Kitabı oku: «Windsor Castle», sayfa 7
Meanwhile, word having reached Wolsey and Campeggio of the new cause of jealousy which the king had received, it was instantly resolved that the former should present to him, while in his present favourable mood, a despatch received that morning from Catherine of Arragon.
Armed with the letter, Wolsey repaired to the king’s closet. Not finding him there, and being given to understand by an usher that he was in the great gallery, he proceeded thither. As he walked softly along the polished oak floor, he heard voices in one of the recesses, and distinguished the tones of Henry and Anne Boleyn.
Henry was clasping the snowy fingers of his favourite, and gazing passionately at her, as the cardinal approached.
“Your majesty shall not detain my hand,” said Anne, “unless you swear to me, by your crown, that you will not again be jealous without cause.”
“I swear it,” replied Henry.
“Were your majesty as devoted to me as you would have me believe, you would soon bring this matter of the divorce to an issue,” said Anne.
“I would fain do so, sweetheart,” rejoined Henry; “but these cardinals perplex me sorely.”
“I am told by one who overheard him, that Wolsey has declared the divorce shall not be settled these two years,” said Anne; “in which case it had better not be settled at all; for I care not to avow I cannot brook so much delay. The warmth of my affection will grow icy cold by that time.”
“It were enough to try the patience of the most forbearing,” rejoined the king, smiling—“but it shall not be so—by this lily hand it shall not! And now, sweetheart, are we entirely reconciled?
“Not yet,” replied Anne. “I shall claim a boon from your majesty before I accord my entire forgiveness.”
“Name it,” said the king, still clasping her hand tenderly, and intoxicated by the witchery of her glance.
“I ask an important favour,” said Anne, “but as it is one which will benefit your majesty as much as myself, I have the less scruple in requesting it. I ask the dismissal of one who has abused your favour, who, by his extortion and rapacity, has in some degree alienated the affections of your subjects from you, and who solely opposes your divorce from Catherine of Arragon because he fears my influence may be prejudicial to him.”
“You cannot mean Wolsey?” said Henry uneasily.
“Your majesty has guessed aright,” replied Anne.
“Wolsey has incurred my displeasure oft of late,” said Henry; “and yet his fidelity—”
“Be not deceived, my liege,” said Anne; “he is faithful to you only so far as serves his turn. He thinks he rules you.”
Before Henry could reply, the cardinal stepped forward.
“I bring your majesty a despatch, just received from the queen,” he said.
“And you have been listening to our discourse?” rejoined Henry sternly. “You have overheard—”
“Enough to convince me, if I had previously doubted it, that the Lady Anne Boleyn is my mortal foe,” replied Wolsey.
“Foe though I am, I will make terms with your eminence,” said Anne. “Expedite the divorce—you can do so if you will—and I am your fast friend.”
“I know too well the value of your friendship, noble lady, not to do all in my power to gain it,” replied Wolsey. “I will further the matter, if possible. But it rests chiefly in the hands of his holiness Pope Clement the Seventh.”
“If his majesty will listen to my counsel, he will throw off the pope’s yoke altogether,” rejoined Anne. “Nay, your eminence may frown at me if you will. Such, I repeat, shall be my counsel. If the divorce is speedily obtained, I am your friend: if not—look to yourself.”
“Do not appeal to me, Wolsey,” said Henry, smiling approval at Anne; “I shall uphold her.”
“Will it please your majesty to peruse this despatch?” said Wolsey, again offering Catherine’s letter.
“Take it to my closet,” replied the king; “I will join you there. And now at last we are good friends, sweetheart.”
“Excellent friends, my dear liege,” replied Anne; “but I shall never be your queen while Wolsey holds his place.”
“Then, indeed, he shall lose it,” replied Henry.
“She is a bitter enemy, certes,” muttered Wolsey as he walked away. “I must overthrow her quickly, or she will overthrow me. A rival must be found—ay, a rival—but where? I was told that Henry cast eyes on a comely forester’s daughter at the chase this morning. She may do for the nonce.”
X
Of the Mysterious Disappearance of Herne the Hunter in the Lake.
Unable to procure any mitigation of Surrey’s sentence, the Duke of Richmond proceeded to the Round Tower, where he found his friend in a small chamber, endeavouring to beguile his captivity by study.
