Chapter 161 of Varni the Vampire, Volume 3. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Richard May. Varni the Vampire, Volume 3 by Thomas Prescott-Prest, Chapter 161. Father Francis' interview with the Abbas of St. Mary Magdalene, the objects and wishes of the Holy Father. After passing through a few passages, they entered into a room which had the appearance of a waiting room in which were placed chairs and seats, but they did not stop here, for the sister approached a door at which she knocked and paused a moment, but a voice from within desired her to enter, and beckoning the monk to follow her, which he did, they both entered a comfortable room in which the Abbas was seated. Here is the Holy Father, said the sister, who demands lodging and refreshment, but he will take nothing until he has done all that may be required of him. Holy Brother, said the Abbas, the traveller needs rest, and he that is hungered requires food. Who you partake of our hospitality? I was told you desire to converse with me, and I could not let my ministry wait, and I, like a glutton, ate and drank. Oh, Brother, it was not for such a purpose I sent for thee, but to hear what news thou hath from Rome, once I heard you have come. I have come, thence. But will you not take some refreshment here? It shall be brought thee, if thou wilt have it, or in the buttery, which you please. Whichsoever you please, sister, said the member of St. Francis. Then let some of the best be brought, sister, for the good man, and stay, I ate none at last meal, which I may amend now. Let me have a small moiety of a pasty, and a small trifle of cold venison. The sister departed, and the Abbas opened a small cupboard, from which she took a bottle and two glasses of goodly dimensions, considering the fact that the place was inhabited only by females.  This has been tasted by no unhallowed lips. It was a present from a holy lady to me, to take myself, and to offer to such as I deemed worthy of it. And you, Holy Father, I believe are worthy. The worthy monk pronounced the required benediction, and drank his fine glass of real burgundy as ever went down consecrated lips. Thanks, worthy sister. Thanks. Brother, I am glad to be able to give it thee. It gives me more pleasure to do so than thee to drink. I want me that never has such wine passed through the merchant's hands, because he would have never parted with it at a price that would have made it procurable in a place like this. For we are, Holy Brother, poor, very poor. The people who live in these parts are, I fear, not so godly as they should be, to let a house like this want. There are many nobles, and they ought to pay handsomely. They do, I am thankful, but I should like to be able to offer the poor, diseased, and helpless men better sort of diet than I do. It ought to be in your power when the rich and great are so close around you here, you ought to have rich penitents. But few of the rich are penitent, brother. Naples, I was told, was a sink of iniquity. I did not expect to find it in reality such as I have heard it described, but, sister, we must be thankful that we have what the times will afford. But at the same time, when the enemy is thus about, we must be up and doing, and preach salvation to them. But they only answer by sending imitations for Sabbath balls, said the unfortunate Abbas in great Delor. That must be looked to. They must be chidden. And then they hold their hands from works of charity, from doing any good details, and we have no gifts and offerings. But that ought not to be any motive. When they see you in earnest, they will not resist any longer. They will, as they must, give in. Ah, Holy Father, you don't know the Neapolitans. They are the most sinful set of men that you ever met with. The Holy Father must know of this. He must be informed of the character of these bad people, of these facts. It is a melancholy state of things, which is a disgrace to a Christian country, and must be amended. At that moment the nun returned with the refection for the monk and the Abbas, who cast a longing glance towards it. When this was laid on the table, the Abbas gave a signal that there was no need of the further attendance of the servitor, who quitted the room, leaving the Abbas and the monk to enjoy each other's society at leisure. Some minutes elapsed before either spoke, which time was spent in mastication of no ordinary morsels, being some of the most delicious meats that could be obtained for a religious house of this character. And they were usually supplied with the best of everything that could be had. Holy Father, said the Abbas, the fair is poor, but I hope it will relieve those calls which imperious nature demands you to satisfy. Yes, said the monk. I am well satisfied. Permit me to press upon your notice those venison pasties. They are made by Sister Bridget, who never made an indifferent one in all her life. I decidedly approve of Sister Bridget's skill, said the monk.  I would not have another to do her duties for a trifle. Save as a penance, said the Abbas. I will, at all events, retain her, while the convent will give her a place of shelter. Very right, Sister. Very right. But what news from Rome, brother? Little, save the Holy Pontiff has been very ill. I heard as much, and by many it is presumed that his holiness will be translated if he should not be better soon. No, his holiness is safe. As far as it is possible for any human being to be, God preserve him long. Amen, said the Abbas devoutly. But have you no penance, Holy Sister? I have several, but they are all in the way of performing their penances, save one, who is somewhat refractory, Holy Father, and I know not what to do with her. She has no respect for those in authority. Is she one of the order? No, a neophyte. How is it then? What brings her here? She is sent by relatives who are afraid of a disgrace, and will not give her any chance of committing their family to such a disgrace for marriage. She at one time pledged herself to take the vows, but now has some objections to do so. On what grounds does she refuse? Because she thinks she will not be happy. Upset! Where is she? We must have been compelled to secure her, for she has made more than one attempt to escape, and I have reasons to believe that these efforts have been aided from without. Which is a serious offence. A very serious offence to those concerned, and would inevitably lead to a terrible example if they were detected. No doubt. And we should field our duty to make every exertion to punish anyone who makes an attempt to violate the sanctity of our house. It must be so, sister. Yes, certainly. And I have secured the maiden, who, if she be brought to their mind, will largely endow the convent. That ought to be seen too. I am, as you may imagine, Holy Father, anxious that the young maiden should become a member of our house. Who can tell? Mother the Abbas, have allowed. But she may become a chosen vessel by which much good may be affected. She may, said the monk. I am from Rome. You may examine these credentials which I have with me. I will take the charge of this refractory sister of yours, and will pursue such a course as will bring her round to your way of thinking. Any endowment? We'll still belong to your house, do which it will be given. I have no object, sister, save the welfare of the church. Reward I seek not. Save what may be given in the good words of the wise and good. You are deserving of all praise, Holy Father. I was not thinking about the endowment, Holy Father, because, you see, it will not belong to me, but to the church, and this house in particular, for the use of the poor lambs here over whom I am appointed shepherdess. So I have no feeling of the matter beyond what I ought to have in the spiritual welfare of our fellow sinners. I have no authority to interfere in our house. I see, Holy Father, said the Abbas, you are a wonderful man, and such a one as will do much good. I will make an attempt to do good, sister. And I will make it bold, Holy Brother, to say you will be successful. Though I venture to say with humility that I have tried everything with the unfortunate young woman, which appears to aggravate the evil rather than give any promise of the future. So I might expect. You will pursue a different course? I may, but it depends upon circumstances. If I find it necessary, I must have some place of security, where no one can have any communication with her. Save when I shall order it, or deem it proper she should be so confined. Certainly, very right. Moreover, if I find she needs such severe measures, I shall not let any food be given. Save what is given by me, or in my presence, which, of course, amounts to the same thing. Exactly, Holy Father. And, continue the monk, I will not permit this holy house to be insulted by a recusant, for I am quite resolved that no heretic shall baffle the ministers of religion. Oh, very improper. It would be indeed, not only an aggravation, but a decided loss to the church, which would damnify it to that extent. Undoubtedly, replied the holy man, undoubtedly, and with your aid I hope to be able to make one good effort, and I pray heaven it may be attended with grace. I trust so. And now, Holy Brother, what may I call you? You will see by these presents I am called Father Francis, of the Order of St. Francis, and unworthy brother who has perhaps beyond his gifts obtained the praise and good wishes of his holiness the Pope, who has been pleased especially to send me forth on a travelling commission to report to him and to stay where I thought my services might be required. Holy Father, we may have you stay here some time, I hope, and your favourable report of our poor endeavours, they are in the right direction, and carried on with the right spirit, but we are all weak and airing mortals. We cannot always be as successful as we would wish, and in this matter we have been unsuccessful. You have done all that could be expected. There are some matters that will not yield to the weaker vessel, but which would yield to the stronger. Therefore you have nothing to blame yourself with, but you are to be commended for what you have done. Thanks, Holy Father. I would not be willing, found wanting. Nor are you, Sister, according to my poor judgment. And when will you see this near fight? I will see her on the morrow, and in the meantime I must be chargeable to you for a board and lodging, if you will so far grace me. Name it not, Holy Father. I have nothing here, but what is yours, and when you choose to retire there will be the best traveller's bed ready for you. Straw and sackcloth are good enough for me, said the monk ostentatiously. But it concerns our housekeeping, Holy Father, and our hospitality too. We must not let you lodge thus. I pray you for our sakes permit us to do what the credit of the place will permit us to do in the way of entertainment. Be it even as you will, Sister, it does not be seen me that I should contend for matters like these. Be it so, I will retire. It grows late. I will summon Sister Agatha to show you your dormitory. Accordingly Sister Agatha was summoned, and the monk was, after another delicate libation of Rich Burgundy, led to his room. The morning broke, and the matins were duly performed at St. Mary Magdalene. This is what happened every day in the week included, for the convent was always alive to the performance of its duties from the dawn of day until sunset and after. But it was their business, a business from the toil of which they rested not on the Sabbath. But then it happened that there was no labor. It was all easygoing, straightforward work, and was a mere pastime that only occupied the lips and ears, for not half of it was understood, and the other half had long since ceased to