To his
surprise and alarm, it closed upon him with an iron grasp, and he felt
himself dragged upwards, while the skiff, impelled by a sudden stroke
from Morgan Fenwolf, shot from beneath him. All Wyat's efforts to
disengage himself were vain, and a wild, demoniacal laugh, echoed by
a chorus of voices, proclaimed him in the power of Herne the Hunter.
The next moment he was set on the top of the bank, while the demon
greeted him with a mocking laugh.
"So you thought to escape me, Sir Thomas Wyatt" he cried, in a
taunting tone; "but any such attempt will prove fruitless. The murderer
may repent the blow when dealt; the thief may desire to restore the
gold he has purloined; the barterer of his soul may rue his bargain; but
they are Satan's, nevertheless. You are mine, and nothing can redeem
you!"
"Woe is me that it should be so! " groaned Wyat.
"Lamentation is useless and unworthy of you," rejoined Herne
scornfully. "Your wish will be speedily accomplished. This very night
your kingly rival shall be placed in your hands."
"Ha! " exclaimed Wyat, the flame of jealousy again rising within his
breast.
"You can make your own terms with him for the Lady Anne," pursued
Herne.
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