Richmond endeavoured to console him, and was glad to find him in better spirits than he expected. Early youth is seldom long dejected, and misfortunes, at that buoyant season, seem lighter than they appear later on in life. The cause for which he suffered, moreover, sustained Surrey, and confident of the Fair Geraldine’s attachment, he cared little for the restraint imposed upon him. On one point he expressed some regret—namely, his inability to prosecute the adventure of Herne the Hunter with the duke.
“I grieve that I cannot accompany you, Richmond,” he said; “but since that is impossible, let me recommend you to take the stout archer who goes by the name of the Duke of Shoreditch with you. He is the very man you require.”
After some consideration the duke assented, and, promising to return on the following day and report what had occurred he took his leave, and went in search of the archer in question. Finding he had taken up his quarters at the Garter, he sent for him and proposed the matter.
Shoreditch heard the duke’s relation with astonishment, but expressed the greatest willingness to accompany him, pledging himself, as Richmond demanded, to profound secrecy on the subject.
At the appointed hour—namely, midnight—the duke quitted the castle, and found Shoreditch waiting for him near the upper gate. The latter was armed with a stout staff, and a bow and arrows.
“If we gain sight of the mysterious horseman to-night,” he said, “a cloth-yard shaft shall try whether he is of mortal mould or not. If he be not a demon, I will warrant he rides no more.”
Quitting the Home Park, they shaped their course at once towards the forest. It was a stormy night, and the moon was obscured by thick clouds. Before they reached the hill, at the end of the long avenue, a heavy thunderstorm came on, and the lightning, playing among the trees, seemed to reveal a thousand fantastic forms to their half-blinded gaze. Presently the rain began to descend in torrents, and compelled them to take refuge beneath a large beech-tree.
It was evident, notwithstanding his boasting, that the courage of Shoreditch was waning fast, and he at last proposed to his leader that they should return as soon as the rain abated. But the duke indignantly rejected the proposal.
While they were thus sheltering themselves, the low winding of a horn was heard. The sound was succeeded by the trampling of horses’ hoofs, and the next moment a vivid flash of lightning showed a hart darting past, followed by a troop of some twenty ghostly horsemen, headed by the demon hunter.
The Duke of Richmond bade his companion send a shaft after them; but the latter was so overcome by terror that he could scarcely fix an arrow on the string, and when he bent the bow, the shaft glanced from the branches of an adjoining tree.
The storm continued with unabated fury for nearly an hour, at the expiration of which time it partially cleared off, and though it was still profoundly dark, the duke insisted upon going on. So they pressed forward beneath the dripping trees and through the wet grass. Ever and anon the moon broke through the rifted clouds, and shed a wild glimmer upon the scene.
As they were tracking a glade on the farther side of the hill, the spectral huntsmen again swept past them, and so closely that they could almost touch their horses. To the duke’s horror, he perceived among them the body of the butcher, Mark Fytton, sitting erect upon a powerful black steed.
By this time, Shoreditch, having somewhat regained his courage, discharged another shaft at the troop. The arrow struck the body of the butcher, and completely transfixed it, but did not check his career; while wild and derisive laughter broke from the rest of the cavalcade.
The Duke of Richmond hurried after the band, trying to keep them in sight; and Shoreditch, flinging down his bow, which he found useless, and grasping his staff, endeavoured to keep up with him. But though they ran swiftly down the glade, and tried to peer through the darkness, they could see nothing more of the ghostly company.
After a while they arrived at a hillside, at the foot of which lay the lake, whose darkling waters were just distinguishable through an opening in the trees. As the duke was debating with himself whether to go on or retrace his course, the trampling of a horse was heard behind them, and looking in the direction of the sound, they beheld Herne the Hunter, mounted on his swarthy steed and accompanied only by his two black hounds, galloping furiously down the declivity. Before him flew the owl, whooping as it sailed along the air.
The demon hunter was so close to them that they could perfectly discern his horrible lineaments, the chain depending from his neck, and his antlered helm. Richmond shouted to him, but the rider continued his headlong course towards the lake, heedless of the call.
The two beholders rushed forward, but by this time the huntsman had gained the edge of the lake. One of his sable hounds plunged into it, and the owl skimmed over its surface. Even in the hasty view which the duke caught of the flying figure, he fancied he perceived that it was attended by a fantastic shadow, whether cast by itself or arising from some supernatural cause he could not determine.
But what followed was equally marvellous and incomprehensible. As the wild huntsman reached the brink of the lake, he placed a horn to his mouth, and blew from it a bright blue flame, which illumined his own dusky and hideous features, and shed a wild and unearthly glimmer over the surrounding objects.
