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.
"You have called me, Sir Thomas Wyat," said the demon, in a sepulchral
tone. "I am here. What would you?"
"My name being known to you, spirit of darkness, my errand should be
also," replied Wyat boldly.
"Your errand is known to me," replied the demon. "You have lost a
mistress, and would regain her?"
"I would give my soul to win her back from my kingly rival," cried Wyat.
I accept your offer," rejoined the spirit. " Anne Boleyn shall be yours.
Your hand upon the compact."
Wyat stretched forth his hand, and grasped that of the demon.
His fingers were compressed as if by a vice, and he felt himself dragged
towards the tree, while a stifling and sulphurous vapour rose around
him.
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