produce any impression upon the stagnant minds of the mewed-up sisterhood. However, there was not lack of comfort, especially for all those who held any of the good offices in the convent. The Holy Father Francis was met at table by the Abbas, who was great and gracious to him. You will inform the sisterhood, Holy Sister of My Stay here, lest it bring any scandal upon your house, the well-being of which is, to me, of importance. I have already done so. I anticipated your wishes on that point, Holy Father. In fact, I did it on my own count, too, for we live in evil times, in very evil times. We do, Sister. So that being done, you have but to express your wishes, for of course they are the wishes deputed of the Pope. Certainly, certainly it could not be otherwise. I knew, said the Abbas, and now I wait for your wishes. Let me know them, and I will answer for it, that nothing that is desired by his holiness through you shall meet with any other than the most profound attention and willing obedience. You are a worthy superior, and if heaven pleas to permit me, I will not fail to let his holiness know of all this devotion and obedience, and not lest your regularity and religious observances he will be well pleased. I am sure. Thanks, Holy Father. Naitis justice, but I would now see your unworthy guest. The probationist? Yes, she can be seen. She has had her food given her for breakfast, and will be ready to receive you. I am ready, then. In the meantime, what is her name and designation? Her name is Juliet, and of a noble house, that of the famous Dean Napitalini. Indeed, it is very strange. She desired to marry against her friends's wish, who would not hear of the inequity that was desired to be perpetrated. I will see her, then. I may be able to do some good. You cannot fail. I do not know. The race is not always with the swift nor the battle with the strong, but I will essay to try. If you will come this way, Holy Father, you shall be admitted into her cell. Shall I remain, or shall I return? I will be alone, for I will confess her, and bring her mind to a calm state. Then, when I have her confidence, I will begin the object in view, and then we shall find whether there is any probability of that system being successful. Certainly. But if not, why? We must adapt more energetic means, and these we must continue to pursue until there is an end of hope or life. For when coercion is once begun, we must continue it without intermission. No doubt, no doubt, Holy Father. Have you any others who are in very similar state to this unhappy being? None, Holy Father, none. But this is her door. She will be sulky or spiteful, as the humor may be, but at the same time she will not spare me, because I have, as you see, thus confined her to this place as punishment. You have done right, Sister, quite right. There is no blame. The Abbas opened the door, and at the same moment they both entered the dungeon in which the unfortunate young female was thrust by the aid of paternal authority, sanctioned by religious usage, and a presumed right they had over her actions. This, Holy Father, said the Abbas, is the unfortunate female whose case I told you of as being so desperate, that there is no remedy left but that to which we never resort, save in an extremity, and upon no other occasion, whatever. I see, Sister, I see. But I hope one so young has not been entirely one over to the enemy. I trust she will not strive against those who strive for her. This holy man, said the Abbas to Juliet, this holy man has traveled from St. Peter's at Rome and has come to examine, with the sanction of his holiness the Pope, the state of our spiritual existence. See that you give good account of yourself. What the Lady Abbas has stated to you, said Father Francis, is no more than the truth. I am so calm and for such a purpose. Prepare therefore to confess, and tell me freely what it is that trumblessed your soul. Confest. Confest, daughter.  We must be alone. There was an instant movement on the part of the Abbas, and she quitted the cell of the Lady, placed the key of the door on the inside, and left them alone. Daughter, said the monk, after a while. Daughter, what is this I hear of you?  I have spoke to thee, said the monk. You have, answered Juliet, then answer me. I cannot. I know not what has been said. Could you not guess? I might, Holy Father, but what can that be to such as you? You must know that I have been put here, according to the Abbas's orders. I do know so much, Daughter. What more have you to say? Simply that I know not what I am thus confined here for. Since you know it not, I will tell you. You have disobeyed the Abbas's orders. That is what you are now punished for, to the heinous offence. I am not yet one of the Order, Holy Father, and therefore the Abbas has no right to do this. And if she did not know that my friends were her abetters, she dare not do it, to a grievous injury, and a deep and shameful wrong, instead of religion being as it ought to be, the safeguard of the poor and the weak against the rich and the powerful. It's a means of oppression against those whom have no power. These are hard accusations, Daughter. They will bear the proof, however, and that fairly. Where have I taken the vows? Where am I, the sworn sister? Tell me that, Holy Father. I've come for another purpose, Daughter. You have been undutiful to those whom nature and God gave control over you, and you have desired to live disgracefully. Surely, these are things that deserve punishment, for they are great moral crimes. I cannot see any such, Holy Father. I'm afraid your soul is in an unclean state, Daughter. There's no hope for you until this is amended. Depend upon it. You can never prosper while you set at naught the desires of those who rule you, but they have no right to force me to an alternative that my soul revolts at. You cannot mean you revolt at becoming one of the holy and chaste sisterhood here. That must be a libel upon your chastity. Holy Father, it is not the age nor the circumstances at which such a proposal can be made with any chance of success. For I am quite confident that I am born with better prospects than those which now threaten me. My father and mother had no right to send me here. They led me to believe I should inherit a fortune, and now they desire that I should enter a cloister, and you have given them cause to change the original intention they had concerning you. You are disobedient. That is enough. But, Holy Father, there is a power stronger than a father's or a mother's, a power which the Church approves. What would you more? What power? The Divine Command, which says we shall leave a parent and fly to the arms of him whom we have chosen to become our husband. The Devil can quote Scripture when he has any object in view, but Juliet you are carried away by the strength of your own passion. This is a disgraceful marriage and one that should not contract, one that would never be sanctioned by them. It might be so, that is, unsanctioned by them, but there's no disgrace in being married to a young officer who loved me. And whom you mean really to marry? Yes, and you would in fact marry anyone who would offer himself instead of being a nun? I would sooner die, and I will, by slow starvation, sooner than become one of these or any other order. I see. But who was this young man? Jules de Maestro. How strange, how passing strange, said the monk, changing his tone from one of severity to one of sadness and sorrow. Why? What ails you Holy Father? Has anything happened? I know not my daughter whether to feel most sorrow or most anger, but your case is one that requires some care, whether to tell you all or whether to conceal a part or or in fact to tell the whole and trust to your goodness. What do you mean? What do you mean? Your manner distresses me. I cannot understand you at all. Speak for the love of heaven. I can hardly do so, unless by a solemn vow you promise secrecy. I swear, said the hasty and impatient Juliet. Then listen. I do. I do, for heaven's sakes, keep me no longer in suspense. Well then, Jules de Maestro and I concocted a plan together, which we were to execute with the view of getting you out of this convent, so that you might both quit the kingdom of Naples and get into some of the free states. Dear Jules, and did he really take so much trouble about me? Did he really mean to do so much? I can never be grateful enough to him. Why, you remember his last attempt? I heard of it, but it did not succeed. But it must be two months ago. It was. We both were present. Both? You? Yes, I was present and wounded in the affray. Not so bad as poor Maestro. Hurt? But he's got over that, else you would not come here from him to plan another escape, which I see you have. I'm truly sorry for his hurts, but he is no doubt well again. Stay, stay, you are much too sanguine. He has not forgotten me. No, but you must permit me to speak. I'm quite sure that you heard the whole of the affair. You would not speak in this strain. For had I known that I had to tell you unwelcome news, I would not have undertaken this affair, even urged as I have been by him and your beauty. What do you mean? Why, that Jules is dead. He died within a few days after the last attempt that he made to rescue you from your captivity. What? Do I hear you right? Jules? Dead? Great God, impossible, quite impossible. Nothing so dreadful can be real. I'm sorry to say it is so, said the monk. Very sorry. But how did it fall out? asked Juliet, who appeared to be too much stunned to feel anything acutely. Tell me how. When we made our last attempt to get you out, it failed. For we were both compelled to defend ourselves and to fly before a numerous body of men. I should have got clear of them, but I saw that Jules was made a prisoner. So I charged and rescued him from their hands. He was nobly done of you. Then you see I got some marks that I could not help. There were too many. But poor Jules got mortally wounded. Heaven, be merciful to him. I hope so, but he was not killed immediately. I got him quite away without anyone being able to tell who he was. But that was an effort that cost me. I took him away, as I said, and I sat by his side when he breathed his last breath. And what said Jules? Enquired Juliet, as she shed many bitter tears. What said he? Did he not curse her who had caused him such an end? No, no, Jules did not. He wept when he knew his wounds were mortal. Not because he was to die, but because he must leave you here. And you would be forever ignorant of his faith. That is what most affected him, I assure you. He was of a noble, generous nature. I, however, promised him that I would see you and let you know how the matter had stood with him. And he gave you his last blessing. And desired me not to tell your family that he was dead, as it would be a triumph for them. At the same time, he wished, if possible, I could supply his place to you in his stead. No, no, said Juliet. No, no, that can never be. I loved Jules and can never love anyone else. I will never try. No, no, Jules and Jules only will I live for, but he is dead.  