"What am I?"
"Hush, Henry, hush," cried Marchdale. "Remember you are in this gentleman's house."
"True, true. Why does he tempt me to say these dreadful things? I do not want to say them."
"Come away, then—come away at once. Sir Francis Varney, my friend, Mr. Bannerworth, will think over your offer, and let you know. I think you may consider that your wish to become the purchaser of the Hall will be complied with."
"I wish to have it," said Varney, "and I can only say, that if I am master of it, I shall be very happy to see any of the family on a visit at any time."
"A visit!" said Henry, with a shudder. "A visit to the tomb were far more desirable. Farewell, sir."
"Adieu," said Sir Francis Varney, and he made one of the most elegant bows in the world, while there came over his face a peculiarity of expression that was strange, if not painful, to contemplate. In another minute Henry and Marchdale were clear of the house, and with feelings of bewilderment and horror, which beggar all description, poor Henry allowed himself to be led by the arm by Marchdale to some distance, without uttering a word. When he did speak, he said,—
"Marchdale, it would be charity of some one to kill me."
"To kill you!"
"Yes, for I am certain otherwise that I must go mad."