But the duke parried the blow, and, disarming his antagonist, forced
him to the ground, and tearing off his mask, disclosed the features of
Morgan Fenwolf.
Meanwhile, Henry had been placed in considerable jeopardy. Like
Suffolk, he had slaughtered a hound, and, in aiming a blow at the villain
who set it on, his foot slipped, and he lay at his mercy. The wretch
raised his knife, and was in the act of striking when a sword was
passed through his body. The blow was decisive; the king instantly
arose, and the rest of his assailants-horse as well as foot--disheartened
by what had occurred, beat a hasty retreat. Harry turned to look for his
deliverer, and uttered an exclamation of astonishment and anger.
"Ah! God's death!" he cried, "can I believe my eyes? Is it you, Sir
Thomas Wyat?"
"Ay," replied the other.
"What do you here? Ha!" demanded the king. "You should be in Paris."
"I have tarried for revenge," replied Wyat.
"Revenge!--ha!" cried Henry. "On whom?"
"On you," replied Wyat.
"What!" vociferated Henry, foaming with rage. "Is it you, traitor, who
have devised this damnable plot?--is it you who would make your king a
captive?--you who slay him? Have you leagued yourself with fiends?"
But Wyat made no answer; and though he lowered the point of his
sword, he regarded the king sternly.
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