“Round midnight, I think. The gale had become a hurricane: that hurricane was the most terrible that ever laid waste our city. Pure luck! If the boy had grown a moustache or a beard, a needle in the haystack would have been soft work. A native of Manchester, he was the son of Kenelm Kneebone, a staunch Catholic, and a sergeant of dragoons, who lost his legs and his life while fighting for James the Second at the battle of the Boyne, and who had little to bequeath his son except his laurels and his loyalty to the house of Stuart. You come to England, and hide in a secret convent in London. I hate myself!” She collapsed to the floor, sobbing. His vision was becoming accustomed to the faint light now and her features were clearer. “How did you become a vampire, then?” He asked.
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