It was high noon, and the day was one of resplendent loveliness. The lake sparkled in the sunshine, and as they shot past its tiny bays and woody headlands, new beauties were every moment revealed to them. But while the scene softened Wyat's feelings, it filled him with intolerable remorse, and so poignant did his emotions become, that he pressed his hands upon his eyes to shut out the lovely prospect. When he looked up again the scene was changed. The skiff had entered a narrow creek, arched over by huge trees, and looking as dark and gloomy as the rest of the lake was fair and smiling. It was closed in by a high overhanging bank, crested by two tall trees, whose tangled roots protruded through it like monstrous reptiles, while their branches cast a heavy shade over the deep, sluggish water.
“Why have you come here?” demanded Wyat, looking uneasily round the forbidding spot.
“You will discover anon,” replied Fenwolf moodily.
“Go back into the sunshine, and take me to some pleasant bank—I will not land here,” said Wyat sternly.
“Needs must when—I need not remind you of the proverb,” rejoined Fenwolf, with a sneer.
“Give me the oars, thou malapert knave!” cried Wyat fiercely, “and I will put myself ashore.”
“Keep quiet,” said Fenwolf; “you must perforce abide our master's coming.”
Wyat gazed at the keeper for a moment, as if with the intention of throwing him overboard; but abandoning the idea, he rose up in the boat, and caught at what he took to be a root of the tree above. To his surprise and alarm, it closed upon him with an iron grasp, and he felt himself dragged upwards, while the skiff, impelled by a sudden stroke from Morgan Fenwolf, shot from beneath him. All Wyat's efforts to disengage himself were vain, and a wild, demoniacal laugh, echoed by a chorus of voices, proclaimed him in the power of Herne the Hunter. The next moment he was set on the top of the bank, while the demon greeted him with a mocking laugh.
“So you thought to escape me, Sir Thomas Wyatt,” he cried, in a taunting tone; “but any such attempt will prove fruitless. The murderer may repent the blow when dealt; the thief may desire to restore the gold he has purloined; the barterer of his soul may rue his bargain; but they are Satan's, nevertheless. You are mine, and nothing can redeem you!”
“Woe is me that it should be so!” groaned Wyat.