He died for me, and I will for him. But his last words were to me. Go and see Juliet. Tell her truly how I died and what my last wishes were. Those I have formed with the full belief that they are for her benefit. I know how she is placed without a friend and in danger. Yes, yes. Now I have no one to help me. You have me, if you choose. Not at the price you spoke of. But you know how clearly he expressed himself upon the matter. He knew the life you led then. What it will be by and by. You know the starvation which you will have to feel and perhaps be built up in a wall after all. Oh, God. He said, See and tell her you have nearly lost your life in serving me and in serving her. That I am under an obligation to you for saving my life more than once. Thus Juliet is the last word I pronounced and the last I thought of. But if I had a legacy to leave you, he said, I would leave her and die happy if I thought you would enable her to escape. Marry her and keep all the world at defiance. Then, indeed, I could be happy. Almost as happy as if I lived to be in your happy position. I will, I replied. I will endeavor to obtain her escape. Will you swear? I do swear, I replied. And at the same time I will risk my life and lose it if she will accept of me for a husband. But I cannot for less. You have said enough, he replied. I am satisfied. And he died, said Juliet. Yes, he died. But I have been long enough. I will see you again before another day has passed, and then I will learn your determination. Do not let my cause be rejected because I have not urged it forward as I could have done. But the truth is, it is an honest one, and it will speak for itself. Farewell for the present. Be secret and silent. They think me monk, for I have assumed this disguise at the peril of my life, which will be taken with cruel tortures if I am discovered. There was a pause when the monk resumed again. If you can consent to become my wife by this time tomorrow, I will endeavor to free you from your bondage. Why purchase the motive to a good action? I do not do so. I only purchase a right which, if risk of life and all that man hold dear, be anything. Why, you will not think me a Jew in the bargain. Think, lady, think upon what I have offered you. I do think, but it is a hard bargain for me to lose my liberty either way. Nay, you gain it, for you would be my mistress. But, hark, here comes the abyss. I must bid you adieu. How fair is the penitent? Enquired the abyss, entering. I cannot gain either a satisfactory or an unsatisfactory answer to your inquiry. I will, however, see her tomorrow again. And if I find she is obdurate, perhaps the shortest way will be an application to the inquisition. Think of that daughter, said the abyss, leaving the cell. Think of that, added the monk, as your means of leaving the cell, of escaping. Farewell, daughter. BENEDICITY END OF CHAPTER 162 Recording by Sandra Estenson CHAPTER 163 The nuns attempted escape from the convent of St. Mary Magdalene, the pursuit and the disclosure, the escape of the pretended monk. The next day all Naples was alive to the fact that a holy man had been murdered in the wood Del Noti, a holy brother of the Order of St. Francis, who was much respected by the good people of Naples. Jose and Fiametta both attended, before the municipal authorities, to give the required information that they had given the monk gold to remain by the side of the dead man whom Jose had killed. There was a general terror throughout Naples, for no one was aware of how the matter had fallen out, nor how the enormity would be punished, and who would be the sufferers in the present case. The officers of the state were in active search after the perpetrator of so wicked a deed, as well as the officers of the Inquisition. The next time Father Francis called at the convent, he went straight to the Lady Abbas, and said to her with some earnestness, I am sorry to tell you the more I reflect upon the conversation I had with your neophyte Juliet, I have some strong doubts about the course I originally thought of pursuing towards the young person. In what respect Holy Father? I thought of pursuing a mild course towards her. I have done it and failed. The reason I think is not that she has hardened, but that she simply does not believe we will proceed to the extremity that we have threatened. I think she has hardened Holy Father. Time alone will show, but I have altered my plans respecting her. In what respect Holy Father? I think I will begin to strike terror into her soul, and at once shoo her the reality of my intentions with respect to what I shall subject her by way of punishment for her resistance to her religious superiors. Very good Holy Brother. I think at the plan that will most likely succeed the best. If she be terrified, she will be obedient. And to that end, said the monk, I have ordered the aguazils of the Inquisition to be here in half an hour's time, when she will be carried there and subjected to the first process of torture. You will not hurt her? Not much. Just enough to teach what powers you can exert? Yes, just so. Now, when they come, let me know. And if she consents to go, all well and good. And if she do not, we must use force. And how long will you keep her at the Inquisition? inquired the abbess, because eventually the parents will claim her of me. About three weeks at the farthest, but if the parents are troublesome, name the Inquisition and say Holy Brother Francis from Rome will come and confess them and make some inquiries concerning their belief in faith in the Church. I will, Holy Father. The monk now returned to the cell where the unfortunate Juliet was confined, and unopening the door he found her in tears. Juliet, he said, I come again. You are here, she replied. I see. And I am here with all the means of escape. You have but to say the word, and you are free and at liberty. I cannot. I cannot. You cannot. Do you love life? Do you love liberty? I do. And yet you choose the cold, bare walls of a cloister to a life of happiness and love to a life that is made for such as you. I cannot love you. I love you, that I have risked my life for you more than once is true. My persecution is another proof of that. It may be so. And why not consent? You have no alternative that can interest you more, or that will offer you more happiness. I cannot soon forget jewels. Nay, we will not quarrel about that. I cannot expect you. I cannot expect you. I am not unreasonable, because I know so well the circumstances of the case. All is haste and confusion. There is no time for thought or preparation. All lies in self-preservation. Say it once you will have me. I will endeavor to gain your love and esteem afterwards. Our happiest days, our courting time, will come after our wedding. It cannot come. But will you choose the horrors of the Inquisition, rather than wed one who would give life and fortune to you? Who speaks of the Inquisition, inquired Juliet, terrified. The Abbas spoke to me about it when I came here last time, and said she had your father's commands to deliver you over to them. I will not believe it. I entreated her not to do so, but to leave it in my hands, and I would undertake to communicate with the Inquisition and bring their officers here today. And have you?  The plan is matured. Will you leave this place, wed me and be a happy woman, or remain here to be tortured and disfigured by the tortures of the Inquisition?  Horrible said Juliet with a shudder. Think on this and on that. At that moment a tremendous uproar occurred in the convent and a ringing of bells. The pretended monk started and listened attentively. They come, he muttered. They come. Have they discovered you, inquired Juliet? I know not. I care not if they have. Will you quit the convent and leave Naples with me? Will you become my wife? You see what I have risked for you? I wait but your answer. They are coming. Before any answer could be given the door was thrown open, and the Abbas, followed by a troop of soldiers, entered the cell, and among them the vampire monk saw his late adversary Jose and his love Fiametta. There is the murderer, said Jose, pointing to the monk whose cowl had fallen off, and he is the man whom I believed I had killed. Oh yes, it is the same horrid face, said Fiametta. The murderer of Father Francis, said the Abbas. I know not how it was done, but I told Father Francis to watch and pray by the dead body, and see it decently buried, and he said he would do so. I gave him gold, and left him at his watch and his devotions. And he is dead now, his cassock and papers torn from him. Seize him, comrades, said the officer. At the sound of the officer's voice Juliet looked up and beheld her lover, Jules de Maestro, whom she was told had been killed. She sprang up, saying, It is all false, then. You are not slain. You are still living, and you did not send this man to marry me? I? Who? Oh, Juliet, have I found you? I am here, dear Jules. Take me hence. Take me hence. I will not do so now, but I have their majesty's favor. And we'll take care. You shall be released from this vile durance. And that man? I looked to your prisoner, said the officer. But there was no prisoner to look to. He had slipped off his cowl and cassock, and left the convent, leaving all present immersed in their own affairs. The abyss was indignant at the imposture, and would not risk Jules' appeal on behalf of Juliet to the king, and at once consented to her release and immediate marriage, and at the same time Fiametta consented to wed José, so that all was forgotten, save the murder of the Holy Father Francis, and the resurrection of the vampire monk, who was, in reality, no other than Sir Francis Varney, who was no more heard of in Naples, but supposed to Rome about the world at large. End of Chapter 163 of Varney the Vampire, Volume 3. Read by Richard Wallace. Liberty, Missouri. 4 March, 2010. Chapter 164 of Varney the Vampire, Volume 3. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Varney the Vampire, Volume 3. By Thomas Prescott Prest. Chapter 164 The Storm, a Shipwreck at Sea. The hapless fate of the mariners. The morning was ushered in with wind and rain. A tempest was howling over the main. The seas lashed the shores with a fury that made it dangerous for even such vessels as were moored, and great fears were entertained that many wrecks would be seen before the night set in. The roar of the ocean and the bellowing of the wind was almost deafening, and the few fishermen and sailors that now and then showed themselves as they came towards the shore to ascertain the safety of their little barks could scarcely make themselves heard. The sky was too heavy and the rain too incessant to permit them to see very clearly or very far. They could not see any ships in the offing. Neighbor said one, Did you hear the wind in the night? Hear it, replied the man, spoken to. Could I help it? Who is there that could sleep while such a tempest was blowing great guns? I never heard anything like it in all my life. God help those poor fellows who are at sea such a night as this. So say I, neighbor, so say I. If there be any upon this coast, if any awake with the morning gone and find themselves upon a lee shore, they will never get off again, depend upon it. They are all lost men. So they are. There is no hope for them on this shore. Every vessel must, indeed, come upon it, and no aid could be rendered to them. You are right, neighbor. I am glad our boats are high and dry, for if they were not they would never be on the sea again, except as fragments. Every timber in them would be broken to pieces and scattered about the beach. I, I, tis an awful day. I propose, neighbor, we should make an attempt to get our boats still higher on the beach. See, the sea comes now within a few boat lengths of them. A few more waves, heaving one upon the other, will at last reach them. And if so, we are indeed poor men, neighbor. With all my heart we have no time to lose, neighbor. See, the waves have gotten nearer yet. Come on, come on. The two fishermen hurried down to the beach. And, with the aid of one or two more, who had hurried onwards with the same object as themselves, that of putting the boats out of danger from the waves, they succeeded. And then they returned, leaving their boats. Their only wealth, high above the reach of the most tempestuous sea. There, neighbor, I never heard such a sea. I will go and see what can be done