While enveloped in this flame, the demon plunged into the lake, and apparently descended to its abysses, for as soon as the duke could muster courage to approach its brink, nothing could be seen of him, his steed, or his hounds.
THUS ENDS THE FIRST BOOK OF THE CHRONICLE OF WINDSOR CASTLE
BOOK II. HERNE THE HUNTER
I
Of the Compact between Sir Thomas Wyat and Herne the Hunter.
On the day after his secret interview with Anne Boleyn, Sir Thomas Wyat received despatches from the king for the court of France.
“His majesty bade me tell you to make your preparations quickly, Sir Thomas,” said the messenger who delivered the despatches; “he cares not how soon you set forth.”
“The king’s pleasure shall be obeyed,” rejoined Wyat.
And the messenger retired.
Left alone, Wyat remained for some time in profound and melancholy thought. Heaving a deep sigh, he then arose, and paced the chamber with rapid strides.
“Yes, it is better thus,” he ejaculated. “If I remain near her, I shall do some desperate deed. Better—far better—I should go. And yet to leave her with Henry—to know that he is ever near her—that he drinks in the music of her voice, and basks in the sunshine of her smile—while I am driven forth to darkness and despair—the thought is madness! I will not obey the hateful mandate! I will stay and defy him!”
As he uttered aloud this wild and unguarded speech, the arras screening the door was drawn aside, and gave admittance to Wolsey.
Wyat’s gaze sunk before the penetrating glance fixed upon him by the Cardinal.
“I did not come to play the eavesdropper, Sir Thomas,” said Wolsey; “but I have heard enough to place your life in my power. So you refuse to obey the king’s injunctions. You refuse to proceed to Paris. You refuse to assist in bringing about the divorce, and prefer remaining here to brave your sovereign, and avenge yourself upon a fickle mistress. Ha?”
Wyat returned no answer.
“If such be your purpose,” pursued Wolsey, after a pause, during which he intently scrutinised the knight’s countenance, “I will assist you in it. Be ruled by me, and you shall have a deep and full revenge.”
“Say on,” rejoined Wyat, his eyes blazing with infernal fire, and his hand involuntarily clutching the handle of his dagger.
“If I read you aright,” continued the cardinal, “you are arrived at that pitch of desperation when life itself becomes indifferent, and when but one object remains to be gained—”
“And that is vengeance!” interrupted Wyat fiercely. “Right, cardinal—right. I will have vengeance—terrible vengeance!”
“You shall. But I will not deceive you. You will purchase what you seek at the price of your own head.”
“I care not,” replied Wyat. “All sentiments of love and loyalty are swallowed up by jealousy and burning hate. Nothing but blood can allay the fever that consumes me. Show me how to slay him!”
“Him!” echoed the cardinal, in alarm and horror. “Wretch! would you kill your king? God forbid that I should counsel the injury of a hair of his head! I do not want you to play the assassin, Wyat,” he added more calmly, “but the just avenger. Liberate the king from the thraldom of the capricious siren who enslaves him, and you will do a service to the whole country. A word from you—a letter—a token—will cast her from the king, and place her on the block. And what matter? The gory scaffold were better than Henry’s bed.”
“I cannot harm her,” cried Wyat distractedly. “I love her still, devotedly as ever. She was in my power yesterday, and without your aid, cardinal, I could have wreaked my vengeance upon her, if I had been so minded.”
“You were then in her chamber, as the king suspected?” cried Wolsey, with a look of exultation. “Trouble yourself no more, Sir Thomas. I will take the part of vengeance off your hands.”
“My indiscretion will avail you little, cardinal,” replied Wyat sternly. “A hasty word proves nothing. I will perish on the rack sooner than accuse Anne Boleyn. I am a desperate man, but not so desperate as you suppose me. A moment ago I might have been led on, by the murderous and traitorous impulse that prompted me, to lift my hand against the king, but I never could have injured her.”
“You are a madman!” cried Wolsey impatiently, “and it is a waste of time to argue with you. I wish you good speed on your journey. On your return you will find Anne Boleyn Queen of England.”
“And you disgraced,” rejoined Wyat, as, with a malignant and vindictive look, the cardinal quitted the chamber.
Again left alone, Wyat fell into another fit of despondency from which he roused himself with difficulty, and went forth to visit the Earl of Surrey in the Round Tower.
