In what manner Herne declared his Passion for Mabel.
Utterly disregarding her cries and entreaties, Fenwolf dragged Mabel into the great cavern, and forced her to take a seat on a bench near the spot where a heap of ashes showed that the fire was ordinarily lighted. All this while, her grandfather had averted his face from her, as if fearing to meet her regards, and he now busied himself in striking a light and setting fire to a pile of fagots and small logs of wood.
“I thought you told me Herne was here,” said Mabel in a tone of bitter reproach, to Fenwolf, who seated himself beside her on the bench.
“He will be here ere long,” he replied sullenly.
“Oh, do not detain Sir Thomas Wyat!” cried Mabel piteously; “do not deliver him to your dread master! Do what you will with me—but let him go.”
“I will tell you what I will do,” replied Fenwolf, in a low tone; “I will set Sir Thomas at liberty, and run all risks of Herne's displeasure, if you will promise to be mine.”
Mabel replied by a look of unutterable disgust.
“Then he will await Herne's coming where he is,” rejoined Fenwolf.
Saying which he arose, and, pushing a table near the bench, took the remains of a huge venison pasty and a loaf from a hutch standing on one side of the cavern.
By this time Old Tristram, having succeeded in lighting the fire, placed himself at the farther end of the table, and fell to work upon the viands with Fenwolf. Mabel was pressed to partake of the repast, but she declined the offer. A large stone bottle was next produced and emptied of its contents by the pair, who seemed well contented with their regale.
Meanwhile Mabel was revolving the possibility of flight, and had more than once determined to make an attempt, but fear restrained her. Her grandsire, as has been stated, sedulously avoided her gaze, and turned a deaf ear to her complaints and entreaties. But once, when Fenwolf's back was turned, she caught him gazing at her with peculiar significance, and then comprehended the meaning of his strange conduct. He evidently only awaited an opportunity to assist her.
Satisfied of this, she became more tranquil, and about an hour having elapsed, during which nothing was said by the party, the low winding of a horn was heard, and Fenwolf started to his feet, exclaiming—
“It is Herne!”
The next moment the demon huntsman rode from one of the lateral passages into the cave. He was mounted on a wild-looking black horse, with flowing mane and tail, eyes glowing like carbuncles, and in all respects resembling the sable steed he had lost in the forest.
Springing to the ground, he exchanged a few words with Fenwolf in a low tone, and delivering his steed to him, with orders to take it to the stable, signed to Tristram to go with him, and approached Mabel.
“So you have seen Sir Thomas Wyat, I find,” he said, in a stern tone.
Mabel made no answer, and did not even raise her eyes towards him.
“And he has told you he loves you, and has urged you to fly with him—ha?” pursued Herne.
Mabel still did not dare to look up, but a deep blush overspread her cheek.
“He was mad to venture hither,” continued Herne; “but having done so, he must take the consequences.”
“You will not destroy him?” cried Mabel imploringly.
“He will perish by a hand as terrible as mine,” laughed Herne—“by that of famine. He will never quit the dungeon alive unless—”
“Unless what?” gasped Mabel.
“Unless he is leagued with me,” replied Herne. “And now let him pass, for I would speak of myself. I have already told you that I love you, and am resolved to make you mine. You shudder, but wherefore? It is a glorious destiny to be the' bride of the wild hunter—the fiend who rules the forest, and who, in his broad domain, is more powerful than the king. The old forester, Robin Hood, had his maid Marian; and what was he compared to me? He had neither my skill nor my power. Be mine, and you shall accompany me on my midnight rides; shall watch the fleet stag dart over the moonlight glade, or down the lengthened vista. You shall feel all the unutterable excitement of the chase. You shall thread with me the tangled grove, swim the river and the lake, and enjoy a thousand pleasures hitherto unknown to you. Be mine, and I will make you mistress of all my secrets, and compel the band whom I will gather round me to pay you homage. Be mine, and you shall have power of life and death over them, as if you were absolute queen. And from me, whom all fear, and all obey, you shall have love and worship.”
“And he would have taken her hand; but she recoiled from horror.
“Though I now inspire you with terror and aversion,” pursued “the time will come when you will love me as passionately as I was beloved by one of whom you are the image.”
And she is dead? “asked Mabel, with curiosity.
“Dead!” exclaimed Herne. “Thrice fifty years have flown since she dwelt upon earth. The acorn which was shed in the forest has grown into a lusty oak, while trees at that time in their pride have fallen and decayed away. Dead!—yes, she has passed from all memory save mine, where she will ever dwell. Generations of men have gone down to the grave since her time—a succession of kings have lodged within the castle but I am still a denizen of the forest. For crimes I then committed I am doomed to wander within it, and I shall haunt it, unless released, till the crack of doom.”
