"I am changed, Charles. Fearfully changed. The curse of God has fallen upon me, I know not why. I know not that in word or in thought I have done evil, except perchance unwittingly, and yet—the vampyre."
"Let not that affright you."
"Affright me! It has killed me."
"Nay, Flora,—you think too much of what I still hope to be susceptible of far more rational explanation."
"By your own words, then, Charles, I must convict you. I cannot, I dare not be yours, while such a dreadful circumstance is hanging over me, Charles; if a more rational explanation than the hideous one which my own fancy gives to the form that visits me can be found, find it, and rescue me from despair and from madness."
They had now reached the summer-house, and as Flora uttered these words she threw herself on to a seat, and covering her beautiful face with her hands, she sobbed convulsively.
"You have spoken," said Charles, dejectedly. "I have heard that which you wished to say to me."
"No, no. Not all, Charles."
"I will be patient, then, although what more you may have to add should tear my very heart-strings."
"I—I have to add, Charles," she said, in a tremulous voice, "that justice, religion, mercy—every human attribute which bears the name of virtue, calls loudly upon me no longer to hold you to vows made under different auspices."