indoors by the fireside. This is not a day to be out in. You are wet through in about ten minutes, and nothing to do but to look on the black clouds. No, neighbor, though I don't think indoors much better, for I expect our roof to come off, or the chimney to fall over, and must consider myself very fortunate if I do not have the whole house blown down. I, I, but I expect to hear of a few accidents. I don't see any vessel coming in on the horizon at all. Do you see any? None. Well, I hope there may be none. I am for the house. Too much of this may be hurtful to fishermen. So good day. Good day for the present. I dare say we shall see each other before the days out, if anything may happen in the shape of wreck. Safe and sure to be out. If you hear a gun, let me know if I should not be out, for the wind blows and the sea roars so loudly that I can scarcely hear at all. I'll be with you, and do you the same for me if I should happen to miss it, though I can't tell how that can be as the wind blows dead and sure. It's a bargain. I'll do it. The two fishermen parted from each other and entered their own dwellings to escape the fury of the elements, for there was nothing to keep them outside, but there was everything to induce them to stay indoors, a warm fire, and freedom from the wind and rain, though that howled and roared in the chimneys in a frightful manner. If the aspect of the affairs was bad on the land, it was much worse at sea, for there a vessel rode out the fury of the storm gallantly enough and resisted the force of the winds and waves for some time, but she could not resist the impetuosity of the elements, though she strove hard and resisted long. She strained, and timber after timber started, masts were gone, and the rudder became damaged, and at length no hope was left. The crew was not a large one, and the pumps had become completely choked and useless, while the vessel was drifted hither and thither without any means of guidance whatsoever. She was at the mercy of wind and waves. We are drifting towards the shore, said the mate to the master. We cannot keep her head out to see at all. I know it, said the master gloomily. I know it. She has been making land for some time now, and as we have neither rudder nor sails nor mast, we may as well make our peace, for the worst must soon come. I expected that some time ago when I found that the wind was set dead on shore, and the rudder was gone. Surely we haven't much time to lose. Let the guns be fired as a signal of distress. It may give warning to those on shore. We cannot expect assistance. Not here, I know. Certainly not. No boat would live for a moment in a sea like this. No, I know it would not. But it may put them upon the lookout, and some of our poor fellows may get picked up, for we don't exactly know how far we may be driven towards the land, and we may be sent right onto the beach, for ought we can tell. So we might. I hope we may. Are the guns ready? Yes, sir, they are loaded, but there is only one barrel of powder dry. Let it be cared for. Fire the guns. The order was promptly obeyed. For the men had left off pumping, conceiving it useless to continue it any longer. Indeed they could not, for the pumps were no longer serviceable, and they saw the land ahead, and each man made up his mind that the struggle for life was about to commence, while the firing of the guns was a measure of precaution which might, or might not, be of use, and as everyone clung to hope to the last, the order was obeyed with alacrity. The guns were fired in minute intervals, and at length every half minute, while the powder lasted, and then they ceased. There was not more than from fifteen to twenty souls on board, but there were several passengers among them. One in particular was remarkable for his height, and the singular pallid hue of his features. He was reserved but of gentlemanly deportment. He was well aware of his danger, but it did not appear to render him incapable of seeing and understanding what was going on, but he was grave and melancholy. How long, Captain, do you think it will be, he said, approaching the Master, before the vessel will break up, for I see that we shall be wrecked. That is no secret at all to any of us, and certainly not to me. I don't know, replied the Captain. It is impossible to say. Cannot you form an opinion upon the subject, inquired the stranger? I can, but it is only an opinion. I can give you no information, replied the Captain, who did not wish to give an opinion upon such a subject. Certainly, I am aware of that. I asked for an opinion. If you have one, perhaps you may be good enough to favor me with it. If it be not too great a favor to expect from you, sir, I thought you had experience enough to enable you to form an opinion, and it was for that reason I asked you. Well, sir, we strike in five minutes, perhaps in twenty. It depends upon wind and waves, our course, and how far we may go ashore. I understand you. If we are forced in upon the shore in a direct line, we may expect the shortest time. We may, and if we should not meet with any obstruction, we may be thrown far on shore. Yes, if we had but the means of guiding the vessel, I could steer her within fifty or a hundred yards of the shore, where she would strike, and a much better chance would then be had of some reaching the shore. Which is now rather more than uncertain. It is so, said the Master. At the moment there was such a shock from the vessel, striking upon a sunken rock, that they were all thrown down on the deck, and the sea made a clear breach over her, and swept away several of the crew. The Master contrived for a moment or two to secure himself to his spar, with the hope that he would be able to float off. But this was a vain hope. For a moment after he was lifted up by the sea, and dashed against the stump of the mast, and crushed in a horrible manner, his blood dying the deck for a minute, and then it was washed away, as he himself was by the same wave, and was not seen again. The Master no doubt had been killed, and there was nearly all of the crew swept away, but among those who yet survived was to be seen the tall stranger who stood in the storm, and held on by a portion of the vessel. He still braved the fury of the waves as they broke over the deck clearing all before them. Each breach of the sea made away with some one of the unhappy mariners who yet clung with hopeless desperation, but yet they feared to quit their last hold, and to throw themselves into the foam that was boiling around them. In the meantime the vessel healed about, and every now and then, being in shallow water, a great wave would come and lift her up, and then leave her higher on the rocks, but giving her each time dreadful shocks, and breaking her keel up. The only hope the unfortunate men had was that some portion of the wreck upon which they might chance to be would be floated to the shore before life was extinct, but this was more and more hopeless, for the breakers over which they would have to float would probably be their destruction, for they would be dashed to pieces. The wind and the waves howled and roared and drowned all noise. Nothing could be heard, and nothing seen, for the waves broke over them so furiously, and raged so high above them that they neither could do so nor even see the shore. Nothing but a white sea of foam and spray met their eyes whenever they could raise them and free them from salt water. At length an immense wave came rolling towards them. The men shrieked as the flood came onwards. In a moment afterwards they were lifted up, vessel and all, and carried a few yards further onwards and then left with a report that seemed like that of a cannon to them, but they felt the shock, and when the wave left them the vessel was no more. A mere mass of boards and other matters floated about. She had been utterly and entirely destroyed.  But alas! their efforts were vain. They sank. They could not sustain the battle with the waves and the breakers. They were dashed to mummies, and every limb broken on the foaming, raging breakers. End of Chapter 164 Read by Richard Wallace, Liberty, Missouri, 4 March, 2010. Chapter 165 of Varni the Vampire, Volume 3. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Varni the Vampire, Volume 3 by Thomas Prescott Prest. Chapter 165 The Fishermen, The Despairing Cry of the Mariners, The Breakers from the Shore. On shore the day wore away, the wind blew furiously, and the oceans roared to such an extent that no other sound was audible, and the fishermen, who lived upon the coast, kept within doors, knowing that nothing could be done out of doors on such a day, and each one seated by the fire began to recount some wonderful tale of death and shipwreck, or of happy escapes from the boiling sea, until noon had long since passed, and the turn of the day showed a decided approach towards evening, but no abatement of the tempest. The principal fisherman on the coast, a man whose poverty was less rather than his wealth was greater than his fellows, sat by his fireside, with one or two others of his class seated with him. �I never saw a worse storm,� said one of them. �I have,� said Masallo, the fisherman. �You have,� said one of his comrades in his turn. �I have, I can promise you, one that blew me upon this coast, where I have ever since remained and intend to remain. �I have heard you say so, but I never heard the particulars of that story. It must have been many years ago, I fancy. �Yes, it must have been fifteen years ago,� said Masallo, speaking. �Fifteen years ago at the very least, if not more than that. �Well, I think it must be quite that time, for my old man has been dead these fourteen years, and he remembered you very well, and used to speak of you, and as I thought, you must have known him more than a year. �I, too. �Well, it must then have been more than sixteen years ago since you came here. �I daresay it was, very nearly seventeen years ago, now I come to think of it. The storm, if possible, blew harder, and the waves beat higher than they do now. The rain was heavier than it rains now, and in addition to all, the thunder and lightning were tremendous. Not a sound could be distinguished. The speaking trumpet was useless. No sound issued from it. All was confusion and danger. �It must have been a rare time, certainly. �It was a time for devils to be abroad, and not for men. But we were compelled to pump and cut away the wreck. Why, you see, we had been chased by the Algerians, and we had gotten nearer to the land than we would have gone, but for the fact that we desired to escape from a superior, informantable enemy who knew no mercy. �Yes, the Algerians, if they had spared us, would have made slaves of us for our lives, and there would have been little wisdom in being caught by them if we could help it. �I should imagine no one would ever do it. �Well, that was the cause of our being in shore nearer than we ought, but we noticed that the Algerians sheared off at a moment when there was but little chance of our escaping him, but we could not tell the reason. But we concluded that he saw some danger of which we were, at that moment, ignorant. �Well, we had not time to haul out a little before we were surprised by a tremendous clap of thunder and lightning, as vivid as if it had been brought from all quarters of the world and loosened at one and the same moment. �It must have added to your terrors. �It was the main thing that wrecked us on this coast. �What, the lightning? Why, I suppose it struck you then? �Yes, we could have held off or run the vessel bump ashore, almost dry, but we lost all command over her when the lightning shivered our mass to atoms and left the stump burning in the vessel. Then more than that, it killed two of our best hands