“Liberate me!” cried Mabel; “liberate your other prisoner and we will pray for your release.”
“No more of this!” cried Herne fiercely. “If you would not call down instant and terrible punishment on your head—punishment that I cannot avert, and must inflict—you will mention nothing sacred in my hearing, and never allude to prayer, I am beyond the reach of salvation.”
“Oh, say not so!” cried Mabel, in a tone of commiseration. “I will tell you how my doom was accomplished,” rejoined Herne wildly. “To gain her of whom I have just spoken, and who was already vowed to Heaven, I invoked the powers of darkness. I proffered my soul to the Evil One if he would secure her to me, and the condition demanded by him was that I should become what I am—the fiend of the forest, with power to terrify and to tempt, and with other more fearful and fatal powers besides.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Mabel.
“I grasped at the offer,” pursued Herne. “She I loved became mine. But she was speedily snatched from me by death, and since then I have known no human passion except hatred and revenge. I have dwelt in this forest, sometimes alone, sometimes at the head of a numerous band, but always exerting a baneful influence over mankind. At last, I saw the image of her I loved again appear before me, and the old passion was revived within my breast. Chance has thrown you in my way, and mine you shall be, Mabel.”
“I will die rather,” she replied, with a shudder.
“You cannot escape me,” rejoined He me, with a triumphant laugh; “you cannot avoid your fate. But I want not to deal harshly with you. I love you, and would win you rather by persuasion than by force. Consent to be mine, then, and I give Wyat his life and liberty.”
“I cannot—I cannot!” she replied.
“Not only do I offer you Wyat's life as the price of your compliance,” persevered Herne; “but you shall have what ever else you may seek—jewels, ornaments, costly attire, treasure—for of such I possess a goodly store.”
“And of what use would they be to me here?” said Mabel.
“I will not always confine you to this cave,” replied Herne. “You shall go where you please, and live as you please, but you must come to me whenever I summon you.”
“And what of my grandsire?” she demanded.
“Tristram Lyndwood is no relative of yours,” replied Herne. “I will now clear up the mystery that hangs over your birth. You are the offspring of one who for years has exercised greater sway than the king within this realm, but who is now disgraced and ruined, and nigh his end. His priestly vows forbid him to own you, even if he desired to do so.”
“Have I seen him?” demanded Mabel.
“You have,” replied Herne; “and he has seen you—and little did he know when he sought you out, that he was essaying to maintain his own power, and overturn that of another, by the dishonour of his daughter—though if he had done so,” he added, with a scoffing laugh, “it might not have restrained him.”
“I know whom you mean,” said Mabel. “And is it possible he can be my father?”
“It is as I have told you,” replied Herne. “You now know my resolve. To-morrow at midnight our nuptials shall take place.”
“Nuptials!” echoed Mabel.
“Ay, at that altar,” he cried, pointing to the Druid pile of stones; “there you shall vow yourself to me and I to you, before terrible witnesses. I shall have no fear that you will break your oath. Reflect upon what I have said.”
With this he placed the bugle to his lips, blew a low call upon it, and Fenwolf and Tristram immediately answering the summons, he whispered some instructions to the former, and disappeared down one of the side passages.
Fenwolf's, deportment was now more sullen than before. In vain did Mabel inquire from him what Herne was about to do with Sir Thomas Wyat. He returned no answer, and at last, wearied by her importunity, desired her to hold her peace. Just then, Tristram quitted the cavern for a moment, when he instantly changed his manner, and 'said to her quickly, “I overheard what passed between you and Herne. Consent to be mine, and I will deliver you from him.”
“That were to exchange one evil for another,” she replied, “If you would serve me, deliver Sir Thomas Wyat.”
“I will only deliver him on the terms I have mentioned,” replied Fenwolf.
At this moment, Tristram returned, and the conversation ceased.
Fresh logs were then thrown on the fire by Fenwolf, and, at his request, Tristram proceeded to a hole in the rock, which served as a sort of larder, and brought from it some pieces of venison, which were broiled upon the embers.
At the close of the repast, of which she sparingly partook, Mabel was conducted by Morgan Fenwolf into a small chamber opening out of the great cavern, which was furnished like the cell she had lately occupied, with a small straw pallet. Leaving her a lamp, Fenwolf locked the door, and placed the key in his girdle.
How Sir Thomas Wyat was visited by Herne in the Cell.
