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The intelligence brought by Wolsey of the adjournment of the court for three days, under the plea of giving the queen time for her allegations, was so unlooked for by Henry that he quitted the cardinal in high displeasure, and was about to repair to Anne Boleyn, when he encountered Bouchier, who told him that Mabel Lyndwood had been brought to the castle, and her grandsire arrested.
It is not to capture me, though that may be one object that moves him. But he wishes to see Mabel Lyndwood. The momentary glimpse he caught of her bright eyes was sufficient to inflame him." "Ah!" exclaimed Fenwolf, "think you so?" "I am assured of it," replied Herne. "He knows the secret of the cave, and will find her there."
The source whence he had received intelligence of the king's admiration of Mabel Lyndwood was his jester, Patch a shrewd varlet who, under the mask of folly, picked up many an important secret for his master, and was proportionately rewarded.
He then inquired her name from Fenwolf. "She is called Mabel Lyndwood, and is an old forester's granddaughter," replied the other somewhat gruffly. "And do you seek her love?" asked Wyat. "Ay, and wherefore not?" asked Fenwolf, with a look of displeasure. "Nay, I know not, friend," rejoined Wyat. "She is a comely damsel." "What! comelier than the Lady Anne?" demanded Fenwolf spitefully.
Unabashed by the presence of the strangers, though Wolsey's attire could leave her in no doubt as to his high ecclesiastical dignity, she sprang ashore at the landing-place, and fastened her bark to the side of the boathouse. "You are Mabel Lyndwood, I presume, fair maiden?" inquired the cardinal, in his blandest tones.
"That is entirely understood," Mr. Foley interrupted. "Now how will you come? Lyndwood Park is just sixty miles from London. To-day is Friday, isn't it? I shall motor down there sometime to-morrow. Why won't you come down with me?" Maraton shook his head. "If you will excuse me," he said, "I will not fix any time definitely.
Maraton walked alone with Elisabeth on the following afternoon in the flower garden at Lyndwood. She was apologising for some unexpected additions to the number of their guests. "Mother always forgets whom she has asked down for the week-end," she said, "and my uncle is far too sweet about it. I know that he wanted to have as much time as possible alone with you before Monday.
Her girdle was embroidered with silver, and her sleeves were fastened by aiglets of the same metal. "How proud old Tristram Lyndwood seems of his granddaughter," remarked one of the keepers. "And with reason," replied another. "Mabel Lyndwood is the comeliest lass in Berkshire."
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.
It did not even disturb him to reflect that for the first time for many years he had found pleasure in what was merely an interlude. "We turn here," she directed. "You see, we are close to home now. My uncle will be so glad to see you, Mr. Maraton, and I cannot tell you how delighted I am that you are coming to Lyndwood."
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