Varney the Vampyre 85The Hunt for Varney.—the House-Tops.—the Miraculous Escape.—the Last Place of Refuge.—the Cottage
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Literature · Horror
Varney the Vampyre 85
The Hunt for Varney.—the House-Tops.—the Miraculous Escape.—the Last Place of Refuge.—the Cottage
RymerEnglish
On the tree tops the moon shines brightly, and the long shadows are shooting its rays down upon the waters, and the green fields appear clothed in a flood of silver light; the little town was quiet and tranquil—nature seemed at rest.
The old mansion in which Sir Francis Varney had taken refuge, stood empty and solitary; it seemed as though it were not associated with the others by which it was surrounded. It was gloomy, and in the moonlight it reminded one of things long gone by, existences that had once been, but now no longer of this present time—a mere memento of the past.
Sir Francis Varney reclined upon the house-top; he gazed upon the sky, and upon the earth; he saw the calm tranquility that reigned around, and could not but admire what he saw; he sighed, he seemed to sigh, from a pleasure he felt in the fact of his security; he could repose there without fear, and breathe the balmy air that fanned his cheek.
“Certainly,” he muttered, “things might have been worse, but not much worse; however, they might have been much better; the ignorant are always the most to be feared, because they have no guide and no control, save what can be exerted over them by their fears and their passions.”
He paused to look again over the scene, and, as far as the eye could reach, and that, moonlight as it was, was many miles, the country was diversified with hill and dale, meadow and ploughed land; the open fields, and the darker woods, and the silvery stream that ran at no great distance, all presented a scene that was well calculated to warm the imagination, and to give the mind that charm which a cultivated understanding is capable of receiving.
There was but one thing wanted to make such a scene one of pure happiness, and that was all absence of care of fears for the future and the wants of life.
Suddenly there was a slight sound that came from the town. It was very slight, but the ears of Sir Francis Varney were painfully acute of late; the least sound that came across him was heard in a moment, and his whole visage was changed to one of listening interest.
The sound was hushed; but his attention was not lulled, for he had been placed in circumstances that made all his vigilance necessary for his own preservation. Hence it was, what another would have passed over, or not heard at all, he both heard and noticed. He was not sure of the nature of the sound, it was so slight and so indistinct.
There it was again! Some persons were moving about in the town. The sounds that came upon the night air seemed to say that there was an unusual bustle in the town, which was, to Sir Francis Varney, ominous in the extreme.
What could people in such a quiet, retired place require out at such an hour at night? It must be something very unusual—something that must excite them to a great degree; and Sir Francis began to feel very uneasy.
“They surely,” he muttered to himself—“they surely cannot have found out my hiding place, and intend to hunt me from it, the blood-thirsty hounds! they are never satisfied. The mischief they are permitted to do on one occasion is but the precursor to another. The taste has caused the appetite for more, and nothing short of his blood can satisfy it.”
The sounds increased, and the noise came nearer and nearer, and it appeared as though a number of men had collected together, and were coming towards him. Yes, they were coming down the lane towards the deserted mansion where he was.
For once in his life, Sir Francis Varney trembled; he felt sick at heart, though no man was less likely to give up hope and to despair than he; yet this sign of unrelenting hatred and persecution was too unequivocal and too stern not to produce its effect upon even his mind; for he had no doubt but that they were coming with the express purpose of seeking him.
How they could have found him out was a matter he could not imagine. The Bannerworths could not have betrayed him—he was sure of that; and yet who could have seen him, so cautious and so careful as he had been, and so very sparing had he lived, because he would not give the slightest cause for all that was about to follow. He hoped to have hidden himself; but now he could hear the tramp of men distinctly, and their voices came now on the night air, though it was in a subdued tone, as if they were desirous of approaching unheard and unseen by their victim.
Sir Francis Varney stirred not from his position. He remained silent and motionless. He appeared not to heed what was going on; perhaps he hoped to see them go by—to be upon some false scent; or, if they saw no signs of life, they might leave the place, and go elsewhere.
Hark! they stop at the house—they go not by; they seem to pause, and then a thundering knock came at the door, which echoed and re-echoed through the empty and deserted house, on the top of which sat, in silent expectation, the almost motionless Sir Francis Varney, the redoubted vampyre.