Made aware by the clangour of the lock, and Fenwolf's exulting laughter, of the snare in which he had been caught, Sir Thomas Wyat instantly sprang from his hiding-place, and rushed to the door; but being framed of the stoutest oak, and strengthened with plates of iron, it defied all his efforts, nerved as they were by rage and despair, to burst it open. Mabel's shrieks, as she was dragged away, reached his ears, and increased his anguish; and he called out loudly to her companions to return, but his vociferations were only treated with derision.
Finding it useless to struggle further, Wyat threw himself upon the bench, and endeavoured to discover some means of deliverance from his present hazardous position. He glanced round the cell to see whether there was any other outlet than the doorway, but he could discern none, except a narrow grated loophole opening upon the passage, and contrived, doubtless, for the admission of air to the chamber. No dungeon could be more secure.
Raising the lamp, he examined every crevice, but all seemed solid stone. The recess in which he had taken shelter proved to be a mere hollow in the wall. In one corner lay a small straw pallet, which, no doubt, had formed the couch of Mabel; and this, together with the stone bench and rude table of the same material, constituted the sole furniture of the place.
Having taken this careful survey of the cell, Wyat again sat down upon the bench with the conviction that escape was out of the question; and he therefore endeavoured to prepare himself for the worst, for it was more than probable he would be allowed to perish of starvation. To a fiery nature like his, the dreadful uncertainty in which he was placed was more difficult of endurance than bodily torture. And he was destined to endure it long. Many hours flew by, during which nothing occurred to relieve the terrible monotony of his situation. At length, in spite of his anxiety, slumber stole upon him unawares; but it was filled with frightful visions.
How long he slept he knew not, but when he awoke, he found that the cell must have been visited in the interval, for there was a manchet of bread, part of a cold neck of venison, and a flask of wine on the table. It was evident, therefore, that his captors did not mean to starve him, and yielding to the promptings of appetite, he attacked the provisions, determined to keep strict watch when his gaoler should next visit him.
The repast finished, he again examined the cell, but with no better success than before; and he felt almost certain, from the position in which the bench was placed, that the visitor had not found entrance through the door.
After another long and dreary interval, finding that sleep was stealing upon him fast, he placed the bench near the door, and leaned his back against the latter, certain that in this position he should be awakened if any one attempted to gain admittance in that way. His slumber was again disturbed by fearful dreams; and he was at length aroused by a touch upon the shoulder, while a deep voice shouted his own name in her ears.
Starting to his feet, and scarcely able to separate the reality from the hideous phantasms that had troubled him, he found that the door was still fastened, and the bench unremoved, while before him stood Herne the Hunter.
“Welcome again to my cave, Sir Thomas Wyat!” cried the demon, with a mocking laugh. “I told you, on the night of the attempt upon the king, that though you escaped him, you would not escape me. And so it has come to pass. You are now wholly in my power, body and soul—ha! ha!”
“I defy you, false fiend,” replied Wyat. “I was mad enough to proffer you my soul on certain conditions; but they have never been fulfilled.”
“They may yet be so,” rejoined Herne.
“No,” replied Wyat, “I have purged my heart from the fierce and unhallowed passion that swayed it. I desire no assistance from you.”
“If you have changed your mind, that is nought to me,” rejoined the demon derisively—“I shall hold you to your compact.”
“Again I say I renounce you, infernal spirit!” cried Wyat; “you may destroy my body—but you can work no mischief to my soul.”
“You alarm yourself without reason, good Sir Thomas,” replied Herne, in a slightly sneering tone. “I am not the malignant being you suppose me; neither am I bent upon fighting the battles of the enemy of mankind against Heaven. I may be leagued with the powers of darkness, but I have no wish to aid them; and I therefore leave you to take care of your soul in your own way. What I desire from you is your service while living. Now listen to the conditions I have to propose. You must bind yourself by a terrible oath, the slightest infraction of which shall involve the perdition of the soul you are so solicitous to preserve, not to disclose aught you may see, or that may be imparted to you here. You must also swear implicit obedience to me in all things—to execute any secret commissions, of whatever nature, I may give you—to bring associates to my band—and to join me in any enterprise I may propose. This oath taken, you are free. Refuse it, and I leave you to perish.”
“I do refuse it,” replied Wyat boldly. “I would die a thousand deaths rather than so bind myself. Neither do I fear being left to perish here. You shall not quit this cell without me.”
“You are a stout soldier, Sir Thomas Wyat,” rejoined the demon, with a scornful laugh; “but you are scarcely a match for Herne the Hunter, as you will find, if you are rash enough to make the experiment. Beware!” he exclaimed, in a voice of thunder, observing the knight lay his hand upon his sword, “I am invulnerable, and you will, therefore, vainly strike at me. Do not compel me to use the dread means, which I could instantly employ, to subject you to my will. I mean you well, and would rather serve than injure you. But I will not let you go, unless you league yourself with me. Swear, therefore, obedience to me, and depart hence to your friends, Surrey and Richmond, and tell them you have failed to find me.”
