Varney came to the earth—for a moment he lay stunned, and not able to move hand or foot.
"Hurrah!" shouted the mob.
Their triumph was short, for just as they shouted Varney arose, and after a moment or two's stagger he set off at full speed, which produced another shout from the mob; and just at that moment, a body of his pursuers were seen scaling the walls after him.
There was now a hunt through all the adjoining fields—from cover after cover they pursued him until he found no rest from the hungry wolves that beset him with cries, resembling beasts of prey rather than any human multitude.
Sir Francis heard them, at the same time, with the despair of a man who is struggling for life, and yet knows he is struggling in vain; he knew his strength was decaying—his immense exertions and the blows he had received, all weakened him, while the number and strength of his foes seemed rather to increase than to diminish.
Once more he sought the houses, and for a moment he believed himself safe, but that was only a momentary deception, for they had traced him.
He arrived at a garden wall, over which he bounded, and then he rushed into the house, the door of which stood open, for the noise and disturbance had awakened most of the inhabitants, who were out in all directions.
He took refuge in a small closet on the stairs, but was seen to do so by a girl, who screamed out with fear and fright,
"Murder! murder!—the wampyre!—the wampyre!" with all her strength, and in the way of screaming that was no little, and then she went off into a fit.
This was signal enough, and the house was at once entered, and beset on all sides by the mob, who came impatient of obtaining their victim who had so often baffled them.