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Updated: June 12, 2025
But, as if in response to Herne's appeal, he freed one hand momentarily, and pushed back the covering from his face. And in the dim light Herne looked, looked closely; then shut his eyes and sank back with an uncontrollable shudder. "Merciful Heaven!" he said. "Monty, I say! Monty!" Again the gulf of years was bridged; again the voice he knew came down to him.
But Herne had tackled his task, and he pursued it unflinching. "I came for the sake of a woman who once long ago refused to marry you, but who has been waiting for you ever since." "A woman?" Undoubtedly there was a savage note in the words. The shrunken fingers clenched upon Herne's hand. "Betty Derwent," said Herne very quietly.
"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.
And long credit. Just half the concern he takes." "There is a lady in the case?" suggested a young doctor, who, by virtue of having spent six months in the South, dropped his r-s, and talked of "niggahs" in a way to make a Georgian's hair stand on end. "A lady in the case?" "Of course. Only child of Herne's. HE comes down with the dust as dowry. Good thing for Holmes.
I am, however, inclined to believe that Mrs. Herne's cake had quite as much to do with the matter as insufficient nourishment.
In L'Aiglon, by M. Rostand, Napoleon is in fact the hero, though he lies dead in his far-off island, under the Southern Cross. Another such figure is Abraham Lincoln. In James Herne's sadly underrated play, Griffith Davenport, we were always conscious of "Mr.
Its market was full of life and bustle, and the harbour was full of native Oriental craft. Our camp was pitched on a little rise in the land, facing the east and overlooking the fair. Our tents, three in number, were formed in line Stroyan's on the right, Herne's in the centre, and mine on the left flank nearest the sea, and each about a dozen yards apart.
Drifting Apart, I soon discovered, was only the beginning of Herne's ambitious design to write plays which should be as true in their local color as Howells' stories. He was at this time working on two plays which were to bring lasting fame and a considerable fortune. One of these was a picture of New England coast life and the other was a study of factory life.
"My love, like yours, is past," she answered, with a faint smile; "but if I were out of Herne's power I feel that I could love again, and far more deeply than I loved before for that, in fact, was rather the result of vanity than of real regard." "Mabel," said Wyat, taking her hand, and gazing into her eyes, "if I set you free, will you love me?"
It is generally agreed that fairies were extremely fond of dancing around oaks, and thus in addressing the monarch of the forest a poet has exclaimed: "The fairies, from their nightly haunt, In copse or dell, or round the trunk revered Of Herne's moon-silvered oak, shall chase away Each fog, each blight, and dedicate to peace Thy classic shade."
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