Some delay occurred before he could obtain access to the earl. The halberdier stationed at the entrance to the keep near the Norman Tower refused to admit him without the order of the officer in command of the tower, and as the latter was not in the way at the moment, Wyat had to remain without till he made his appearance.
While thus detained, he beheld Anne Boleyn and her royal lover mount their steeds in the upper ward, and ride forth, with their attendants, on a hawking expedition. Anne Boleyn bore a beautiful falcon on her wrist—Wyat’s own gift to her in happier days—and looked full of coquetry, animation, and delight—without the vestige of a cloud upon her brow, or a care on her countenance. With increased bitterness of heart, he turned from the sight, and shrouded himself beneath the gateway of the Norman Tower.
Soon after this, the officer appeared, and at once according Wyat permission to see the earl, preceded him up the long flight of stone steps communicating with the upper part of the keep, and screened by an embattled and turreted structure, constituting a covered way to the Round Tower.
Arrived at the landing, the officer unlocked a door on the left, and ushered his companion into the prisoner’s chamber.
Influenced by the circular shape of the structure in which it was situated, and of which it formed a segment, the farther part of this chamber was almost lost to view, and a number of cross-beams and wooden pillars added to its sombre and mysterious appearance. The walls were of enormous thickness, and a narrow loophole, terminating a deep embrasure, afforded but scanty light. Opposite the embrasure sat Surrey, at a small table covered with books and writing materials. A lute lay beside him on the floor, and there were several astrological and alchemical implements within reach.
So immersed was the youthful prisoner in study, that he was not aware, until a slight exclamation was uttered by Wyat, of the entrance of the latter. He then arose, and gave him welcome.
Nothing material passed between them as long as the officer remained in the chamber, but on his departure Surrey observed laughingly to his friend, “And how doth my fair cousin, the Lady Anne Boleyn?”
“She has just ridden forth with the king, to hawk in the park,” replied Wyat moodily. “For myself, l am ordered on a mission to France, but I could not depart without entreating your forgiveness for the jeopardy in which I have placed you. Would I could take your place.”
“Do not heed me,” replied Surrey; “I am well content with what has happened. Virgil and Homer, Dante and Petrarch, are the companions of my confinement; and in good sooth, I am glad to be alone. Amid the distractions of the court I could find little leisure for the muse.”
“Your situation is, in many respects, enviable, Surrey,” replied Wyat. “Disturbed by no jealous doubts and fears, you can beguile the tedious hours in the cultivation of your poetical tastes, or in study. Still, I must needs reproach myself with being the cause of your imprisonment.”
“I repeat, you have done me a service,” rejoined the earl, “I would lay down my life for my fair cousin, Anne Boleyn, and I am glad to be able to prove the sincerity of my regard for you, Wyat. I applaud the king’s judgment in sending you to France, and if you will be counselled by me, you will stay there long enough to forget her who now occasions you so much uneasiness.”
“Will the Fair Geraldine be forgotten when the term of your imprisonment shall expire, my lord?” asked Wyat.
“Of a surety not,” replied the earl.
“And yet, in less than two months I shall return from France,” rejoined Wyat.
“Our cases are not alike,” said Surrey. “The Lady Elizabeth Fitzgerald has plighted her troth to me.”
“Anne Boleyn vowed eternal constancy to me,” cried Wyat bitterly; “and you see how she kept her oath. The absent are always in danger; and few women are proof against ambition. Vanity—vanity is the rock they split upon. May you never experience from Richmond the wrong I have experienced from his father.”
“I have no fear,” replied Surrey.
As he spoke, there was a slight noise in that part of the chamber which was buried in darkness.
“Have we a listener here?” cried Wyat, grasping his sword.
“Not unless it be a four-legged one from the dungeons beneath,” replied Surrey. “But you were speaking of Richmond. He visited me this morning, and came to relate the particulars of a mysterious adventure that occurred to him last night.”
And the earl proceeded to detail what had befallen the duke in the forest.
“A marvellous story, truly!” said Wyat, pondering upon the relation. “I will seek out the demon huntsman myself.”
Again a noise similar to that heard a moment before resounded from the lower part of the room. Wyat immediately flew thither, and drawing his sword, searched about with its point, but ineffectually.
“It could not be fancy,” he said; “and yet nothing is to be found.”
“I do not like jesting about Herne the Hunter,” remarked Surrey, “after what I myself have seen. In your present frame of mind I advise you not to hazard an interview with the fiend. He has power over the desperate.”
