"On my honour, I promise."

Mr. Marchdale rose, and proceeding to the door, he looked out to see
that there were no listeners near. Having ascertained then that they
were quite alone, he returned, and drawing a chair close to that on
which Henry sat, he said,--

"Henry, have you never heard of a strange and dreadful superstition
which, in some countries, is extremely rife, by which it is supposed
that there are beings who never die."

"Never die!"

"Never. In a word, Henry, have you never heard of--of--I dread to
pronounce the word."

"Speak it. God of Heaven! let me hear it."

"A _vampyre_!"

Henry sprung to his feet. His whole frame quivered with emotion; the
drops of perspiration stood upon his brow, as, in, a strange, hoarse
voice, he repeated the words,--

"A vampyre!"

"Even so; one who has to renew a dreadful existence by human blood--one
who lives on for ever, and must keep up such a fearful existence upon
human gore--one who eats not and drinks not as other men--a vampyre."