“You know, then, of our meeting?” exclaimed Wyat.
“Perfectly well,” laughed Herne. “It is now eventide, and at midnight the meeting will take place in the forester's hut. If you attend it not, I will. They will be my prisoners as well as you. To preserve yourself and save them, you must join me.”
“Before I return an answer,” said Wyat, “I must know what has become of Mabel Lyndwood.”
“Mabel Lyndwood is nought to you, Sir Thomas,” rejoined Herne coldly.
“She is so much to me that I will run a risk for her which I would not run for myself,” replied Wyat. “If I promise obedience to you, will you liberate her? will you let her depart with me?”
“No,” said Herne peremptorily. “Banish all thoughts of her from your breast. You will never behold her again. I will give you time for reflection on my proposal. An hour before midnight I shall return, and if I find you in the same mind, I abandon you to your fate.”
And with these words he stepped back towards the lower end of the cell. Wyat instantly sprang after him, but before he could reach him a flash of fire caused him to recoil, and to his horror and amazement, he beheld the rock open, and yield a passage to the retreating figure.
When the sulphureous smoke, with which the little cell was filled, had in some degree cleared off, Wyat examined the sides of the rock, but could not find the slightest trace of a secret outlet, and therefore concluded that the disappearance of the demon had been effected by magic.
How Mabel escaped from the Cave with Sir Thomas Wyat.
The next day Mabel was set at liberty by her gaoler, and the hours flew by without the opportunity of escape, for which she sighed, occurring to her. As night drew on, she became more anxious, and at last expressed a wish to retire to her cell. When about to fasten the door, Fenwolf found that the lock had got strained, and the bolts would not move, and he was therefore obliged to content himself with placing a bench against it, on which he took a seat.
About an hour after Mabel's retirement, old Tristram offered to relieve guard with Fenwolf, but this the other positively declined, and leaning against the door, disposed himself to slumber. Tristram then threw himself on the floor, and in a short time all seemed buried in repose.
By-and-by, however, when Fenwolf's heavy breathing gave token of the soundness of his sleep, Tristram raised himself upon his elbow, and gazed round. The lamp placed upon the table imperfectly illumined the cavern, for the fire which had been lighted to cook the evening meal had gone out completely. Getting up cautiously, and drawing his hunting-knife, the old man crept towards Fenwolf, apparently with the intent of stabbing him, but he suddenly changed his resolution, and dropped his arm.
At that moment, as if preternaturally warned, Fenwolf opened his eyes, and seeing the old forester standing by, sprang upon him, and seized him by the throat.
“Ah traitor!” he exclaimed; “what are you about to do?”
“I am no traitor,” replied the old man. “I heard a noise in the passage leading to Wyat's cell, and was about to rouse you, when you awakened of your own accord, probably disturbed by the noise.”
“It may be,” replied Fenwolf, satisfied with the excuse, and relinquishing his grasp. “I fancied I heard something in my dreams. But come with me to Wyat's cell. I will not leave you here.”
And snatching up the lamp, he hurried with Tristram into the passage. They were scarcely gone, when the door of the cell was opened by Mabel, who had overheard what had passed; and so hurriedly did she issue forth that she over-turned the bench, which fell to the ground with a considerable clatter. She had only just time to replace it, and to conceal herself in an adjoining passage, when Fenwolf rushed back into the cavern.
“It was a false alarm,” he cried. “I saw Sir Thomas Wyat in his cell through the loop-hole, and I have brought the key away with me. But I am sure I heard a noise here.”
“It must have been mere fancy,” said Tristram. “All is as we left it.”
“It seems so, certes,” replied Fenwolf doubtfully. “But I will make sure.”
While he placed his ear to the door, Mabel gave a signal to Tristram that she was safe. Persuaded that he heard some sound in the chamber, Fenwolf nodded to Tristram that all was right, and resumed his seat.
In less than ten minutes he was again asleep. Mabel then emerged from her concealment, and cautiously approached Tristram, who feigned, also, to slumber. As she approached him, he rose noiselessly to his feet.
“The plan has succeeded,” he said in a low tone. “It was I who spoiled the lock. But come with me. I will lead you out of the cavern.”
“Not without Sir Thomas Wyat,” she replied; “I will not leave him here.”