Wyat returned no answer. He seemed lost in gloomy thought, and soon afterwards took his leave.
On returning to his lodgings, he summoned his attendants, and ordered them to proceed to Kingston, adding that he would join them there early the next morning. One of them, an old serving-man, noticing the exceeding haggardness of his looks, endeavoured to persuade him to go with them; but Wyat, with a harshness totally unlike his customary manner, which was gracious and kindly in the extreme, peremptorily refused.
“You look very ill, Sir Thomas,” said the old servant; “worse than I ever remember seeing you. Listen to my counsel, I beseech you. Plead ill health with the king in excuse of your mission to France, and retire for some months to recruit your strength and spirits at Allington.”
“Tush, Adam Twisden! I am well enough,” exclaimed Wyat impatiently. “Go and prepare my mails.”
“My dear, dear master,” cried old Adam, bending the knee before him, and pressing his hand to his lips; “something tells me that if I leave you now I shall never see you again. There is a paleness in your cheek, and a fire in your eye, such as I never before observed in you, or in mortal man. I tremble to say it, but you look like one possessed by the fiend. Forgive my boldness, sir. I speak from affection and duty. I was serving-man to your father, good Sir Henry Wyat, before you, and I love you as a son, while I honour you as a master. I have heard that there are evil beings in the forest—nay, even within the castle—who lure men to perdition by promising to accomplish their wicked desires. I trust no such being has crossed your path.”
“Make yourself easy, good Adam,” replied Wyat; “no fiend has tempted me.”
“Swear it, sir,” cried the old man eagerly—“swear it by the Holy Trinity.”
“By the Holy Trinity, I swear it,” replied Wyat.
As the words were uttered, the door behind the arras was suddenly shut with violence.
“Curses on you, villain! you have left the door open,” cried Wyat fiercely. “Our conversation has been overheard.”
“I will soon see by whom,” cried Adam, springing to his feet, and rushing towards the door, which opened upon a long corridor.
“Well!” cried Wyat, as Adam returned the next moment, with cheeks almost as white as his own—“was it the cardinal?”
“It was the devil, I believe!” replied the old man. “I could see no one.”
“It would not require supernatural power to retreat into an adjoining chamber!” replied Wyat, affecting an incredulity he was far from feeling.
“Your worship’s adjuration was strangely interrupted,” cried the old man, crossing himself devoutly. “Saint Dunstan and Saint Christopher shield us from evil spirits!”
“A truce to your idle terrors, Adam,” said Wyat. “Take these packets,” he added, giving him Henry’s despatches, “and guard them as you would your life. I am going on an expedition of some peril to-night, and do not choose to keep them about me. Bid the grooms have my steed in readiness an hour before midnight.”
“I hope your worship is not about to ride into the forest at that hour?” said Adam, trembling. “I was told by the stout archer, whom the king dubbed Duke of Shoreditch, that he and the Duke of Richmond ventured thither last night, and that they saw a legion of demons mounted on coal-black horses, and amongst them Mark Fytton, the butcher, who was hanged a few days ago from the Curfew Tower by the king’s order, and whose body so strangely disappeared. Do not go into the forest, dear Sir Thomas!”
“No more of this!” cried Wyat fiercely. “Do as I bid you, and if I join you not before noon to-morrow, proceed to Rochester, and there await my coming.”
“I never expect to see you again, sir!” groaned the old man, as he took his leave.
The anxious concern evinced in his behalf by his old and trusty servant was not without effect on Sir Thomas Wyat, and made him hesitate in his design; but by-and-by another access of jealous rage came on, and overwhelmed all his better resolutions. He remained within his chamber to a late hour, and then issuing forth, proceeded to the terrace at the north of the castle, where he was challenged by a sentinel, but was suffered to pass on, on giving the watch-word.
The night was profoundly dark, and the whole of the glorious prospect commanded by the terrace shrouded from view. But Wyat’s object in coming thither was to gaze, for the last time, at that part of the castle which enclosed Anne Boleyn, and knowing well the situation of her apartments, he fixed his eyes upon the windows; but although numerous lights streamed from the adjoining corridor, all here was buried in obscurity.
Suddenly, however, the chamber was illumined, and he beheld Henry and Anne Boleyn enter it, preceded by a band of attendants bearing tapers. It needed not Wyat’s jealousy-sharpened gaze to read, even at that distance, the king’s enamoured looks, or Anne Boleyn’s responsive glances. He saw that one of Henry’s arms encircled her waist, while the other caressed her yielding hand. They paused. Henry bent forward, and Anne half averted her head, but not so much so as to prevent the king from imprinting a long and fervid kiss upon her lips.
