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.
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