“You will only expose yourself to risk, and fail to deliver him,” rejoined Tristram. “Fenwolf has the key of his cell. Nay, if you are determined upon it, I will not hinder you. But you must find your own way out, for I shall not assist Sir Thomas Wyat.”
Motioning him to silence, Mabel crept slowly, and on the points of her feet, towards Fenwolf.
The key was in his girdle. Leaning over him, she suddenly and dexterously plucked it forth.
At the very moment she possessed herself of it, Fenwolf stirred, and she dived down, and concealed herself beneath the table. Fenwolf, who had been only slightly disturbed, looked up, and seeing Tristram in his former position, which he had resumed when Mabel commenced her task, again disposed himself to slumber.
Waiting till she was assured of the soundness of his repose, Mabel crept from under the table, signed to Tristram to remain where he was, and glided with swift and noiseless footsteps down the passage leading to the cell.
In a moment, she was at the door—the key was in the lock—and she stood before Sir Thomas Wyat.
A few words sufficed to explain to the astonished knight how she came there, and comprehending that not a moment was to be lost, he followed her forth.
In the passage, they held a brief consultation together in a low tone, as to the best means of escape, for they deemed it useless to apply to Tristram. The outlet with which Sir Thomas Wyat was acquainted lay on the other side of the cavern; nor did he know how to discover the particular passage leading to it.
As to Mabel, she could offer no information, but she knew that the stable lay in an adjoining passage.
Recollecting, from former experience, how well the steeds were trained, Sir Thomas Wyat eagerly caught at the suggestion, and Mabel led him farther down the passage, and striking off through an opening on the left, brought him, after a few turns, to a large chamber, in which two or three black horses were kept.
Loosening one of them, Wyat placed a bridle on his neck, sprang upon his back, and took up Mabel beside him. He then struck his heels against the sides of the animal, who needed no further incitement to dash along the passage, and in a few seconds brought them into the cavern.
The trampling of the horse wakened Fenwolf, who started to his feet, and ran after them, shouting furiously. But he was too late. Goaded by Wyat's dagger, the steed dashed furiously on, and plunging with its double burden into the pool at the bottom of the cavern, disappeared.
Of the Desperate Resolution formed by Tristram and Fenwolf,and how the Train was laid.
Transported with rage at the escape of the fugitives, Fenwolf turned to old Tristram, and drawing his knife, threatened to make an end of him. But the old man, who was armed with a short hunting-sword, stood upon his defence, and they remained brandishing their weapons at each other for some minutes, but without striking a blow.
“Well, I leave you to Herne's vengeance,” said Fenwolf, returning his knife to his belt. “You will pay dearly for allowing them to escape.”
“I will take my chance,” replied Tristram moodily: “my mind is made up to the worst. I will no longer serve this fiend.”
“What! dare you break your oath?” cried Fenwolf. “Remember the terrible consequences.”
“I care not for them,” replied Tristram. “Harkee, Fenwolf: I know you will not betray me, for you hate him as much as I do, and have as great a desire for revenge. I will rid the forest of this fell being.”
“Would you could make good your words, old man!” cried Fenwolf. “I would give my life for vengeance upon him.”
“I take the offer,” said Tristram; “you shall have vengeance.”
“But how?” cried the other. “I have proved that he is invulnerable and the prints of his hands are written in black characters upon my throat. If we could capture him, and deliver him to the king, we might purchase our own pardon.”
“No, that can never be,” said Tristram. “My plan is to destroy him.”
“Well, let me hear it,” said Fenwolf.
“Come with me, then,” rejoined Tristram.
And taking up the lamp, he led the way down a narrow lateral passage. When about half-way down it, he stopped before a low door, cased with iron, which he opened, and showed that the recess was filled with large canvas bags.
“Why, this is the powder-magazine,” said Fenwolf. “I can now guess how you mean to destroy Herne. I like the scheme well enough; but it cannot be executed without certain destruction to ourselves.”
“I will take all the risk upon myself,” said Tristram, “I only require your aid in the preparations. What I propose to do is this. There is powder enough in the magazine, not only to blow up the cave, but to set fire to all the wood surrounding it. It must be scattered among the dry brush-wood in a great circle round the cave, and connected by a train with this magazine. When Herne comes hack, I will fire the train.”
“There is much hazard in the scheme, and I fear it will fail,” replied Fenwolf, after a pause, “nevertheless, I will assist you.”
“Then, let us go to work at once,” said Tristram, “for we have no time to lose. Herne will be here before midnight, and I should like to have all ready for him.”
Accordingly, they each shouldered a couple of the bags, and returning to the cavern, threaded a narrow passage, and emerged from the secret entrance in the grove.
