s plunge had
described a wide ring, Herne had quitted his steed, and was cleaving
with rapid strokes the waters of the lake. Finding escape impossible,
the hart turned to meet him, and sought to strike him with his horns,
but as in the case of his ill-fated brother of the wood, the blow was
warded by the antlered helm of the swimmer. The next moment the clear
water was dyed with blood, and Herne, catching the gasping animal by the
head, guided his body to shore.

Again the process of breaking up the stag was gone through; and when
Herne had concluded his task, he once more offered his gourd to Sir
Thomas Wyat. Reckless of the consequences, the knight placed the flask
to his lips, and draining it to the last drop, fell from his horse
insensible.

VII.

How Wyat beheld Mabel Lyndwood--And how he was rowed by
Morgan Fenwolf upon the Lake.

When perfect consciousness returned to him, Wyat found himself lying
upon a pallet in what he first took to be the cell of an anchorite; but
as the recollection of recent events arose more distinctly before him,
he guessed it to be a chamber connected with the sandstone cave. A small
lamp, placed in a recess, lighted the cell; and upon a footstool by his
bed stood a jug of water, and a cup containing some drink in which herbs
had evidently been infused. Well-nigh emptying the jug, for he felt
parched with thirst, Wyat attired himself, took up the lamp, and walked
into the main cavern. No one was there, nor could he obtain any answer
to his calls. Evidences, however, were not wanting to prove that a feast
had recently been held there. On one side were the scarcely extinguished
embers of a large wood fire; and in the midst of the chamber was a rude
table, covered with drinking-horns and wooden platters, as well as with
the remains of three or four haunches of venison. While contemplating
this scene Wyat heard footsteps in one of the lateral passages, and
presently afterwards Morgan Fenwolf made his appearance.

"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. I