The knock which came so loud and so hard upon the door caused Sir Francis to start visibly, for it seemed his own knell. Then, as if the mob were satisfied with their knowledge of his presence, and of their victory, and of his inability to escape them, they sent up a loud shout that filled the whole neighbourhood with its sound.
It seemed to come from below and around the house; it rose from all sides, and that told Sir Francis Varney that the house was surrounded and all escape was cut off; there was no chance of his being able to rush through such a multitude of men as that which now encircled him.
With the calmest despair, Sir Francis Varney lay still and motionless on the house-top, and listened to the sounds that proceeded from below. Shout after shout arose on the still, calm air of the night; knock after knock came upon the stout old door, which awakened responsive echoes throughout the house that had for many years lain dormant, and which now seemed disturbed, and resounded in hollow murmurs to the voices from without.
Then a loud voice shouted from below, as if to be heard by any one who might be within,—
“Sir Francis Varney, the vampyre, come out and give yourself up at discretion! If we have to search for you, you may depend it will be to punish you; you will suffer by burning. Come out and give yourself up.”
There was a pause, and then a loud shout.
Sir Francis Varney paid no attention to this summons, but sat, motionless, on the house-top, where he could hear all that passed below in the crowd.
“He will not come out,” said one.
“Ah! he’s much too cunning to be caught in such a trap. Why, he knows what you would do with him; he knows you would stake him, and make a bonfire about him.”
“So he has no taste for roasting,” remarked another; “but still, it’s no use hiding; we have too many hands, and know the house too well to be easily baffled.”
“That may be; and, although he don’t like burning, yet we will unearth the old fox, somehow or other; we have discovered his haunt at last, and certainly we’ll have him out.”
“How shall we get in?”
“Knock in the door—break open the door! the front door—that is the best, because it leads to all parts of the house, and we can secure any one who attempts to move from one to the other, as they come down.”
“Hurrah!” shouted several men in the crowd.
“Hurrah!” echoed the mob, with one accord, and the shout rent the air, and disturbed the quietude and serenity that scarce five minutes before reigned through the place.
Then, as if actuated by one spirit, they all set to work to force the door in. It was strong, and capable of great defence, and employed them, with some labour, for fifteen or twenty minutes, and then, with a loud crash, the door fell in.
“Hurrah!” again shouted the crowd.
These shouts announced the fall of the door, and then, and not until then, did Sir Francis Varney stir.
“They have broken in the door,” he muttered, “well, if die I must, I will sell my life dearly. However, all is not yet lost, and, in the struggle for life, the loss is not so much felt.”
He got up, and crept towards the trap that led into the house, or out of it, as the occasion might require.
“The vampyre! the vampyre!” shouted a man who stood on a garden wall, holding on by the arm of an apple-tree.
“Varney, the vampyre!” shouted a second.
“Hurrah! boys, we are on the right scent; now for a hunt; hurrah! we shall have him now.”
They rushed in a tumultuous riot up the stone steps, and into the hall. It was a large, spacious place, with a grand staircase that led up to the upper floor, but it had two ends, and then terminated in a gallery.
It could not be defended by one man, save at the top, where it could not long be held, because the assailants could unite, and throw their whole weight against the entrance, and thus storm it. This actually happened.
They looked up, and, seeing nobody, they rushed up, some by one stair, and some by the other; but it was dark; there were but few of the moon’s rays that pierced the gloom of that place, and those who first reached the place which we have named, were seized with astonishment, staggered, and fell.
Sir Francis Varney had met them; he stood there with a staff—something he had found about the house—not quite so long as a broom-handle, but somewhat thicker and heavier, being made of stout ash.
This formidable weapon, Sir Francis Varney wielded with strength and resolution; he was a tall man, and one of no mean activity and personal strength, and such a weapon, in his hands, was one of a most fearful character, and, for the occasion, much better than his sword.
Man after man fell beneath the fearful force of these blows, for though they could not see Sir Francis, yet he could see them, for the hall-lights were behind them at the time, while he stood in the dark, and took advantage of this to deal murderous blows upon his assailants.
This continued for some minutes, till they gave way before such a vigorous defence, and paused.