While Fenwolf descended for a fresh supply of powder, Tristram commenced operations. Though autumn was now far advanced, there had been remarkably fine weather of late; the ground was thickly strewn with yellow leaves, the fern was brown and dry, and the brushwood crackled and broke as a passage was forced through it. The very trees were parched by the long-continued drought. Thus favoured in his design, Tristram scattered the contents of one of the bags in a thick line among the fern and brushwood, depositing here and there among the roots of a tree, several pounds of powder, and covering the heaps over with dried sticks and leaves.
While he was thus employed, Fenwolf appeared with two more bags of powder, and descended again for a fresh supply. When he returned, laden as before, the old forester had already described a large portion of the circle he intended to take.
Judging that there was now powder sufficient, Tristram explained to his companion how to proceed; and the other commenced laying a train on the left of the secret entrance, carefully observing the instructions given him. In less than an hour, they met together at a particular tree, and the formidable circle was complete.
“So far, well!” said Tristram, emptying the contents of his bag beneath the tree, and covering it with leaves and sticks, as before; “and now to connect this with the cavern.”
With this, he opened another bag, and drew a wide train towards the centre of the space. At length, he paused at the foot of a large hollow tree.
“I have ascertained,” he said, “that this tree stands immediately over the magazine; and by following this rabbit's burrow, I have contrived to make a small entrance into it. A hollow reed introduced through the hole, and filled with powder, will be sure to reach the store below.”
“An excellent ideal,” replied Fenwolf. “I will fetch one instantly.”
And starting off to the side of the lake, he presently returned with several long reeds, one of which was selected by Tristram and thrust into the burrow. It proved of the precise length required; and as soon as it touched the bottom, it was carefully filled with powder from a horn. Having connected this tube with the side train, and scattered powder for several yards around, so as to secure instantaneous ignition, Tristram pronounced that the train was complete.
“We have now laid a trap from which Herne will scarcely escape,” he observed, with a moody laugh, to Fenwolf.
They then prepared to return to the cave, but had not proceeded many yards, when Herne, mounted on his sable steed, burst through the trees.
“Ah! what make you here?” he cried, instantly checking his career. “I bade you keep a strict watch over Mabel. Where is she?”
“She has escaped with Sir Thomas Wyat,” replied Fenwolf, “and we have been in search of them.”
“Escaped!” exclaimed Herne, springing from his steed, and rushing up to him; “dogs! you have played me false. But your lives shall pay the penalty of your perfidy.”
“We had no hand in it whatever,” replied Fenwolf doggedly. “She contrived to get out of a chamber in which I placed her, and to liberate Sir Thomas Wyat. They then procured a steed from the stable, and plunged through the pool into the lake.”
“Hell's malison upon them, and upon you both!” cried Herne. “But you shall pay dearly for your heedlessness,—if, indeed, it has not been something worse. How long have they been gone?”
“It may be two hours,” replied Fenwolf.
“Go to the cave,” cried Herne, “and await my return there; and if I recover not the prize, woe betide you both!”
And with these words, he vaunted upon his steed and disappeared.
“And woe betide you too, false fiend!” cried Fenwolf. “When you come back you shall meet with a welcome you little expect. Would we had fired the train, Tristram, even though we had perished with him!”
“It will be time enough to fire it on his return,” replied the old forester; “it is but postponing our vengeance for a short time. And now to fix our positions. I will take my station in yon brake.”
“And I in that hollow tree,” said Fenwolf. “Whoever first beholds him shall fire the train.”
“Agreed!” replied Tristram. “Let us now descend to the cave and see that all is right in the magazine, and then we will return and hold ourselves in readiness for action.”
How the Train was fired, and what followed the Explosion.
About ten o'clock in the night under consideration, Surrey and Richmond, accompanied by the Duke of Shoreditch, and half a dozen other archers, set out from the castle, and took their way along the great park, in the direction of the lake.
They had not ridden far, when they were overtaken by two horsemen who, as far as they could be discerned in that doubtful light, appeared stalwart personages, and well mounted, though plainly attired. The new-comers very unceremoniously joined them.
“There are ill reports of the park, my masters,” said the foremost of these persons to Surrey, “and we would willingly ride with you across it.”
“But our way may not be yours, friend,” replied Surrey, who did not altogether relish this proposal. “We are not going farther than the lake.”
“Our road lies in that direction,” replied the other, “and, if you please, we will bear you company as far as we go. Come, tell me frankly,” he added, after a pause, “are you not in search of Herne the Hunter?”
“Why do you ask, friend?” rejoined the earl somewhat angrily.
“Because if so,” replied the other, “I shall be right glad to join you, and so will my friend, Tony Cryspyn, who is close behind me. I have an old grudge to settle with this Herne, who has more than once attacked me, and I shall be glad to pay it.”
