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.
Catching hold of a chain hanging from the roof, which Wyat had not hitherto noticed, he swung himself into a crevice above, and disappeared from view.During the absence of their leader the troop remained motionless and silent.
A few minutes afterwards Herne reappeared at the upper end of the cave.He was accompanied by Fenwolf, between whom and Wyat a slight glance of recognition passed.
The order being given by the demon to mount, Wyat, after an instant's hesitation, seized the flowing mane of the horse nearest him--for it was furnished neither with saddle nor bridle-and vaulted upon its back.At the same moment Herne uttered a wild cry, and plunging into the pool, sunk within.it.Wyat's steed followed, and swam swiftly forward beneath the water.
When Wyat rose to the surface, he found himself in the open lake, which was gleaming in the moonlight.Before him he beheld Herne clambering the bank, accompanied by his two favourite hounds, while a large white owl wheeled round his head, hooting loudly.Behind came the grisly cavalcade, with their hounds, swimming from beneath a bank covered by thick overhanging trees, which completely screened the secret entrance to the cave.Having no control over his steed, Wyat was obliged to surrender himself to its guidance, and was soon placed by the side of the demon hunter.
"Pledge me, Sir Thomas Wyat," said Herne, unslinging a gourd-shaped flask from his girdle, and offering it to him."'Tis a rare wine, and will prevent you from suffering from your bath, as well as give you spirits for the chase."Chilled to the bone by the immersion he had undergone, Wyat did not refuse the offer, but placing the flask to his lips took a deep draught from it.The demon uttered a low bitter laugh as he received back the flask, and he slung it to his girdle without tasting it.
The effect of the potion upon Wyat was extraordinary.The whole scene seemed to dance around him;-the impish figures in the lake, or upon its bank, assumed forms yet more fantastic; the horses looked like monsters of the deep; the hounds like wolves and ferocious beasts;the branches of the trees writhed and shot forward like hissing serpents;--and though this effect speedily passed off, it left behind it a wild and maddening feeling of excitement.
"A noble hart is lying in yon glen," said Morgan Fenwolf, advancing towards his leader; "I tracked his slot thither this evening.""Haste, and unharbour him," replied Herne, "and as soon as you rouse him, give the halloa." Fenwolf obeyed; and shortly afterwards a cry was heard from the glen.
"List halloa! list halloa! "cried Herne, " that's he! that's he! hyke! Saturn!
hyke, Dragon--Away!--away, my merry men all."VI.How Sir Thomas Wyat hunted with Herne.
Accompanied by Wyat, and followed by the whole cavalcade, Herne dashed into the glen, where Fenwolf awaited him.Threading the hollow, the troop descried the hart flying swiftly along a sweeping glade at some two hundred yards distance.The glade was passed--a woody knoll skirted--a valley traversed--and the hart plunged into a thick grove clothing the side of Hawk's Hill.But it offered him no secure retreat.
Dragon and Saturn were close upon him, and behind them came Herne, crashing through the branches of the trees, and heedless of all impediments.By-and-by the thicket became more open, and they entered Cranbourne Chase.But the hart soon quitted it to return to the great park, and darted down a declivity skirted by a line of noble oaks.
Here he was so hotly pressed by his fierce opponents, whose fangs he could almost feel within his haunches, that he suddenly stopped and stood at bay, receiving the foremost of his assailants, Saturn, on the points of his horns.But his defence, though gallant, was unavailing.In another instant Herne came up, and, dismounting, called off Dragon, who was about to take the place of his wounded companion.Drawing a knife from his girdle, the hunter threw himself on the ground, and, advancing on all fours towards the hart, could scarcely be distinguished himself from some denizen of the forest.As he approached the hart snorted and bellowed fiercely, and dashed its horns against him; but the blow was received by the hunter upon his own antlered helm, and at the same moment his knife was thrust to the hilt into the stag's throat, and it fell to the ground.
Springing to his feet, Herne whooped joyfully, placed his bugle to his lips, and blew the dead mot.He then shouted to Fenwolf to call away and couple the hounds, and, striking off the deer's right forefoot with his knife, presented it to Wyat.Several large leafy branches being gathered and laid upon the ground, the hart was placed upon them, and Herne commenced breaking him up, as the process of dismembering the deer is termed in the language of woodcraft.His first step was to cut off the animal's head, which he performed by a single blow with his heavy trenchant knife.
"Give the hounds the flesh," he said, delivering the trophy to Fenwolf; "but keep the antlers, for it is a great deer of head."Placing the head on a hunting-pole, Fenwolf withdrew to an open space among the trees, and, halloing to the others, they immediately cast off the hounds, who rushed towards him, leaping and baying at the stag's head, which he alternately raised and lowered until they were sufficiently excited, when he threw it on the ground before them.
