“Ay,” replied the other.
“What do you here? Ha!” demanded the king. “You should be in Paris.”
“I have tarried for revenge,” replied Wyat.
“Revenge!—ha!” cried Henry. “On whom?”
“On you,” replied Wyat.
“What!” vociferated Henry, foaming with rage. “Is it you, traitor, who have devised this damnable plot?—is it you who would make your king a captive?—you who slay him? Have you leagued yourself with fiends?”
But Wyat made no answer; and though he lowered the point of his sword, he regarded the king sternly.
A female figure now rushed forward, and bending before the king, cried in an imploring voice—“Spare him, sire—spare him! He is no party to the attack. I was near him in yon wood, and he stirred not forth till he saw your life in danger. He then delivered you from the assassin.”
“I did so because I reserved him for my own hand,” said Wyat.
“You hear him confess his treason,” cried Henry; “down on your knees, villain, or I will strike you to my feet.”