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Updated: May 11, 2025
The compliments bestowed on Fenwolf for his address by the chief verderer excited the jealousy of some of his comrades, and more than one asserted that he had been assisted in his task by some evil being, and that Bawsey herself was no better than a familiar spirit in the form of a hound.
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.
Morgan Fenwolf scouted these remarks; and he was supported by some others among the keepers, who declared that it required no supernatural aid to accomplish what he had done that he was nothing more than a good huntsman, who could ride fast and boldly that he was skilled in all the exercises of the chase, and possessed a stanch and well-trained hound.
The result was still doubtful, when the struggle was suddenly interrupted by the trampling of horse approaching from the side of Windsor; and at the sound Morgan Fenwolf disengaged himself from his antagonist and plunged into the adjoining wood.
Mabel readily assented, and the stranger quitted the house, while Fenwolf lingered to offer some attention to Mabel, which was so ill received that he was fain to hurry forth to the boathouse, where he embarked with his companion. As soon as the plash of oars announced their departure, Mabel went forth to watch them.
"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.
To his surprise and alarm, it closed upon him with an iron grasp, and he felt himself dragged upwards, while the skiff, impelled by a sudden stroke from Morgan Fenwolf, shot from beneath him. All Wyat's efforts to disengage himself were vain, and a wild, demoniacal laugh, echoed by a chorus of voices, proclaimed him in the power of Herne the Hunter.
"I have been waiting for you for some time, Mabel Lyndwood," he said. "You must go with me to your grandfather." "My grandfather would never send you for me," replied Mabel; "but if he did, I will not trust myself with you." "The saints preserve us!" cried Nicholas Clamp. "Can I believe my eyes! do I behold Morgan Fenwolf!" "Come with me, Mabel," cried Fenwolf, disregarding him.
A slight noise, as of a blow dealt against a tree, was now heard overhead, and Herne, imposing silence on the group by a hasty gesture, assumed an attitude of fixed attention. The stroke was repeated a second time. "It is our brother, Morgan Fenwolf," cried the demon.
"Plague on it!" cried Henry, "I have again forgotten to question her about her birth." "Shall I despatch this knave, my liege?" cried Suffolk, pointing with his sword to Fenwolf. "By no means," said the king; "something may be learnt from him. Hark thee, thou felon hound; if thou indeed servest the fiend, thou seest he deserts thee, as he does all who put faith in him."
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