be shunned, he entered one of the lateral passages, and ever and
anon, as he proceeded, repeated Mabel's name in a low, soft tone.
The stratagem was successful. Presently he heard a light footstep
approaching him, and a gentle voice inquired--"Who calls me?"

"A friend," replied Wyat.

"Your name?" she demanded.

"You will not know me if I declare myself, Mabel," he replied, "but I am
called Sir Thomas Wyat."

"The name is well known to me," she replied, in trembling tones; "and I
have seen you once--at my grandfather's cottage. But why have you come
here? Do you know where you are?

"I know that I am in the cave of Herne the Hunter," replied Wyat; "and
one of my motives for seeking it was to set you free. But there is
nothing to prevent your flight now."

"Alas! there is," she replied. "I am chained here by bonds I cannot
break. Herne has declared that any attempt at escape on my part shall be
followed by the death of my grandsire. And he does not threaten idly, as
no doubt you know. Besides, the most terrible vengeance would fall on my
own head. No,--I cannot--dare not fly. But let us not talk in the dark.
Come with me to procure a light. Give me your hand, and I will lead you
to my cell."

Taking the small, trembling hand offered him, Wyat followed his
conductress down the passage. A few steps brought them to a door, which
she pushed aside, and disclosed a small chamber, hewn out of the rock,
in a recess of which a lamp was burning. Lighting the lamp which she had
recently extinguished, she placed it on a rude table.

"Have you been long a prisoner here?" asked Wyat, fixing his regards
upon her countenance, which, though it had lost somewhat of its bloom,
had gained much in interest and beauty.

"For three months, I suppose," she replied; "but I am not able to
calculate the lapse of time. It has seemed very--very long. Oh that I
could behold the sun again, and breathe the fresh, pure air!

"Come with me, and you shall do so," rejoined Wyat.

"I have told you I cannot fly," she answered. "I cannot sacrifice my
grandsire."

"But if he is leagued with this demon he deserves the worst fate that
can befall him," said Wyat. "You should think only of your own safety.
What can be the motive of your detention?"

"I tremble to think of it," she replied; "but I fear that Herne has
conceived a passion for me."

"Then indeed you must fly," cried Wyat; "such unhallowed love will tend
to perdition of soul and body