“On, neighbours, on,” cried one; “will you be beaten off by one man? Rush in at once and you must force him from his position—push him hard, and he must give way.”
“Ay,” said one fellow who sat upon the ground rubbing his head; “it’s all very well to say push him hard, but if you felt the weight of that d—d pole on your head, you wouldn’t be in such a blessed hurry.”
However true that might be, there was but little attention paid to it, and a determined rush was made at the entrance to the gallery, and they found that it was unoccupied; and that was explained by the slamming of a door, and its being immediately locked upon them; and when the mob came to the door, they found they had to break their way through another door.
This did not take long in effecting; and in less than five minutes they had broken through that door which led into another room; but the first man who entered it fell from a crashing blow on the head from the ashen staff of Sir Francis Varney, who hurried and fled, closely pursued, until he came to another door, through which he dashed.
Here he endeavoured to make a stand and close it, but was immediately struck and grappled with; but he threw his assailant, and turned and fled again.
His object had been to defend each inch of the ground as long as he was able; but he found they came too close upon his steps, and prevented his turning in time to try the strength of his staff upon the foremost.
He dashed up the first staircase with surprising rapidity, leaving his pursuers behind; and when he had gained the first landing, he turned upon those who pursued him, who could hardly follow him two abreast.
“Down with the vampyre!” shouted the first, who rushed up heedless of the staff.
“Down with a fool!” thundered Varney, as he struck the fellow a terrific blow, which covered his face with blood, and he fell back into the arms of his companions.
A bitter groan and execration arose from them below, and again they shouted, and rushed up headlong.
“Down with the vampyre!” was again shouted, and met by a corresponding, but deep guttural sound of—
“Down with a fool!”
And sure enough the first again came to the earth without any preparation, save the application of an ashen stick to his skull, which, by-the-bye, no means aided the operation of thinking.
Several more shared a similar fate; but they pressed hard, and Sir Francis was compelled to give ground to keep them at the necessary length from him, as they rushed on regardless of his blows, and if he had not he would soon have been engaged in a personal struggle, for they were getting too close for him to use the staff.
“Down with the vampyre!” was the renewed cry, as they drove him from spot to spot until he reached the roof of the house, and then he ran up the steps to the loft, which he had just reached when they came up to the bottom.
Varney attempted to draw the ladder up, but four or five stout men held that down; then by a sudden turn, as they were getting up, he turned it over, threw those on it down, and the ladder too, upon the heads of those who were below.
“Down with the vampyre!” shouted the mob, as they, with the most untiring energy, set the ladder, or steps, against the loft, and as many as could held it, while others rushed up to attack Varney with all the ferocity and courage of so many bull-dogs.
It was strange, but the more they were baffled the more enraged and determined they rushed on to a new attack, with greater resolution than ever.
On this occasion, however, they were met with a new kind of missile, for Sir Francis had either collected and placed there for the occasion, or they had been left there for years, a number of old bricks, which lay close at hand. These he took, one by one, and deliberately took aim at them, and flung them with great force, striking down every one they hit.
This caused them to recoil; the bricks caused fearful gashes in their heads, and the wounds were serious, the flesh being, in many places, torn completely off. They however, only paused, for one man said,—
“Be of good heart, comrades, we can do as he does; he has furnished us with weapons, and we can thus attack him in two ways, and he must give way in the end.”
“Hurrah! down with the vampyre!” sounded from all sides, and the shout was answered by a corresponding rush.
It was true; Sir Francis had furnished them with weapons to attack himself, for they could throw them back at him, which they did, and struck him a severe blow on the head, and it covered his face with blood in a moment.
“Hurrah!” shouted the assailants; “another such a blow, and all will be over with the vampyre.”
“He’s got——”
“Press him sharp, now,” cried another man, as he aimed another blow with a brick, which struck Varney on the arm, causing him to drop the brick he held in his hand. He staggered back, apparently in great pain.
“Up! up! we have him now; he cannot get away; he’s hurt; we have him—we have him.”
And up they went with all the rapidity they could scramble up the steps; but this had given Varney time to recover himself; and though his right arm was almost useless, yet he contrived, with his left, to pitch the bricks so as to knock over the first three or four, when, seeing that he could not maintain his position to advantage, he rushed to the outside of the house, the last place he had capable of defence.