at that moment, and most of us were knocked up and unable to work at the pumps. But it was of no use. We came ashore, crashed with the vessel, and we were all in the boiling sea in an instant, and a wave or two more threw me on the beach without any fatal injury and I scrambled up out of their reach. �And then you remained by us? �Yes, I did not find any means to return once I came for some years. �Perhaps you had reason? �I had. I was a rival for a girl. I was then endeavouring to win money. I had entrusted some money in the vessel. All I had. And with her I lost all. And with that all I lost even hope and never returned to my native home. �Did the girl love you? �She liked me well enough to have me if her relations would consent, but they would not, unless they saw I had more money than I could obtain. And in default of that they would marry her to another, who had more money than I, and I only had tamed time to get money by the girl's intercession, but I was balked. �Well, that was bad, but I suppose you were well assured that you would be rejected if you had not money. �I was by her family. �And herself? �That was not so sure, and yet they had great influence upon her. But I could not have the courage to go back and ask her to wed poverty, a man without even the means of purchasing a wedding garment. �You did right, neighbor. �I did, and I knew it, replied the fisherman bitterly. �But you have prospered since, and you have been happy if I mistake not. �Yes, I have been prosperous and tolerably happy. It is wonderful how men adapt themselves to the circumstances around them. �They do, if they did not how insupportable would life be. �You are right. I should have been miserable for ever. �I should never have her covered my feelings, and should never have been what I am now. �The storm seems as furious as ever, neighbor,� observed one of the fishermen after a long pause, for they were meditating upon what they had heard. �And I think we shall have but a very rough night of it. �Good, we shall have a night of it. �I think, said another, I must be getting near my own fireside by this time. They will expect me home or think some accident has happened. �And I will step out to see how the weather looks before it grows dark. There appears no change. �Hark! What is that?� There was a moment's pause, and in about a minute, in one of the lulls of the wind, they thought they heard a gun, but the storm increased so as to leave them in great doubt of what it was. �It was a gun, I think,� said the fisherman. �Such sounds as those I have heard before, but it is hard to tell them from the sounds of the elements. �We can tell when we get outside, I dare say. But the wind sweeps all sounds past so rapidly that it is scarcely possible to tell even there. But there is yet light to see, and as the sun sets in the horizon we have a chance of seeing a sail, if there be one. �We have, but not of helping her. True, there is no help for those on board. �May heaven have mercy upon the poor mariners� said the fisherman's wife. �It is hard times with them now. Life is dear to all, and they will cling to it. Do what you can for the poor beings. �There is no doing anything� said the fisherman gloomily. �Either boat or ship can ride through such a sea, on the ocean or at anchor. �But they may be cast ashore, and they may not be quite dead, you know. Instant aid might avail much, when even they had ceased to feel. �We will not fail in that particular. We are going down to the beach now, and shall not neglect any means that are in our power. At all events, more we cannot do, but that much shall be done, and I hope it may be of some service. �Hark, the same sound again� said his companion. �I did not hear it. Nor I. �Come on, we shall now know better in the open air� said the fisherman, as he wrapped himself up in a large rough coat and pulled his hat over his eyes. �The rain is as heavy as ever, and I think it will soon fill the sea to overflowing.� The fisherman left the hut and proceeded towards the beach. At least they did not go down, for the waves ran so high that they beat a long way inland, more so than they had ever done before. �What do you think of our storm?� �It is a complete tempest, furious, and the wind blows the waves towards the shore, and that is the cause why we have the sea so high. And should the wind continue in that quarter for a day or two? Even our cottages will be in some danger.� �I daresay they would, but it would be without example if the winds were to continue in that quarter for so long a time, blowing a complete hurricane without any intermission. �I should almost think the world about to end.� �Do you see any vessel out on the horizon?� inquired one of the fishermen. �Not I, but I can hear the gun.� There came booming across the water the sound of a piece of artillery. There was no mistaking it. It was plain and evident to all that there was a vessel in distress somewhere, but they could not exactly tell where. Again the sound reached them on the wind, accompanied by the roar of the elements, but it was enough to distinguish it by from the rest of those awful sounds which spoke plainly to them of the dreadful fate of the unfortunate men who are on board the vessel in distress. �Can you make them out?� inquired one of the fishermen of his companion. �I cannot see her, though I hear the guns, and can almost imagine her whereabouts.� �No, I can't see her,� replied the man spoken to. �I can, though,� replied the first fisherman. �She lies close in shore, not a mile out. Nor yet that. I think she's dismasted.� �I see her now myself. I looked about in the horizon, above her there. She labors much, and the sea breaks over her. �She has lost her rudder, I have no doubt, and is drifting right in shore. What will become of them I cannot well think.� �It is too easy to think. Do you imagine that one man among the whole crew can be saved? Hardly on such a shore as this, with rocks on all sides, every man that has swept overboard will be dashed to pieces, and disabled even if lashed to spars. �You are right, for if one man survives this wreck it will be a miracle, and I can hardly believe it to be possible.� They now watched the course of the vessel. The guns had ceased to fire, and the daylight was fast departing. And though she came nearer, yet she became less distinct, but still they could see her and note her progress well through the surf that rose up, around her as if dashed against the laboring vessel's side. �She strikes,� cried one of the men. �The shivering action is her first shock.� �Yes, said a companion. Poor wretches, they have but a short time now. She will go to pieces on those rocks, as sure as they are there. �May she not hold together there? �No. See, she heaves up again. No, as there are but bare rocks under her, and she will not settle into any place, but continue beating and bumping upon them until she will break and split to shivers, not a timber can hold.� �Too true, too true,� said his companion. The fishermen now bent their eyes upon the ocean, where this exciting scene was going on, but they spoke not. It was growing darker, and yet they gazed, steadfastly, heedless of the beating and overwhelming rain, but they could hardly see the vessel, until at length a loud shriek came to them, born to them upon the horse winds, and heard distinctly above the roaring of the ocean. The fishermen knit his brows, and compressed his lips as he heard the sounds, and then, clasping his hands, he said, �Heaven have mercy upon them, for I fear the sea will have none. It�s all over, and they are dead and dying. �Follow me. End of chapter 165, read by Richard Wallace, Liberty, Missouri, 4 March 2010. Chapter 166 of Varney the Vampire Volume 3 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Varney the Vampire Volume 3 by Thomas Prescott Prest Chapter 166 The One Body Washed A Shore The First Request The Shipwrecked Stranger The fishermen followed down towards the beach, for they had been standing upon some cliffs which commanded the sea below, which now was one dark boiling mass in which nothing at all was distinguishable, and therefore they could not tell what went on below. They soon arrived at the little bay in which their fishing boats used to ride, but they had been drawn up beyond the reach of the sea, though the sea now ran quite up into the land, and they stood watching the waves as they rolled upwards. �Had we not drawn our boats higher,� said one, �they would have been wrecks by this time, and we should have been beggars. � �Aye, so we should, neighbor. Don't you see the waves beating over the very spot where they lay? I do, and they ain't far from them even now, and I am in some fear lest they reach them. But they have been moored as well. They are doubly secured. �Do you see anything upon the water yet?� inquired the first fisherman. �Nothing, nor I, and I have strained my eyes to their utmost. They are most likely all dashed to pieces, and they are not likely to live through such a sea. �No, no, they must be overwhelmed with water. God help them, poor fellows, and if they are not to be saved, may they soon have an end to their tortures, for the strife after life must be dreadful. �It is dreadful,� said the other, �but you must know that the sufferings are endured under excitement, and therefore not so much felt as when they have been saved. �To have passed the barrier of life, and to become insensible to all, and then to be recalled to life, is in agony not to be described. I have seen men who have been restored to life, and who have solemnly declared that the pangs of death they could encounter and not those of a return to life. The fisherman made no reply, but stood listening to the howlings of the storm, and watching the waves. But this was productive of nothing. They watched for more than two hours, and yet nothing came ashore. �I don't see we can do any good here,� said one. �No, right. Those who were alive must now have been dead some time. �Yes, the sea don't wash them this way. �Most likely,� added another, �they are washed among the breakers, and dashed against our cliffs, and therefore cannot reach this place, where they can reach the land. �It usually happens so. �It does, but we may as well return. There is a wreck, no doubt. That is quite settled. Quite, as you say, but there are no signs of it. Save such as you saw. �Yes, we have evidence enough of the fact. We saw her go to pieces, and we have heard the death shriek of the mariners, and more we cannot have seen. When we come down here in the morning, we may indeed see the bodies and the broken and the severed planks of the unfortunate vessel, strewn over the sands. �I shall return again after I have had an hour or two's turn-ins,� said the fisherman. �Give me a call,� said his companion, �and I will go with you. �And I, agreed. Then about midnight we will again visit the beach, and see if any of the men are ashore. There was no one now by the shore, and not save the sounds of the turmoil of the elements could be heard. What other sounds can, by any possibility, be distinguishable at such a time? There was nothing that could be done there that would sound. The loud roar of the breakers was tremendous. The dash of the waves against the cliffs and the steady bellowing of the wind, which sounded not much unlike a steady and continued report of great guns fired at a distance, were as but one sound and that sound of a strange, awful, and furious character, perfectly dreadful. There was one body, however, thrown up by the waves, as if they would yield that one alone and no other, or as if that one was the only one they refused to swallow. It floated about for some time, and was thrown hither and thither, now thrown on shore by one wave, and withdrawn by another. At last a high wave came rolling onwards and falling upon the shore, it lifted the body up, and carried it further upon the beach and there left it, and no subsequent wave came so far as that, and it was left unmolested. The body was the carcass of the stranger, who of all the rest had been swept towards the little bay, and deposited there alone. The fisherman left his hut to call his companion, and having done so they came towards the beach while they conversed together. Well, said one, I did not expect to see the storm abate so soon. I did not, replied his companion, though I daresay it was much too violent to last much longer, and yet I can scarcely credit my senses that it is really gone, and that the day-losing rain has ceased altogether. Yes, and there comes the moon peeping behind that mass of clouds. The wind blows stiffly yet, but it has greatly moderated, and I think it will continue to do so. I hope it may, but the sea does not abate a bit, and will not for many hours, even if the wind was to go down. Oh, dear know, the waves will keep on in this fashion for some hours, and I daresay it will be useless to get our boats out. We shall not have any more fish for some days to come. Most likely not, but I would not venture to go out while the sea is heaving after such a storm as this. There would be but little use in doing so. I am quite persuaded, but what is that yonder? Where? I see nothing. There, lying a few yards from the reach of the waves.  