THE HUNT FOR VARNEY.—THE HOUSE-TOPS.—THE MIRACULOUS ESCAPE.—THE LAST
PLACE OF REFUGE.—THE COTTAGE.
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.
[Illustration: Varney stabs one of the mob on the stairs.]
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.