There was a great shout by those outside, when they saw him come out and stand with his staff, and those who came first got first served, for the blows resounded, while he struck them, and sent them over below.
Then came a great shout from within and without, and then a desperate rush was made at the door, and, in the next instant, Varney was seen flying, followed by his pursuers, one after the other, some tumbling over the tiles, to the imminent hazard of their necks.
Sir Francis Varney rushed along with a speed that appeared by far too great to admit of being safely followed, and yet those who followed appeared infected by his example, and appeared heedless of all consequences by which their pursuit might be attended to themselves.
“Hurrah!” shouted the mob below.
“Hurrah!” answered the mob on the tiles.
Then, over several housetops might be seen the flying figure of Sir Francis Varney, pursued by different men at a pace almost equal to his own.
They, however, could keep up the same speed, and not improve upon it, while he kept the advantage he first obtained in the start.
Then suddenly he disappeared.
It seemed to the spectators below that he had dropped through a house, and they immediately surrounded the house, as well as they could, and then set up another shout.
This took place several times, and as often was the miserable man hunted from his place of refuge only to seek another, from which he was in like manner hunted by those who thirsted for his blood.
On one occasion, they drove him into a house which was surrounded, save at one point, which had a long room, or building in it, that ran some distance out, and about twenty feet high.
At the entrance to the roof of this place, or leads, he stood and defended himself for some moments with success; but having received a blow himself, he was compelled to retire, while the mob behind forced those in front forward faster than he could by any exertion wield the staff that had so much befriended him on this occasion.
He was, therefore, on the point of being overwhelmed by numbers, when he fled; but, alas! there was no escape; a bare coping stone and rails ran round the top of that.
There was not much time for hesitation, but he jumped over the rails and looked below. It was a great height, but if he fell and hurt himself, he knew he was at the mercy of the bloodhounds behind him, who would do anything but show him any mercy, or spare him a single pang.
He looked round and beheld his pursuers close upon him, and one was so close to him that he seized upon his arm, saying, as he shouted to his companions,—
“Hurrah, boys! I have him.”
With an execration, Sir Francis wielded his staff with such force, that he struck the fellow on the head, crushing in his hat as if it had been only so much paper. The man fell, but a blow followed from some one else which caused Varney to relax his hold, and finding himself falling, he, to save himself, sprang away.
The rails, at that moment, were crowded with men who leaned over to ascertain the effect of the leap.
“He’ll be killed,” said one.
“He’s sure to be smashed,” said another.
“I’ll lay any wager he’ll break a limb!” said a third.
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.
“There he is—there he is,” said the girl, who came to as soon as other people came up.
“Where?—where?”
“In that closet,” she said, pointing to it with her finger. “I see’d him go in the way above.”
Sir Francis, finding himself betrayed, immediately came out of the closet, just as two or three were advancing to open it, and dealt so hard a blow on the head of the first that came near him that he fell without a groan, and a second shared the same fate; and then Sir Francis found himself grappled with, but with a violent effort he relieved himself and rushed up stairs.
“Oh! murder—the wampyre! what shall I do—fire—fire!”
These exclamations were uttered in consequence of Varney in his haste to get up stairs, having inadvertently stepped into the girl’s lap with one foot, while he kicked her in the chin with the other, besides scratching her nose till it bled.
“After him—stick to him,” shouted the mob, but the girl kicked and sprawled so much they were impeded, till, regardless of her cries, they ran over her and pursued Varney, who was much distressed with the exertions he had made.
After about a minute’s race he turned upon the head of the stair, not so much with the hope of defending it as of taking some breathing time; but seeing his enemies so close, he drew his sword, and stood panting, but prepared.
“Never mind his toasting-fork,” said one bulky fellow, and, as he spoke, he rushed on, but the point of the weapon entered his heart and he fell dead.
There was a dreadful execration uttered by those who came up after him, and there was a momentary pause, for none liked to rush on to the bloody sword of Sir Francis Varney, who stood so willing and so capable of using it with the most deadly effect. They paused, as well they might, and this pause was the most welcome thing next to life to the unfortunate fugitive, for he was dreadfully distressed and bleeding.