Terrible was its effect upon Wyat. An adder’s bite would have been less painful. His hands convulsively clutched together; his hair stood erect upon his head; a shiver ran through his frame; and he tottered back several paces. When he recovered, Henry had bidden good-night to the object of his love, and, having nearly gained the door, turned and waved a tender valediction to her. As soon as he was gone, Anne looked round with a smile of ineffable pride and pleasure at her attendants, but a cloud of curtains dropping over the window shrouded her from the sight of her wretched lover.
In a state of agitation wholly indescribable, Wyat staggered towards the edge of the terrace—it might be with the design of flinging himself from it—but when within a few yards of the low parapet wall defending its precipitous side, he perceived a tall dark figure standing directly in his path, and halted. Whether the object he beheld was human or not he could not determine, but it seemed of more than mortal stature. It was wrapped in a long black cloak, and wore a high conical cap on its head. Before Wyat could speak the figure addressed him.
“You desire to see Herne the Hunter,” said the figure, in a deep, sepulchral tone. “Ride hence to the haunted beechtree near the marsh, at the farther side of the forest, and you will find him.”
“You are Herne—I feel it,” cried Wyat. “Why go into the forest? Speak now.”
And he stepped forward with the intention of grasping the figure, but it eluded him, and, with a mocking laugh, melted into the darkness.
Wyat advanced to the edge of the terrace and looked over the parapet, but he could see nothing except the tops of the tall trees springing from the side of the moat. Flying to the sentinel, he inquired whether any one had passed him, but the man returned an angry denial.
Awestricken and agitated, Wyat quitted the terrace, and, seeking his steed, mounted him, and galloped into the forest.
“If he I have seen be not indeed the fiend, he will scarcely outstrip me in the race,” he cried, as his steed bore him at a furious pace up the long avenue.
The gloom was here profound, being increased by the dense masses of foliage beneath which he was riding. By the time, however, that he reached the summit of Snow Hill the moon struggled through the clouds, and threw a wan glimmer over the leafy wilderness around. The deep slumber of the woods was unbroken by any sound save that of the frenzied rider bursting through them.
Well acquainted with the forest, Wyat held on a direct course. His brain was on fire, and the fury of his career increased his fearful excitement. Heedless of all impediments, he pressed forward—now dashing beneath overhanging boughs at the risk of his neck—now skirting the edge of a glen where a false step might have proved fatal.
On—on he went, his frenzy increasing each moment.
At length he reached the woody height overlooking the marshy tract that formed the limit of his ride. Once more the moon had withdrawn her lustre, and a huge indistinct black mass alone pointed out the position of the haunted tree. Around it wheeled a large white owl, distinguishable by its ghostly plumage through the gloom, like a sea-bird in a storm, and hooting bodingly as it winged its mystic flight. No other sound was heard, nor living object seen.
While gazing into the dreary expanse beneath him, Wyat for the first time since starting experienced a sensation of doubt and dread; and the warning of his old and faithful attendant rushed upon his mind. He tried to recite a prayer, but the words died away on his lips—neither would his fingers fashion the symbol of a cross.
But even these admonitions did not restrain him. Springing from his foaming and panting steed, and taking the bridle in his hand, he descended the side of the acclivity. Ever and anon a rustling among the grass told him that a snake, with which description of reptile the spot abounded, was gliding away from him. His horse, which had hitherto been all fire and impetuosity, now began to manifest symptoms of alarm, quivered in every limb, snorted, and required to be dragged along forcibly.
When within a few paces of the tree, its enormous rifted trunk became fully revealed to him; but no one was beside it. Wyat then stood still, and cried in a loud, commanding tone, “Spirit, I summon thee!—appear!”
At these words a sound like a peal of thunder rolled over head, accompanied by screeches of discordant laughter. Other strange and unearthly noises were heard, and amidst the din a blue phosphoric light issued from the yawning crevice in the tree, while a tall, gaunt figure, crested with an antlered helm, sprang from it. At the same moment a swarm of horribly grotesque, swart objects, looking like imps, appeared amid the branches of the tree, and grinned and gesticulated at Wyat, whose courage remained unshaken during the fearful ordeal. Not so his steed. After rearing and plunging violently, the affrighted animal broke its hold and darted off into the swamp, where it floundered and was lost.
