," she whispered; "he has said he loved me, and he
does not speak in vain. He loves me still, and I shall again look upon
his face, a Heaven to me! Charles! Charles! you will come again? Surely,
they sin against the divinity of love, who would tell me that you love
me not!"

"Ha!" muttered Varney, "this passion is her first, and takes a strong
hold on her young heart--she loves him--but what are human affections to
me? I have no right to count myself in the great muster-roll of
humanity. I look not like an inhabitant of the earth, and yet am on it.
I love no one, expect no love from any one, but I will make humanity a
slave to me; and the lip-service of them who hate me in their hearts,
shall be as pleasant jingling music to my ear, as if it were quite
sincere! I will speak to this girl; she is not mad--perchance she may
be."

There was a diabolical look of concentrated hatred upon Varney's face,
as he now advanced two paces towards the beautiful Flora.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

THE THREAT.--ITS CONSEQUENCES.--THE RESCUE, AND SIR FRANCIS VARNEY'S
DANGER.

[Illustration]

Sir Francis Varney now paused again, and he seemed for a few moments to
gloat over the helpless condition of her whom he had so determined to
make his victim; there was no look of pity in his face, no one touch of
human kindness could be found in the whole expression of those
diabolical features; and if he delayed making the attempt to strike
terror into the heart of that unhappy, but beautiful being, it could not
be from any relenting feeling, but simply, that he wished for a few
moments to indulge his imagination with the idea of perfecting his
villany more effectually.

Alas! and they who would have flown to her rescue,--they, who for her
would have chanced all accidents, ay, even life itself, were sleeping,
and knew not of the loved one's danger. She was alone, and far enough
from the house, to be driven to that tottering verge where sanity ends,
and the dream of madness, with all its terrors, commences.

But still she slept--if that half-waking sleep could indeed be
considered as any thing akin to ordinary slumber--still she slept, and
called mournfu