"See. It is here."
By the combined light of the candles they saw the words,--
"Marmaduke Bannerworth, Yeoman, 1640."
"Yes, there can be no mistake here," said Henry. "This is the coffin, and it shall be opened."
"I have the iron crowbar here," said Marchdale. "It is an old friend of mine, and I am accustomed to the use of it. Shall I open the coffin?"
"Do so--do so," said Henry.
They stood around in silence, while Mr. Marchdale, with much care, proceeded to open the coffin, which seemed of great thickness, and was of solid lead.
It was probably the partial rotting of the metal, in consequence of the damps of that place, that made it easier to open the coffin than it otherwise would have been, but certain it was that the top came away remarkably easily. Indeed, so easily did it come off, that another supposition might have been hazarded, namely, that it had never at all been effectually fastened.
[Illustration]
The few moments that elapsed were ones of very great suspense to every one there present; and it would, indeed, be quite sure to assert, that all the world was for the time forgotten in the absorbing interest which appertained to the affair which was in progress.
The candles were now both held by Mr. Chillingworth, and they were so held as to cast a full and clear light upon the coffin. Now the lid slid off, and Henry eagerly gazed into the interior.
There lay something certainly there, and an audible "Thank God!" escaped his lips.
"The body is there!" exclaimed George.
"All right," said Marchdale, "here it is. There is something, and what else can it be?"
"Hold the lights," said Mr. Chillingworth; "hold the lights, some of you; let us be quite certain."
George took the lights, and Mr. Chillingworth, without any hesitation, dipped his hands at once into the coffin, and took up some fragments of rags which were there. They were so rotten, that they fell to pieces in his grasp, like so many pieces of tinder.
There was a death-like pause for some few moments, and then Mr. Chillingworth said, in a low voice,--
"There is not the least vestige of a dead body here."
Henry gave a deep groan, as he said,--
"Mr. Chillingworth, can you take upon yourself to say that no corpse has undergone the process of decomposition in this coffin?"
"To answer your question exactly, as probably in your hurry you have worded it," said Mr. Chillingworth, "I cannot take upon myself to say any such thing; but this I can say, namely, that in this coffin there are no animal remains, and that it is quite impossible that any corpse enclosed here could, in any lapse of time, have so utterly and entirely disappeared."
"I am answered," said Henry.
"Good God!" exclaimed George, "and has this but added another damning proof, to those we have already on our minds, of one of the must dreadful superstitions that ever the mind of man conceived?"
"It would seem so," said Marchdale, sadly.
"Oh, that I were dead! This is terrible. God of heaven, why are these things? Oh, if I were but dead, and so spared the torture of supposing such things possible."
"Think again, Mr. Chillingworth; I pray you think again," cried Marchdale.
"If I were to think for the remainder of my existence," he replied, "I could come to no other conclusion. It is not a matter of opinion; it is a matter of fact."
"You are positive, then," said Henry, "that the dead body of Marmaduke Bannerworth is not rested here?"
"I am positive. Look for yourselves. The lead is but slightly discoloured; it looks tolerably clean and fresh; there is not a vestige of putrefaction--no bones, no dust even."
They did all look for themselves, and the most casual glance was sufficient to satisfy the most sceptical.
"All is over," said Henry; "let us now leave this place; and all I can now ask of you, my friends, is to lock this dreadful secret deep in your own hearts."
"It shall never pass my lips," said Marchdale.
"Nor mine, you may depend," said the doctor. "I was much in hopes that this night's work would have had the effect of dissipating, instead of adding to, the gloomy fancies that now possess you."
"Good heavens!" cried George, "can you call them fancies, Mr. Chillingworth?"
"I do, indeed."
"Have you yet a doubt?"
"My young friend, I told you from the first, that I would not believe in your vampyre; and I tell you now, that if one was to come and lay hold of me by the throat, as long as I could at all gasp for breath I would tell him he was a d----d impostor."