hou shalt have a further
trial. If thou dost not then succeed, I must perforce discharge thee
from thy post.'

"Instead of returning to the castle, Herne rode off wildly into the
forest, where he remained till eventide. He then returned with ghastly
looks and a strange appearance, having the links of a rusty chain which
he had plucked from a gibbet hanging from his left arm, and the hart's
antlered skull, which he had procured from Urswick, fixed like a helm
upon his head. His whole demeanour showed that he was crazed; and his
condition, which might have moved the compassion of his foes, only
provoked their laughter. After committing the wildest extravagances, he
burst from all restraint, and disappeared among the trees of the home
park.

"An hour after this a pedlar, who was crossing the park from Datchet,
found him suspended by a rope from a branch of the oak-tree which you
have all seen, and which bears his name. Despair had driven him to the
dreadful deed. Instead of cutting him down, the pedlar ran to the castle
to relate what he had witnessed; and the keepers, satisfied that their
revenge was now fully accomplished, hastened with him to the tree. But
the body was gone; and all that proclaimed it had been there, was the
rope hanging from the branch. Search was everywhere made for the missing
body, but without effect. When the matter was related to the king he was
much troubled, and would fain have had masses said for the repose of the
soul of the unfortunate keeper, but the priests refused to perform them,
alleging that he had 'committed self-destruction, and was therefore out
of the pale of the Church.

"On that night, a terrible thunderstorm occurred--as terrible, it may
be, as that of last night--and during its continuance, the oak on which
Herne had hanged himself was blasted by the lightning.

"Old Osmond was immediately reinstated in his post of chief keeper; but
he had little time for rejoicing, for he found that the same spell that
had bound Herne had fallen upon him. His bolts and arrows went wide of
their mark, his hounds lost their scent, and his falcon would not be
lured back. Half frantic, and afraid of exposing himself to the taunts
of his companions, he feigned illness, and left his comrade, Roger
Barfoot, to take his place. But the same ill-luck befell Barfoot, and
he returned in woeful plight, without a single head of game. Four others
were equally unfortunate, and it was now clear that the who