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Thomas Peckett Prest
This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 963 pages of information about Varney the Vampire.

“I know his object well.  His craven spirit shrinks at the notion, a probable enough one, I will admit, that Charles Holland has recognised him, and that, if once free, he would denounce him to the Bannerworths, holding him up to scorn in his true colours, and bringing down upon his head, perhaps, something more than detestation and contempt.  The villain! he is going now to take the life of the man whom he considers chained to the ground.  Well, well, they must fight it out together.  Charles Holland is sufficiently free to take his own part, although Marchdale little thinks that such is the case.”

Marchdale walked on for some little distance, and then he turned and looked after Sir Francis Varney.

“Indeed!” he said; “so you have not released him to-night, but I know well will do so soon.  I do not, for my part, admire this romantic generosity which sets a fox free at the moment that he’s the most dangerous.  It’s all very well to be generous, but it is better to be just first, and that I consider means looking after one’s self first.  I have a poniard here which will soon put an end to the troubles of the prisoner in his dungeon—­its edge is keen and sharp, and will readily find a way to his heart.”

He walked on quite exultingly and carelessly now, for he had got into the open country, and it was extremely unlikely that he would meet anybody on his road to the ruins.

It did not take many minutes, sharp walking now to bring him close to the spot which he intended should become such a scene of treacherous slaughter, and just then he heard from afar off something like the muttering of thunder, as if Heaven itself was proclaiming its vengeance against the man who had come out to slay one of its best and noblest creatures.

“What is that’” said Marchdale, shrinking back a moment; “what is that—­an approaching storm?  It must be so, for, now I recollect me, the sun set behind a bank of clouds of a fiery redness, and as the evening drew in there was every appearance in the heavens of some ensuing strife of the elements.”

He listened for a few moments, and fixed his eyes intently in the direction of the horizon from where the muttering sounds had proceeded.

He had not long to wait before he saw a bright flash of blue lightning, which for one instant illumined the sky; then by the time he could have counted twelve there came the thunder which the flash preceded, and he felt terribly anxious to complete his enterprize, so that he might get back to the town and be safely housed before the storm, which was evidently approaching, should burst upon him.

“It is sweeping on apace,” he said; “why did I not come earlier?”

Even as he spoke he plunged among the recesses of the ruins, and searching about for the old stone which covered the entrance to the dungeon, he was surprised to find it rolled from its place, and the aperture open.

“What is the meaning of this?” he said; “how negligent of Sir Francis Varney; or perhaps, after all, he was only jesting with me, and let the prisoner go.  If that should be the case, I am foiled indeed; but surely he could not be so full of indiscretion.”

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