"Oh, that's not him; he got away."
"I don't care," replied the other, "who got away, or who didn't; I know this much, that he's a wampyre,—he wouldn't be there if he warn't."
This was an unanswerable argument, and nobody could deny it; consequently, there was a cessation of talk, and the people then came up, as the two first were looking at the body.
"Whose is it?" inquired a dozen voices.
"Not Sir Francis Varney's!" said the second speaker; "the clothes are not his—"
"No, no; not Sir Francis's"
"But I tell you what, mates," said the first speaker; "that if it isn't Sir Francis Varney's, it is somebody else's as bad. I dare say, now, he's a wictim."
"A what!"
"A wictim to the wampyre; and, if he sees the blessed moonlight, he will be a wampyre hisself, and so shall we be, too, if he puts his teeth into us."