“Then down on thy knees, traitor!” roared Henry; “down all of ye, and sue for mercy.”
“For mercy—ha! ha!” rejoined the other; “it is thy turn to sue for mercy, tyrant! We acknowledge no other ruler than Herne the Hunter.”
“Then seek him in hell!” cried Henry, dealing the speaker a tremendous blow on the head with his staff, which brought him senseless to the ground.
The others immediately closed round him, and endeavoured to seize the king.
“Ha! dogs—ha! traitors!” vociferated Henry, plying his staff with great activity, and bringing down an assailant at each stroke; “do you dare to lay hands upon our sacred person? Back! back!”
The determined resistance offered by the king, supported as he was by Suffolk, paralysed his assailants, who seemed more bent upon securing his person than doing him injury. But Suffolk's attention was presently diverted by the attack of a fierce black hound, set upon him by a stout fellow in a bearded mask. After a hard struggle, and not before he had been severely bitten in the arm, the duke contrived to despatch his assailant.
“This to avenge poor Bawsey!” cried the man who had set on the hound, stabbing at Suffolk with his knife.
But the duke parried the blow, and, disarming his antagonist, forced him to the ground, and tearing off his mask, disclosed the features of Morgan Fenwolf.
Meanwhile, Henry had been placed in considerable jeopardy. Like Suffolk, he had slaughtered a hound, and, in aiming a blow at the villain who set it on, his foot slipped, and he lay at his mercy. The wretch raised his knife, and was in the act of striking when a sword was passed through his body. The blow was decisive; the king instantly arose, and the rest of his assailants-horse as well as foot—disheartened by what had occurred, beat a hasty retreat. Harry turned to look for his deliverer, and uttered an exclamation of astonishment and anger.
“Ah! God's death!” he cried, “can I believe my eyes? Is it you, Sir Thomas Wyat?”