Making his way through the trees to the side of the lake, Fenwolf
marched along the greensward in the direction of Tristram Lyndwood's
cottage. Wyat mechanically followed him; but he was so pre-occupied
that he scarcely heeded the fair Mabel, nor was it till after his
embarkation in the skiff with the keeper, when she came forth to look
at them, that he was at all struck with her beauty. He then inquired her
name from Fenwolf.
"She is called Mabel Lyndwood, and is an old forester's granddaughter,"
replied the other somewhat gruffly.
"And do you seek her love?," asked Wyat.
"Ay, and wherefore not? " asked Fenwolf, with a look of displeasure.
"Nay, I know not, friend," rejoined Wyat. "She is a comely damsel."
"What!- comelier than the Lady Anne?" demanded Fenwolf spitefully.
"I said not so," replied Wyat; "but she is very fair, and looks true-
hearted."
Fenwolf glanced at him from under his brows; and plunging his oars into
the water, soon carried him out of sight of the maiden.
It was high noon, and the day was one of resplendent loveliness. The
lake sparkled in the sunshine, and as they shot past its tiny bays and
woody headlands, new beauties were every moment revealed to them.
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