“Will you put faith in me, if I promise you deliverance?” demanded the friar.
“You promise more than you can perform, as most of your brethren do,” rejoined the other.
“You will not say so if you look up,” said the friar.
Fenwolf started at the words, which were pronounced in a different tone from that previously adopted by the speaker, and raised himself as far as his bonds would permit him. The friar had thrown hack his cowl, and disclosed features of appalling hideousness, lighted up by a diabolical grin.
“You here!” cried Fenwolf.
“You doubted me,” rejoined Herne, “but I never desert a follower. Besides, I wish to show the royal Harry that my power is equal to his own.”
“But how are we to get out of this dungeon?” asked Fenwolf, gazing round apprehensively.
“My way out will be easy enough,” replied Herne; “but your escape is attended with more difficulty. You remember how we went to the vaulted chamber in the Curfew Tower on the night when Mark Fytton, the butcher, was confined within it?”
“I do,” replied Fenwolf; “but I can think of nothing while I am tied thus.”
Heme instantly drew forth a hunting-knife, and cutting Fenwolf's bonds asunder, the latter started to his feet.