"I should not like to cross this swamp at night," he observed to Patch,
who rode close behind him.
"Nor I, your grace," replied the buffoon. "We might chance to be led by
a will-o'-the-wisp to a watery grave."
"Such treacherous fires are not confined to these regions, knave,"
rejoined Wolsey. "Mankind are often lured, by delusive gleams of glory
and power, into quagmires deep and pitfalls. Holy Virgin; what have we
here?"
The exclamation was occasioned by a figure that suddenly emerged
from the ground at a little distance on the right. Wolsey's mule swerved
so much as almost to endanger his seat, and he called out in a loud
angry tone to the author of the annoyance-
"Who are you, knave? and what do you here?"
I am a keeper of the forest, an't please your grace, replied the other,
doffing his cap, and disclosing harsh features which by no means
recommended him to the cardinal, "and am named Morgan Fenwolf. I
was crouching among the reeds to get a shot at a fat buck, when your
approach called me to my feet."
"By St. Jude! this is the very fellow, your grace, who shot the hart-royal
the other day," cried Patch.
"And so preserved the Lady Anne Boleyn," rejoined the cardinal.
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