“If you will take my advice, Hugh Dacre, you will ride on, and leave the achievement of the adventure to these young galliards,” interposed Cryspyn.
“Nay, by the mass! that shall never be,” rejoined Dacre, “if they have no objection to our joining them. If they have, they have only to say so, and we will go on.”
“I will be plain with you, my masters,” said Surrey. “We are determined this night, as you have rightly conjectured, to seek out Herne the Hunter; and we hope to obtain such clue to him as will ensure his capture. If, therefore, you are anxious to join us, we shall be glad of your aid. But you must be content to follow, and not lead—and to act as you are directed—or you will only be in the way, and we would rather dispense with your company.”
“We are content with the terms—are we not, Tony?” said Dacre.
His companion answered somewhat sullenly in the affirmative.
“And now that the matter is arranged, may I ask when you propose to go?” he continued.
“We are on our way to a hut on the lake, where we expect a companion to join us,” replied Surrey.
“What! Tristram Lyndwood's cottage?” demanded Dacre.
“Ay,” replied the earl, “and we hope to recover his fair granddaughter from the power of the demon.”
“Ha! say you so?” cried Dacre; “that were a feat, indeed!”
The two strangers then rode apart for a few moments, and conversed together in a low tone, during which Richmond expressed his doubts of them to Surrey, adding that he was determined to get rid of them.
The new-comers, however, were not easily shaken off. As soon as they perceived the duke's design, they stuck more pertinaciously to him and the earl than before, and made it evident they would not be dismissed.
By this time they had passed Spring Hill, and were within a mile of the valley in which lay the marsh, when a cry for help was heard in the thicket on the left, and the troop immediately halted. The cry was repeated, and Surrey, bidding the others follow him, dashed off in the direction of the sound.
Presently, they perceived two figures beneath the trees, whom they found, on a nearer approach, were Sir Thomas Wyat, with Mabel in a state of insensibility in his arms.
Dismounting by the side of his friend, Surrey hastily demanded how he came there, and what had happened?
“It is too long a story to relate now,” said Wyat; “but the sum of it is, that I have escaped, by the aid of this damsel, from the clutches of the demon. Our escape was effected on horseback, and we had to plunge into the lake. The immersion deprived my fair preserver of sensibility, so that as soon as I landed, and gained a covert where I fancied myself secure, I dismounted, and tried to restore her. While I was thus occupied, the steed I had brought with me broke his bridle, and darted off into the woods. After a while, Mabel opened her eyes, but she was so weak that she could not move, and I was fain to make her a couch in the fern, in the hope that she would speedily revive. But the fright and suffering had been too much for her, and a succession of fainting-fits followed, during which I thought she would expire. This is all. Now, let us prepare a litter for her, and convey her where proper assistance can be rendered.”
Meanwhile, the others had come up, and Hugh Dacre, flinging himself from his horse, and pushing Surrey somewhat rudely aside, advanced towards Mabel, and, taking her hand, said, in a voice of some emotion, “Alas! poor girl! I did not expect to meet thee again in this state.”
“You knew her, then?” said Surrey.
Dacre muttered an affirmative.
“Who is this man?” asked Wyat of the earl.
“I know him not,” answered Surrey. “He joined us on the road hither.”
“I am well known to Sir Thomas Wyat,” replied Dacre, in a significant tone, “as he will avouch when I recall certain matters to his mind. But do not let us lose time here. This damsel claims our first attention. She must be conveyed to a place of safety, and where she can be well tended. We can then return to search for Herne.”
Upon this, a litter of branches were speedily made, and Mabel being laid upon it, the simple conveyance was sustained by four of the archers. The little cavalcade then quitted the thicket, and began to retrace its course towards the castle. Wyat had been accommodated with a horse by one of the archers, and rode in a melancholy manner by the side of the litter.
They had got back nearly as far as the brow of Spring Hill, when a horseman, in a wild garb, and mounted on a coal black steed, lashed suddenly and at a furious pace, out of the trees on the right. He made towards the litter, over-turning Sir Thomas Wyat, and before any opposition could be offered him, seized the inanimate form of Mabel, and placing her before him on his steed, dashed off as swiftly as he came, and with a burst of loud, exulting laughter.
“It is Herne! it is Herne!” burst from every lip. And they all started in pursuit, urging the horses to their utmost speed. Sir Thomas Wyat had instantly remounted his steed, and he came up with the others.
Herne's triumphant and demoniacal laugh was heard as he scoured with the swiftness of the wind down the long glade. But the fiercest determination animated his pursuers, who, being all admirably mounted, managed to keep him fully in view.
