looks, or Anne Boleyn's responsive
glances. He saw that one of Henry's arms encircled her waist, while the
other caressed her yielding hand. They paused. Henry bent forward, and
Anne half averted her head, but not so much so as to prevent the king
from imprinting a long and fervid kiss upon her lips.

Terrible was its effect upon Wyat. An adder's bite would have been less
painful. His hands convulsively clutched together; his hair stood erect
upon his head; a shiver ran through his frame; and he tottered back
several paces. When he recovered, Henry had bidden good-night to the
object of his love, and, having nearly gained the door, turned and waved
a tender valediction to her. As soon as he was gone, Anne looked round
with a smile of ineffable pride and pleasure at her attendants, but a
cloud of curtains dropping over the window shrouded her from the sight
of her wretched lover.

In a state of agitation wholly indescribable, Wyat staggered towards
the edge of the terrace--it might be with the design of flinging himself
from it--but when within a few yards of the low parapet wall defending
its precipitous side, he perceived a tall dark figure standing directly
in his path, and halted. Whether the object he beheld was human or not
he could not determine, but it seemed of more than mortal stature. It
was wrapped in a long black cloak, and wore a high conical cap on its
head. Before Wyat could speak the figure addressed him.

"You desire to see Herne the Hunter," said the figure, in a deep,
sepulchral tone. "Ride hence to the haunted beechtree near the marsh, at
the farther side of the forest, and you will find him."

"You are Herne--I feel it," cried Wyat. "Why go into the forest? Speak
now."

And he stepped forward with the intention of grasping the figure, but it
eluded him, and, with a mocking laugh, melted into the darkness.

Wyat advanced to the edge of the terrace and looked over the parapet,
but he could see nothing except the tops of the tall trees springing
from the side of the moat. Flying to the sentinel, he inquired whether
any one had passed him, but the man returned an angry denial.

Awestricken and agitated, Wyat quitted the terrace, and, seeking his
steed, mounted him, and galloped into the forest.

"If he I have seen be not indeed the fiend, he will scarcely outstrip me
in the race," he cried, as his steed bore him at a furious pace up the
long avenue.

The gloom was here profound, being increase