No motion. It is, I fear, dead. There is no motion, and the attitude is that of one who is not moved after he was thrown there. I think not, however, but let us see what it is. The fisherman went down onto the beach, where the body lay, for such it really was, and when they reached it, at once saw it was a human body, and they all paused before it. Bring it higher up on the beach, the waves may come upon you presently, they are high enough. Bring him higher up on the beach, and you will then see what state he is in, for if his limbs are broken and his body otherwise injured to any extent, you may spare much useless labor. The fisherman drew the body up higher. They then carried him to a dry and sheltered spot, and examined him, but found no particular injuries to speak of, but that he was apparently drowned. What course to pursue, said one. I don't know, no doubt, but he is quite dead.  I should imagine so, and yet we had better take it up to the cottage and place it under cover. Indeed, we cannot tell how long it has been thus. Therefore I say we had better make some attempt to recover him. He may yet come round, though there may be but little hope in it. We will try. Stand out of the moonlight. We shall be able to see presently better what he is than we can now. The moon was now freed from the mass of deep heavy clouds that hung over it, like a curtain before that luminary, in which now shed a brilliant light upon the earth. The fisherman stood round, gazing upon the body of the stranger. Ha! it moves, said one. The body did move, and no sooner did the moonlight fall full and fair upon its form than it slowly raised itself upon its elbow and gazed round. A deep inspiration took place, almost aggrown, and some sea water was vomited. He lives, he lives, exclaimed the fisherman. Take him to the hut, said another. They all stooped down to aid him, and began to lift him up. He lives, he lives, away with him to the hut, said several of the fisherman. Before a warm fire and with some warm drinks he will get better. A little more light, a little more light, if you please, said the stranger, in a bland but broken voice, as he attempted to move his hand. He speaks, exclaimed the fisherman in a breath, and at the same time they removed a pace or two, and looked at each other with amazement, and then again at the stranger, who gradually rose up and sat upright in the light of the moon. Are you any better, inquired one of the men who had looked on in silent amazement, not unmixed with awe as they gazed? Yes, much better. What a vile thing is sea water, said the stranger, turning such a ghastly face upon the men that they shrunk in horror, and yet they were not men used to fear or any like passion. However, they soon approached him, muttering to each other. What manner of man is this? They did not long consider what was to be done for one of their number replied. Poor fellow, he is not used to the rough usage of the waves, and therefore does not improve upon their acquaintance. But let us lend him a hand. With all my heart replied his comrades. Will you come with me to my cottage? said the fisherman. You will benefit more by a good fire than by the cold moonlight, I'll warrant. I never throw upon night air and wet clothes, and I cannot believe you will. We all know our constitution's best, said the stranger, but if you will grant me the accommodation you speak of, it will be welcome. Come, lean upon me. Never mind your clothes being wet. The stranger rose, and to the amazement of all he appeared to walk as well as any of those present, and the only difference was he was ghastly pale, and was dripping with seawater, which left a track after him. Had you been long on the beach, inquired one. I don't know, replied the stranger. I was insensible. Can you form any idea how long you have been in the water? I really cannot tell even that, for I was insensible immediately after the ship went to pieces, which she did about the close of the day, and I only remember receiving a hard blow by being struck against a rock or a piece of timber, I cannot say which. You must have been insensible for some hours. I daresay I was. I never heard of such a miraculous preservation, nor I. To come to life, too, without any aid to recover you, that is what entirely bothers me. Well, they do say those that are born to be hanged will never be drowned, added one of the fishermen in an undertone to his companion. They soon arrived at the hut of the fisherman, in which there was a good fire, and the wife and daughter were ready to do all that could be done for the unfortunate stranger. You have saved a mariner, then, said the wife. We have picked up one from the wreck, wife, but we cannot call him a mariner. This gentleman was, no doubt, a passenger. Welcome, sir, I did not expect to see any one alive from the wreck, much less in a condition to walk and speak. The stranger paid them some compliments, but contented himself with sitting by the fire and being entirely passive in their hands, and eventually retired to rest well, wrapped up, and warm. End of Chapter 166. Read by Richard Wallace, Liberty, Missouri, 4 March 2010. Chapter 167 of Juanita Wampire, Volume 3. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Chessie. Juanita Wampire, Volume 3 by Thomas Prescott-Prest. Chapter 167. The Fisherman's Cottage, The Fireside and The Traveler's Bed. The Fisherman's hut was large and roomy. There was no choice furniture, though there was enough of the homely conveniences that were to be found in such habitations. Much more so than as usual. There was a large fireplace up in which some faggots had been newly laid and which now blazed away most cheerfully. Our home is humble, sir, said the Fisherman. But such as it is, you are welcome to it and may it serve you instead of a better. I am much beholden to you, replied the stranger, much beholden to you and cannot thank you enough. This change is most valuable. I do not know in what state I should have been had you not come forward and offered a shelter of your house to me. I am very cold indeed and the warmth of your fire is grateful to me. I am glad of it, sir. You are the only one I fear as far as I know that is saved. Was there many on board? About 20, I think. Poor fellows. They have met with a watery grave. As they have, I fear. They have had a fearful struggle for many were lashed to sparse, hoping they might be washed off loaded ashore. I hope I am not disturbing, though I fear I am your wife and daughter, that is your daughter, I presume, if I may judge from her likeness to yourself. Yes, sir, that is my daughter. She's a good girl, sir, though I say so that I'm her father, and if a secret must be told, in another month, she will exchange her father's for her husband's control and care, which, will I hope, be a happy change. They have long loved each other, said the mother, and, to my mind, it is cruel to keep them apart. Times will never be better, and I don't see, but they may begin the world as well as others with little more than a will to work. You are right, said a stranger. You are right. It was never intended that mankind should wait till the circumstances were propitious, or it would have made the desire dependent upon circumstances too. You have hit the right nail, sir. You have spoken the truth, but still we must recommand caution. Very right. I wish them joy and prosperity, said the stranger. There was now a bustle in the cottage. Some of those who had accompanied the stranger into the hut now departed, while the remainder left a few moments after, in company, leaving the fisherman and his family with their guest. Well, said one, of all the odd-looking fish that ever I saw come out of the sea, I think he beats all. Not but what I make every allowance, but I cannot make any in such a case, because he has not been drowned. He was quite insensible, and had been so for a long time. Don't you remember what he said about his becoming insensible immediately after the ship struck? Yes, I heard it all, but hang me if I can understand it. He is, as if he had been bled to death, and then came to life. He ain't got much of a color. No, but more than that. The dreadful, deftly or ashy paleness is fearful, and then his peculiar features, his long hair flattened to his head by the water, and the teeth in his head, which appear as if they had been said with the express intention of enabling him to catch otters. That would be no easy task either, but I must say, as you say, that there have been better looking men than he had all events, in the fisherman's hut the stranger was willingly attended to by the fisherman in this family without any invidious attention, and when he had changed his habilaments, he seated himself again by the fire, when some warm drinks and other refreshment were given him. I did not think to find anyone alive when I went down to the beach, said the fisherman. I thought all were lost, and I doubt not, but they are all lost, save myself, said the stranger blantly, and though I do not appear much hurt by the occurrence, yet I feel as if the whole mass of my blood was changed, and that I should never again be what I was, that in fact I shall always carry about me the appearance, and certainly the feeling, of a man torn from the arms of death and made to live. It does affect some people strangely, said the fisherman. I know what shipwreck is myself, and therefore can easily guess what it is to those who are unused to the sea. I was the only one saved out of a whole crew. Indeed, then your case is identical with mine, and then your case is identical with mine. In that respect it is, replied the fisherman, but I was used to the dangers of the sea, and though that makes no difference when you find yourself in the boiling waters, yet a man who has the fear of wreck constantly before his eyes can see the danger, take more precaution, and is not so likely to lose that presence of mind which at such times is so valuable. So it is, though I took it very quietly and stood still until I was thrown down by the first shock of the vessel. She struck more than once. She did, four or five times. She was thrown upon the rocks in shallow water, I believe, as I understand these matters. Yes, it was so, said the fisherman. It was so. Well, it was only when the waves left us that we came down with a dreadful crashing shock, which caused the vessel to shiver as if she had been but a leaf. Well, every time a wave swept towards us, it lifted the vessel off the rock and carried her a few yards further, sometimes scraping and scratching a keel as she went along. At other times she was lifted clear of the rocks and then suddenly thrown upon them with great force and then every timber separated, just what might be expected. And just as it occurred, said the stranger, and of course the crew were carried into the sea and drowned. Yes, but what became of them, I mean where they were carried to, I cannot tell. But I suppose among the tall rocks that I saw before the wreck. But why was I not carried there and left? It is something that neither you nor I can tell, said the fisherman. Perhaps so, but I am safe and only so to tell the disaster to others, not for a warning, for it can be none, but I am saved. You are. Perhaps you would like to lie down for an hour or two before daylight comes and then we will take a walk down to the shore in the morning and see if there is anything wash the shore. I am tired and think that it would be of some service if I can sleep, though I dare say I shall be dreaming of what I have seen and felt and hardly dare to sleep so great is the disturbance in my mind. Sit up and welcome by the fire, said the fisherman. You can do so, it may be as well perhaps too, you may be able to sleep that way. No, no, I lie down on the boards. I am not particular up in such an occasion, and as it has turned out, I shall be too much in need of rest to sit up.  