Away! away! he speeded in the direction of the lake; and after him they thundered, straining every sinew in the desperate chase. It was a wild and extraordinary sight, and partook of the fantastical character of a dream.
At length Herne reached the acclivity, at the foot of which lay the waters of the lake glimmering in the starlight; and by the time he had descended to its foot, his pursuers had gained its brow.
The exertions made by Sir Thomas Wyat had brought him a little in advance of the others. Furiously goading his horse, he dashed down the hillside at a terrific pace.
All at once, as he kept his eye on the flying figure of the demon, he was startled by a sudden burst of flame in the valley. A wide circle of light was rapidly described, a rumbling sound was heard like that preceding an earth-quake, and a tremendous explosion followed, hurling trees and fragments of rock into the air.
Astounded at the extraordinary occurrence, and not knowing what might ensue, the pursuers reined in their steeds. But the terror of the scene was not yet over. The whole of the brushwood had caught fire, and blazed up with the fury and swiftness of lighted flax. The flames caught the parched branches of the trees, and in a few seconds the whole grove was on fire.
The sight was awfully grand, for the wind, which was blowing strongly, swept the flames forward, so that they devoured all before them.
When the first flash was seen the demon had checked his steed and backed him, so that he had escaped without injury, and he stood at the edge of the flaming circle watching the progress of the devastating element; but at last, finding that his pursuers had taken heart and were approaching him, he bestirred himself, and rode round the blazing zone.
Having by this time recovered from their surprise, Wyat and Surrey dashed after him, and got so near him that they made sure of his capture. But at the very moment they expected to reach him, he turned his horse's head, and forced him to leap over the blazing boundary.
In vain the pursuers attempted to follow. Their horses refused to encounter the flames; while Wyat's steed, urged on by its frantic master, reared bolt upright, and dislodged him.
But the demon held on his way, apparently unscathed in the midst of the flames, casting a look of grim defiance at his pursuers. As he passed a tree, from which volumes of fire were bursting, the most appalling shrieks reached his ear, and he beheld Morgan Fenwolf emerging from a hole in the trunk. But without bestowing more than a glance upon his unfortunate follower, he dashed forward, and becoming involved in the wreaths of flame and smoke, was lost to sight.
Attracted by Fenwolf's cries, the beholders perceived him crawl out of the hole, and clamber into the upper part of the tree, where he roared to them most piteously for aid. But even if they had been disposed to render it, it was impossible to do so now; and after terrible and protracted suffering, the poor wretch, half stifled with smoke, and unable longer to maintain his hold of the branch to which he crept, fell into the flames beneath, and perished.
Attributing its outbreak to supernatural agency, the party gazed on in wonder at the fire, and rode round it as closely as their steeds would allow them. But though they tarried till the flames had abated, and little was left of the noble grove but a collection of charred and smoking stumps, nothing was seen of the fiend or of the hapless girl he had carried off. It served to confirm the notion of the supernatural origin of the fire, in that it was confined within the mystic circle, and did not extend farther into the woods.
At the time that the flames first burst forth, and revealed the countenances of the lookers—on, it was discovered that the self-styled Dacre and Cryspyn were no other than the king and the Duke of Suffolk.
“If this mysterious being is mortal, he must have perished now,” observed Henry; “and if he is not, it is useless to seek for him further.”
Day had begun to break as the party quitted the scene of devastation. The king and Suffolk, with the archers, returned to the castle; but Wyat, Surrey, and Richmond rode towards the lake, and proceeded along its banks in the direction of the forester's hut.
Their progress was suddenly arrested by the sound of lamentation, and they perceived, in a little bay overhung by trees, which screened it from the path, an old man kneeling beside the body of a female, which he had partly dragged out of the lake. It was Tristram Lyndwood, and the body was that of Mabel. Her tresses were dishevelled, and dripping with wet, as were her garments; and her features white as marble. The old man was weeping bitterly.
With Wyat, to dismount and grasp the cold hand of the hapless maiden was the work of a moment.
“She is dead!” he cried, in a despairing voice, removing the dank tresses from her brow, and imprinting a reverent kiss upon it. “Dead!—lost to me for ever!”
“I found her entangled among those water-weeds,” said Tristram, in tones broken by emotion, “and had just dragged her to shore when you came up. As you hope to prosper, now and hereafter, give her a decent burial. For me all is over.”
And, with a lamentable cry, he plunged into the lake, struck out to a short distance, and then sank to rise no more.
THUS ENDS THE FIFTH BOOK OF THE CHRONICLE OF WINDSOR CASTLE