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.
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