It has that effect as much as I am used to it, replied the fisherman, but do what you please, I shall turn in till daylight unless you want anything more. Nothing, thank you my good friend, but a place to lie down on, and then I am quite content for the remainder of the night. There is a settle up in your corner where you can sleep. It is rough and homely, but we have nothing otherwise here. No apology, I am too thankful for what I have escaped from, and for what I have received to look hard at the mercies afforded me. The stranger said no more, but took the fisherman's advice, and walked to the settle, and then lay down with his face towards the fire. Good night, said the fisherman, pleasant slumbers. The same to you my friend, I hope I have not dispossessed any of your family of their means of rest. I have perhaps deprived them of their bed. No, no, sleep in peace, we are all provided for. I sleep here, he said, as he was about to open the door. And my daughter sleeps there, he added, pointing to a small door. So, you see, we have our appointed places, and that on which you now sleep is retained for the use of any strange traveler or friend that may need it. Then good night, said the stranger, which was returned again by the fisherman who entered his own room, leaving his guest lying on his bed and looking around him by the light of the fire, which burned yet for some time. End of chapter 167, chapter 168 of Varni the Vampire, volume 3. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in a public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Chessie, Varni the Vampire, volume 3 by Thomas Prescott Press, chapter 168. The night in the fisherman's hut. The midnight feast of blood. The chase and the gunshot. The stranger, as he lay, listened to the sounds that were emitted by and occasionally opened his eyes to gaze upon the flames as they ran upwards. He watched the forked tongues as they played about the faggots, and then turned his eyes towards the various parts of the apartment as it was now and then illuminated with its warm glare. What might have been his feelings after his escape, it is difficult to conjecture, for he appeared not inclined to sleep, but to gaze about him and keep watch over the fire, which every now and then blazed up afresh. And his mind appeared to be intent up in something else than merely thinking of the past. There was too much of inquiry and curiosity about it. The time has come round again, he muttered. My blood requires renewal, my strength renovation, and no element will do dead but maiden's blood. A horrible expression of countenance came over him that must have caused a feeling of horror to have crept through the veins of anyone who might have been near to see him. But, as it was, he was alone, and there was no one to be terrified. Yes, yes, I must have that supply. Else, though the sea may give up its dead, and the earth refuse to cover me, yet I may sink into that sleep I would so willingly escape from. Then, indeed, I should suffer what I cannot bear to think of. Yet, how near have I been to that death from which I have believed it impossible to return? But yet, the moonbeams have found me, and I have again been reanimated, and a horrible appetite has returned which must have its periodical meal. It's terrible and disgusting, we passed. It must be done, I, it must be done. As he muttered, his lips met, and his long tongue was occasionally thrust out, as if he were anticipating the pleasures of the feast. Yes, yes, this very night must renew the life that has been this night restored to me. I must make a fresh attempt. I think he said his daughter lay in yonder chamber. In another hour, I will adventure upon this scheme. His eyes were fixed upon the door, which he appeared to watch and examine with the utmost care and avidity. He watched, however, for some time, and the flames appeared to subside, and the embers gave out a dull red glare and some warmth. Now is the moment, he muttered, as he rose softly from his bed. Now is the moment, all are asleep, and stillness reigns around me. I will go and ascertain if all be quiet, and then to my midnight orgies. A feast that shall restore me to my life, my former self. He crawled out of the bed and stood upright for a moment and listened. And then, with a noiseless step, he crept to the door of the fisherman's bedroom and then listened for some seconds and muttered as if he were satisfied. Yes, yes, they sleep sound enough and will not readily awaken. He then took a small cord and tied the handle of the door to a nail on the post, so as to offer an impediment to egress from the sleeping room, and then he went towards the other which the fisherman had told him belonged to his daughter. He paused and listened at the door for a few moments, and then he said, Yes, yes, that is the maiden's chamber. That is sure to be her chamber. Her father said so, and I have no reason to doubt he told the truth, since he had no cause to lie. Here, then, is the casket that contains all my treasure, the Alexia retail of my life, the undefiled blood of a maiden's veins. He tried the door, but it was secured on the inside. This, for a moment, disconcerted him, and he took a moment or two to consider what best could be done, and at length he saw a small chink in the wall which he approached. Then, peeping in, he saw that if he could enlarge the hole, he might push his hand in and open the door by undoing the fastenings. This was effected by means of a chisel which happened to be lying near at hand. Then he opened it and thrust in his hand and withdrew the bolt that held the door and quietly opened it. With cat-like caution he approached the bed where the fisherman's daughter lay. She was a beautiful girl, scarce eighteen, and, by a consent of all, the queen of the place in respect of beauty. With greedy eyes the vampire approached the bed on which lay the form of the sleeping maiden and gazed upon her fair-white neck and bosom. Heaving with the sleeper's breath, and then, as if he could contain himself no longer, he eagerly bent down over her, and then, as her face was turned on one side, his lips and teeth approached the silks post. A scream ran through the fisherman's hut that awoke its inmates in an instant, and which, though it banished sleep, yet it gave not a power of thought. Help! Help! Help! screamed the maiden. To his merry, said the fisherman, surely, hasten and see what is that ails her, she never would scream so, unless in utmost peril hasten and see. Help! Help! again screamed the maiden, as she struggled in the arms of the monster who kept her in his powerful grasp. While he sought a life current that crimson her veins of horrible desire, the door is secured. Damn! muttered the fisherman. What does this mean? Giving my gun down while I forced the door. The old woman handed down the gun, while the fisherman put a strength to the door, which quickly gave way and flew open. Here is your gun. Be quick, but do not be too hasty in its use. See to Mary and the shipwrecked voyager, who secured my door dame but he. The door, I, I remember, hasten. Help! Help! again shouted or screamed Mary, but not in so loud a voice as before. She was getting weaker, and just as the fisherman emerged into the large room, the faggots fell together and gave forth a sudden blaze. And in an instant the whole place was lighted up, and the fisherman's eyes sawed the couch of the stranger whom he had lodged, but the bed was empty. Gone, he muttered. Gone! He turned his head in the direction of his daughter's bed chamber, and saw the door was open, and he heard the struggle and the sucking noise. Ha! he muttered and rushed in exclaiming. What means this noise? Who calls for help? The appearance of the fisherman was so opportune and so sudden, and so intent was the vampire upon the hideous meal, that he did not hear the approach of the fisherman, and it was not until a letter shouted that he turned and saw him. Treacherous and ungrateful villain! said the fisherman, who was almost powerless from terror and astonishment. The vampire turned and dropped his victim on the bed, while he endeavored to pass the fisherman.  But the vampire jumped back, and the blow missed its intended object, and they both closed for a struggle. The fisherman, however, found that he had one to do with, whose strength was even greater than his own, however great that might be. And in the moment more, he was thrown down, and the monster rushed across the outer room, oversetting the fisherman's wife, and forcing open the outer door, he fled. I am thrown, said the fisherman, rising, but not done for. Mary, are you hurt? Oh, my God! My God! exclaimed the poor girl.  I have the marks of his teeth in me. I'll have revenge upon him yet. Nay, father, he's some monster. Do not go. No, no, said his wife. No husband. Do not attempt it. Strong he is. He may do you a mischief. I know, said the fisherman. He has thrown me, and he has abused my hospitality. He is not fit to live. He has not, however, any means of fighting against the contents of my gun. I have got that loaded, and will punish him. Be he man or devil, I will make the experiment of following him. All this took place in less time than it takes to relate it, and the fisherman rushed out of his hut to follow the stranger who had acted so badly. It was now early dawn, and though the wave still lashed the shore in angry violence, and kept up a ceaseless roar, yet the sky betrayed none of the signs of yesterday's storm, but was serene and calm, and not a cloud was to be seen. Nothing but a dim, gray night pervaded all space. There was just light enough to see objects moving about, and when the fisherman got outside the hut, he saw, about a hundred yards or better before him, the form of the stranger, making for the woodland at the height of his speed. The fisherman hastened to intercept him, which, however, was unnecessary. For another, coming from that quarter, turned him, and he fled towards the sea, whether he was followed, and when up on the cliffs, the fisherman fired, and the vampire fell over, and was supposed to have been drowned. End of Chapter 168 Chapter 169 of Varni the Vampire, Volume 3 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Eric Leach Varni the Vampire, Volume 3 by Thomas Prescott-Prest, Chapter 169 The Assassins on the Rialto, The Attack and Defeat, The Stranger On the Rialto one evening, as the sun was sinking in the golden west, a stranger was seen walking to and fro in deep musing, apparently unmindful of what was passing around him, or of the approach of evening, an hour when the remorseless assassin is known to stalk abroad in the streets of Venice, and there the dagger finds his victim. Several individuals looked hard at the stranger in the cloak, but no one approached him, saved those who passed him, and in doing so bestowed a passing gaze upon him, which was not returned, for he heeded no one. But he was not much open to recognition even if he were known, for the cloak with which he had enveloped himself was of such ample dimensions that it completely concealed him from the curiosity of the many.  