"Open! open! we want Varney, the vampyre. Open! or we will burst it open."
Flora did open it, but stood resolutely in the opening, and held up her hand to impose silence.
"Are you men, that you can come thus to force yourselves upon the privacy of a female? Is there nothing in the town or house, that you must intrude in numbers into a private apartment? Is no place sacred from you?"
"But, ma'am—miss—we only want Varney, the vampyre."
"And can you find him nowhere but in a female's bedroom? Shame on you! shame on you! Have you no sisters, wives, or mothers, that you act thus?"
"He's not there, you may be sure of that, Jack," said a gruff voice. "Let the lady be in quiet; she's had quite enough trouble with him to sicken her of a vampyre. You may be sure that's the last place to find him in."
With this they all turned away, and Flora shut the door and locked it upon them, and Varney was safe.
"You have saved me," said Varney.
"Hush!" said Flora. "Speak not; there maybe some one listening."
Sir Francis Varney stood in the attitude of one listening most anxiously to catch some sounds; the moon fell across his face, and gave it a ghastly hue, that, added to his natural paleness and wounds, gave him an almost unearthly aspect.