"Is your friend often thus?" said Sir Francis Varney, with the same mellifluous tone which seemed habitual to him.
"No, sir, he is not; but recent circumstances have shattered his nerves; and, to tell the truth, you bear so strong a resemblance to an old portrait, in his house, that I do not wonder so much as I otherwise should at his agitation."
"Indeed."
"A resemblance!" said Henry; "a resemblance! God of Heaven! it is the face itself."
"You much surprise me," said Sir Francis.
Henry sunk into the chair which was near him, and he trembled violently. The rush of painful thoughts and conjectures that came through his mind was enough to make any one tremble. "Is this the vampyre?" was the horrible question that seemed impressed upon his very brain, in letters of flame. "Is this the vampyre?"
"Are you better, sir?" said Sir Francis Varney, in his bland, musical voice. "Shall I order any refreshment for you?"
"No—no," gasped Henry; "for the love of truth tell me! Is—is your name really Varney!"
"Sir?"