The evening still grew darker and later, and the passengers were fewer and fewer, but still the tall stranger walked slowly up and down. But no one ventured to say anything, though more than one had the inclination to speak, but the tallness of the man and the point of the long rapier which appeared beneath the cloak checked any inclination to familiarity, and induced a more voluntary courtesy than might at all times have been accorded.  These men were of a suspicious character, they all wore cloaks and slouched hats, but they had all seen some service and were somewhat the worst for it. They conversed together and walked away for a short space, but they returned presently and still found the stranger as before at the same spot. Well, said one of the three as they again met at a certain spot. What think you now? Is he a spy or not? I don't know what to think, Rubino. Spy or no spy he will interfere with our duty tonight. Wonder what is best? What do you mean? Why, would it be better to chance his presence or shall we put him away? He evidently intends remaining there. The devil only knows how long. I believe you, but it appears to me that both plans are objectionable to the last degree, though I confess I can see no alternative whatever. Which do you consider the least objectionable plan? That is, what we have to consider, for there are but two plans and we cannot fail to do our business. Should we do so we should lose something and we should never get any more employment. Good. If we attack him we shall lose our chance with our better customer. We shall lose our man at the least if we get clear. He wears a long sword and is a tall man.  We are three. That is very true, but an encounter only makes it the worst, and even if he be killed, which, if we are true to ourselves, he must be, we shall be obliged to quit the spot and our main object defeated. That is most true, but shall we risk the attempt when there are two? It will make it too many odds. We shall not be so sure of success as we ought to be. We have the advantage of striking when we are not seen. A blow is sure when no hand is raised to ward it off. Aye, we should dispose of one before he has made any resistance, and before the other can offer any opposition or attempt any assistance, should the first have life enough to call out. Come, come, let's have no fear of the result. It is all in our own hands. Shall we not run more danger during the encounter of being taken by others who may come up, attracted by the fray? There is much to be said about making an alarm, because numbers will then be drawn upon us, and you know we have little sympathy among the multitude. No, no, we must make all possible haste, and then we may allude all possible chance. Strike the blow home, and then we may baffle all, for if he cry he will fall, and those who help him will raise him, and we shall have time to make our escape. No doubt, no doubt, it is a good plan, very good plan, and one that I think will succeed. At all events, it only wants a good trial to make it succeed. You see, a strong arm, quick eye, and swift foot is all that are necessary. I see, and one more quality. What is it? Good luck. Granted, but that often comes from the manner in which a thing is done, and sometimes from the want of skill in those who should make it the reverse, confusion for a moment gives us our luck, and then we are safe. So we are. How goes the time, Rubino? inquired one of the assassins for such they were. Oh, it yet wants one hour of the time in which we are to meet him. Well, then we have more than a chance yet of our being undisturbed here, and the stranger may leave for some other part of the city, but our plan is fixed whether or no. Shall we turn into a Vintners? No, we have no time for that as yet. No time, what mean you, Rubino? That we have no time, replied Rubino, to quit this neighborhood, because you will perceive he may come at any time these next two hours, which is a matter of some importance, for if he reach home alive we have miscarried and incur great displeasure, if not vengeance. We care but little for the vengeance of another. We may not individually, but you must know this one thing knows too much of us and our haunts to be a safe and pleasant enemy. Besides, we shall lose a liberal patron, one who has given us some gold and promised us more. Aye, aye, he is the man to serve, and we will not to sublige him. We will deal fairly by him, and he cannot expect more. And he will reward us liberally. Amen, say I. Now we have waited long enough. Let us walk down the Rialto, and when we get to the other end we can plant ourselves in such a position to watch his advance toward us, and then we can walk to him. Had we better not remain somewhere nearer at hand, because we can then start on him unawares, and thus have a blow without alarming him, and if that be a deadly one, why then we are safe. No one will know the mischief is done. So much the better, but come we will continue our walk, it will lull suspicion, and when we come again one of our number can creep into one of these alcoves, and there wait against his coming. And you will be at hand. Of course we shall keep upon the lookout, so as to be near at the moment you commence the attack. But suppose I should fall, then you must continue the attack in a sharp and rapid manner, engaging all his attention to defend himself. Aye, and leave me to myself to the attack of that man yonder, should he be at hand at the moment? Oh no no, do not hurt yourself, you need be under no fear of that sort, for you see it will only be man to man, and a fair encounter. It has never yet been fairly done, and will not be with me in this matter, don't you see? If help arrives I am lost, and if I be lost without help, it will be the worst for you. I'll take my share of danger and mishap, but I will not be imposed upon by a comrade, and so you will understand it first. Who was deserous you should, shall we not be at hand? At your heels I expect, but don't you see that by giving a minute's time you endanger all, for if my first attack failed he ought not to be allowed rallying time, he ought not to be permitted to recover himself in attempt defense, indeed because that gives me time, and we may be beat by others coming from whatever quarter we may go, we do not intend it, we are only deserous that one of us should be prepared to make the attack while we are walking to and fro, and perhaps attracting his attention and drawing it from you. Then we aid you, but should you be foiled, why, we will hasten as if we were coming to help him. I see, well, let it be so. Good, we can then act effectively, and we are the gainers by this stratagem. Now then, Roberto, do thou hide thyself in yonder alcove? I will, my dagger is sharp, and you know my arm is not usually a weak one, and that I have done some service with it a year now. Thou hast, and it will again do more, hush, hasten in, I hear footsteps yonder, to see, I think. We will not go far, but within the reach of your eye, fifty yards at most will be the distance. We will take and come towards you the moment we find he has reached you. Good, be gone, he comes. The assassin stole into an alcove, and then paused in the deep shade of the place where he had concealed himself, and the other two walked down a short distance, about a hundred and fifty yards or so, and then paused and looked back. Do you see anything of them? No, I don't at this moment. It is getting very dark. We had better return and see what happens. We shall get up in the very nick of time and be able to take part in the fray. Well, be it so, replied the other. I will go with you, but we run some risk in encountering the stranger in the rapier and long cloak. Most true, but we shall not have taken any part in the affair, that will clear us of anything that may tend to inculpate us. We are right, and if we find our comrade hardly pressed, we can aid him, and at that time, when it is unexpected by the other party, hark, they are at it already. Come on. They both hastened towards the scene of combat, towards which they both ran, for they knew their comrade's voice. The other villain awaited the coming of the stranger, whom he was waiting to assassinate as soon as his comrades had left him. The unconscious stranger walked down the Rialto with a slow and steady gait, humming an air from some opera as he walked along, well-pleased in his own mind. He wore his cloak open in front, and his sword dangling at his side, and altogether most unsuspicious of an attack. Scarcely, however, had he passed the assassin's hiding place, then the fellow rushed out and made a desperate blow at him with his dagger, which, however, miscarried on account of the loose manner in which he wore his cloak. The blow was foiled by the folds of the garment, and the wearer turned around.  Help, help! shouted the villain who found himself beset by one who would quickly make him repent his temerity. At that moment the rest of the assassins came up and commenced a furious attack upon the single stranger, who, of course, from being almost a victor was immediately compelled to give ground to the three. Help, help! shouted the stranger, as he was forced on one knee and that with a wound, but at that moment help was at hand, and the tall stranger stepped up to his side and casting his cloak to one side and drawing his rapier, he ran one of the assailants through the body, and he fell backwards, dead. A furious combat ensued between the stranger and the other two assassins, who were compelled to fight, so closely they were pressed by the stranger, however, after a few moments they turned and fled. The stranger then turned towards the wounded man, who was rising from the ground by the help of the pillar that was supporting the sides of the alcove, and then endeavored to staunch the wound he had received. The end of chapter 169, read by Eric Leitch, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.


Hi everybody! I'm Melanie from Argentina and I just finished the 120-hour TEFL course and I'm very satisfied. I actually studied English back home but I started traveling seven years ago and I stopped teaching, so I decided to do the TEFL course to go over the teaching methodology and the verb tenses. The course helped me understand how to structure a lesson and it gives a lot of useful material and web pages. The units are very well organized and the content is easy to understand. I highly recommend ITTT.


The inverted classroom model is a model of teaching and learning that flips the traditional phases of teaching and learning activities. It frees up all the actual in-class time to practice with my students. So we have far more lively in-class meetings than ever before. I predict that video, at least for the next 10 years, plays a leading role in the academic world.