“On to him boys! He can hardly stand. See how he pants. On to him, I say—push him hard.”
“He pushes hard, I tell you,” said another. “I felt the point of his sword, as it came through Giles’s back.”
“I’ll try my luck, then,” said another, and he rushed up; but he was met by the sword of Sir Francis, who pierced it through his side, and he fell back with a groan.
Sir Francis, fearful of stopping any longer to defend that point, appeared desirous of making good his retreat with some little advantage, and he rushed up stairs before they had recovered from the momentary consternation into which they had been thrown by the sudden disaster they had received.
But they were quickly after him, and before he, wearied as he was, could gain the roof, they were up the ladder after him.
The first man who came through the trap was again set upon by Varney, who made a desperate thrust at him, and it took effect; but the sword snapped by the handle.
With an execration, Sir Francis threw the hilt at the head of the next man he saw; then rushing, with headlong speed, he distanced his pursuers for some house tops.
But the row of houses ended at the one he was then at, and he could go no further. What was to be done? The height was by far too great to be jumped; death was certain. A hideous heap of crushed and mangled bones would be the extent of what would remain of him, and then, perhaps, life not extinct for some hours afterwards.
He turned round; he saw them coming hallooing over the house tops, like a pack of hounds. Sir Francis struck his hands together, and groaned. He looked round, and perceived some ivy peeping over the coping-stone. A thought struck him, and he instantly ran to the spot and leaned over.
“Saved—saved!” he exclaimed.
Then, placing his hand over, he felt for the ivy; then he got over, and hung by the coping-stone, in a perilous position, till he found a spot on which he could rest his foot, and then he grasped the ivy as low down as he could, and thus he lowered himself a short way, till he came to where the ivy was stronger and more secure to the wall, as the upper part was very dangerous with his weight attached to it.
The mob came on, very sure of having Sir Francis Varney in their power, and they did not hurry on so violently, as their position was dangerous at that hour of the night.
“Easy, boys, easy,” was the cry. “The bird is our own; he can’t get away, that’s very certain.”
They, however, came on, and took no time about it hardly; but what was their amazement and rage at finding he had disappeared.
“Where is he?” was the universal inquiry, and “I don’t know,” an almost universal answer.
There was a long pause, while they searched around; but they saw no vestige of the object of their search.
“There’s no trap door open,” remarked one; “and I don’t think he could have got in at any one.”
“Perhaps, finding he could not get away, he has taken the desperate expedient of jumping over, and committing suicide, and so escape the doom he ought to be subjected to.”
“Probably he has; but then we can run a stake through him and burn him all the same.”
They now approached the extreme verge of the houses, and looked over the sides, but they could see nothing. The moon was up, and there was light enough to have seen him if he had fallen to the earth, and they were quite sure that he could not have got up after such a fall as he must have received.
“We are beaten after all, neighbours.”
“I am not so sure of that,” was the reply. “He may now be hidden about, for he was too far spent to be able to go far; he could not do that, I am sure.”
“I think not either.”
“Might he not have escaped by means of that ivy, yonder?” said one of the men, pointing to the plant, as it climbed over the coping-stones of the wall.
“Yes; it may be possible,” said one; “and yet it is very dangerous, if not certain destruction to get over.”
“Oh, yes; there is no possibility of escape that way. Why, it wouldn’t bear a cat, for there are no nails driven into the wall at this height.”
“Never mind,” said another, “we may as well leave no stone unturned, as the saying is, but at once set about looking out for him.”
The individual who spoke now leant over the coping stone, for some moments, in silence. He could see nothing, but yet he continued to gaze for some moments.
“Do you see him?” inquired one.
“No,” was the answer.
“Ay, ay, I thought as much,” was the reply. “He might as well have got hold of a corner of the moon, which, I believe, is more likely—a great deal more likely.”
“Hold still a moment,” said the man, who was looking over the edge of the house.
“What’s the matter now? A gnat flew into your eye?”
“No; but I see him—by Jove, I see him!”
“See who—see who?”
“Varney, the vampyre!” shouted the man. “I see him about half-way down clinging, like a fly, to the wall. Odd zounds! I never saw the like afore!”
