owards him, and whispered some
instructions in his ear.

"I understand," replied the old man.

"Proceed to the cave," cried Herne, "and remain there till I join you."

Tristram nodded assent.

"Come, Mabel!" he cried, advancing towards her, and seizing her hand.

"Away!" cried Herne in a menacing tone.

Terrified by the formidable looks and gestures of the demon, the poor
girl offered no resistance, and her grandfather drew her into the
opening, which was immediately closed after her.

About an hour after this, and when it was near upon the stroke of
midnight, the arquebusier who had admitted the tall stranger to the
dungeon, and who had momentarily expected his coming forth, opened the
door to see what was going forward. Great was his astonishment to find
the cell empty! After looking around in bewilderment, he rushed to the
chamber above, to tell his comrades what had happened.

"This is clearly the work of the fiend," said Shoreditch; "it is useless
to strive against him."

"That tall black man was doubtless Herne himself." said Paddington. "I
am glad he did us no injury. I hope the king will not provoke his malice
further."

"Well, we must inform Captain Bouchier of the mischance," said
Shoreditch. "I would not be in thy skin, Mat Bee, for a trifle. The king
will be here presently, and then--"

"It is impossible to penetrate through the devices of the evil one,"
interrupted Mat. "I could have sworn it was the royal signet, for I saw
it on the king's finger as he delivered the order. I wish such another
chance of capturing the fiend would occur to me."

As the words were uttered, the door of a recess was thrown suddenly
open, and Herne, in his wild garb, with his antlered helm upon his brow,
and the rusty chain depending from his left arm, stood before them. His
appearance was so terrific and unearthly that they all shrank aghast,
and Mat Bee fell with his face on the floor.

"I am here!" cried the demon. "Now, braggart, wilt dare to seize me?"

But not a hand was moved against him. The whole party seemed transfixed
with terror.

"You dare not brave my power, and you are right," cried Herne--"a wave
of my hand would bring this old tower about your ears--a word would
summon a legion of fiends to torment you."

"But do not utter it, I pray you, good Herne--excellent Herne," cried
Mat Bee. "And, above all things, do not wave your hand, for we have no
desire to be buried alive,--have we, comrades? I s