"So you are come round at last, Sir Thomas," observed the keeper, in a
slightly sarcastic tone.
"What has ailed me? " asked Wyat, in surprise.
"You have had a fever for three days," returned Fenwolf, "and have
been raving like a madman."
"Three days!" muttered Wyat. "The false juggling fiend promised her to
me on the third day."
"Fear not; Herne will be as good as his word," said Fenwolf. "But will
you go forth with me? I am about to visit my nets. It is a fine day, and a
row on the lake will do you good."
Wyat acquiesced, and followed Fenwolf, who returned along the
passage. It grew narrower at the sides and lower in the roof as they
advanced, until at last they were compelled to move forward on their
hands and knees. For some space the passage, or rather hole (for it
was nothing more) ran on a level. A steep and tortuous ascent then
commenced, which brought them to an outlet concealed by a large
stone.
Pushing it aside, Fenwolf crept forth, and immediately afterwards Wyat
emerged into a grove, through which, on one side, the gleaming waters
of the lake were discernible. The keeper's first business was to replace
the stone, which was so screened by brambles and bushes that it could
not, unless careful search were made, be detected.
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