“Hurrah! after him then, boys!”
“Not the same way, if you please. Go yourself, and welcome; but I won’t go that way.”
“Just as you please,” said the man; “but what’s good for the goose is good for the gander is an old saying, and so is Jack as good as his master.”
“So it may be; but cuss me if you ain’t a fool if you attempt that!”
The man made no reply, but did as Varney had done before, got over the coping stone, and then laid hold of the ivy; but, whether his weight was heavier than Varney’s, or whether it was that the latter had loosened the hold of the ivy or not, but he had no sooner left go of the coping stone than the ivy gave way, and he was precipitated from the height of about fifty feet to the earth—a dreadful fall!
There was a pause—no one spoke. The man lay motionless and dead—he had dislocated his neck!
The fall had not, however, been without its effect upon Varney, for the man’s heels struck him so forcibly on his head as he fell, that he was stunned, and let go his hold, and he, too, fell to the earth, but not many feet.
He soon recovered himself, and was staggering away, when he was assailed by those above with groans, and curses of all kinds, and then by stones, and tiles, and whatever the mob could lay their hands upon.
Some of these struck him, and he was cut about in various places, so that he could hardly stand.
The hoots and shouts of the mob above had now attracted those below to the spot where Sir Francis Varney was trying to escape, but he had not gone far before the loud yells of those behind him told him that he was again pursued.
Half dead, and almost wholly spent, unarmed, and defenceless, he scarce knew what to do; whether to fly, or to turn round and die as a refuge from the greater evil of endeavouring to prolong a struggle which seemed hopeless. Instinct, however, urged him on, at all risks, and though he could not go very far, or fast, yet on he went, with the crowd after him.
“Down with the vampyre!—seize him—hold him—burn him! he must be down presently, he can’t stand!”
This gave them new hopes, and rendered Varney’s fate almost certain. They renewed their exertions to overtake him, while he exerted himself anew, and with surprising agility, considering how he had been employed for more than two hours.
There were some trees and hedges now that opposed the progress of both parties. The height of Sir Francis Varney gave him a great advantage, and, had he been fresh, he might have shown it to advantage in vaulting over the hedges and ditches, which he jumped when obliged, and walked through when he could.
Every now and then, the party in pursuit, who had been behind him some distance, now they gained on him; however, they kept, every now and then, losing sight of him among the trees and shrubs, and he made direct for a small wood, hoping that when there, he should to be able to conceal himself for some time, so as to throw his pursuers off the track.
They were well aware of this, for they increased their speed, and one or two swifter of foot than the others, got a-head of them and cried out aloud as they ran,—
“Keep up! keep up! he’s making for the wood.”
“He can’t stop there long; there are too many of us to beat that cover without finding our game. Push, lads, he’s our own now, as sure as we know he’s on a-head.”
They did push on, and came in full sight as they saw Sir Francis enter the wood, with what speed he could make; but he was almost spent. This was a cheering sight to them, and they were pretty certain he would not leave the wood in the state he was then—he must seek concealment.
However, they were mistaken, for Sir Francis Varney, as soon as he got into the wood, plunged into the thickest of it, and then paused to gain breath.
“So far safe,” he muttered; “but I have had a narrow escape; they are not yet done, though, and it will not be safe here long. I must away, and seek shelter and safety elsewhere, if I can;—curses on the hounds that run yelping over the fields!”
He heard the shouts of his pursuers, and prepared to quit the wood when he thought the first had entered it.
“They will remain here some time in beating about,” he muttered; “that is the only chance I have had since the pursuit; curse them! I say again. I may now get free; this delay must save my life, but nothing else will.”
He moved away, and, at a slow and lazy pace, left the wood, and then made his way across some fields, towards some cottages, that lay on the left.
The moon yet shone on the fields; he could hear the shouts of the mob, as various parties went through the wood from one covert to another, and yet unable to find him.
Then came a great shout upon his ears, as though they had found out he had left the wood. This caused him to redouble his speed, and, fearful lest he should be seen in the moonlight, he leaped over the first fence that he came to, with almost the last effort he could make, and then staggered in at an open door—through a passage—into a front parlour, and there fell, faint, and utterly spent and speechless, at the feet of Flora Bannerworth.
