“That can only be done by flight.  Leave this place, I implore you! leave it as quickly as the movement may be made.  Linger not—­cast not one regretful look behind you on your ancient home.  I shall remain in this locality for years.  Let me lose sight of you, I will not pursue you; but, by force of circumstances, I am myself compelled to linger here.  Flight is the only means by which you may avoid a doom as terrific as that which I endure.”

“But tell me,” said Flora, after a moment’s pause, during which she appeared to be endeavouring to gather courage to ask some fearful question; “tell me if it be true that those who have once endured the terrific attack of a vampyre, become themselves, after death, one of that dread race?”

“It is by such means,” said Varney, “that the frightful brood increases; but time and circumstances must aid the development of the new and horrible existence.  You, however, are safe.”

“Safe!  Oh! say that word again.”

“Yes, safe; not once or twice will the vampyre’s attack have sufficient influence on your mortal frame, as to induce a susceptibility on your part to become coexistent with such as he.  The attacks must be often repeated, and the termination of mortal existence must be a consequence essential, and direct from those attacks, before such a result may be anticipated.”

“Yes, yes; I understand.”

“If you were to continue my victim from year to year, the energies of life would slowly waste away, and, till like some faint taper’s gleam, consuming more sustenance than it received, the veriest accident would extinguish your existence, and then, Flora Bannerworth, you might become a vampyre.”

“Oh! horrible! most horrible!”

“If by chance, or by design, the least glimpse of the cold moonbeams rested on your apparently lifeless remains, you would rise again and be one of us—­a terror to yourself and a desolation to all around.”

“Oh!  I will fly from here,” said Flora.  “The hope of escape from so terrific and dreadful a doom shall urge me onward; if flight can save me—­flight from Bannerworth Hall, I will pause not until continents and oceans divide us.”

“It is well.  I’m able now thus calmly to reason with you.  A few short months more and I shall feel the languor of death creeping over me, and then will come that mad excitement of the brain, which, were you hidden behind triple doors of steel, would tempt me again to seek your chamber—­again to seize you in my full embrace—­again to draw from your veins the means of prolonged life—­again to convulse your very soul with terror.”

“I need no incentives,” said Flora, with a shudder, “in the shape of descriptions of the past, to urge me on.”

“You will fly from Bannerworth Hall?”

“Yes, yes!” said Flora, “it shall be so; its very chambers now are hideous with the recollection of scenes enacted in them.  I will urge my brothers, my mother, all to leave, and in some distant clime we will find security and shelter.  There even we will learn to think of you with more of sorrow than of anger—­more pity than reproach—­more curiosity than loathing.”