tend to them," rejoined the
king harshly. "I shall return anon to the examination."

So saying, he departed.

Brave as a lion on ordinary occasions, Bouchier entered upon his present
duty with reluctance and misgiving; and he found the arquebusiers by
whom he was attended, albeit stout soldiers, equally uneasy. Herne had
now become an object of general dread throughout the castle; and the
possibility of an encounter with him was enough to daunt the boldest
breast. Disguising his alarm, Bouchier issued his directions in an
authoritative tone, and then mounted with three arquebusiers to the
summit of the tower. It was now dark, but the moon soon arose, and her
beams rendered every object as distinguishable as daylight would have
done, so that watch was easily kept. But nothing occurred to occasion
alarm, until all at once, a noise like that of a hammer stricken against
a board, was heard in the chamber below.

Drawing his sword, Bouchier hurried down the steps leading into this
chamber, which was buried in darkness, and advanced so precipitately
and incautiously into the gloom, that he struck his head against a
crossbeam. The violence of the blow stunned him for a moment, but as
soon as he recovered, he called to the guard in the lower chamber to
bring up a torch. The order was promptly obeyed; but, meanwhile, the
sound had ceased, and, though they searched about, they could not
discover the occasion of it.

This, however, was not so wonderful for the singular construction of the
chamber, with its numerous crossbeams, its deep embrasures and recesses,
its insecure and uneven floor, its steep ladder-like staircases, was
highly favourable to concealment, it being utterly impossible, owing
to the intersections of the beams, for the searchers to see far before
them, or to move about quickly. In the midst of the chamber was a large
wooden compartment enclosing the cumbrous and uncouth machinery of the
castle clock, and through the box ran the cord communicating with the
belfry above. At that time, pieces of ordnance were mounted in all
the embrasures, but there is now only one gun, placed in a porthole
commanding Thames Street, and the long thoroughfare leading to Eton. The
view from this porthole of the groves of Eton, and of the lovely
plains on the north-west, watered by the river, is enchanting beyond
description.

Viewed from a recess which has been partly closed, the appearance of
this chamber is equally picturesqu