“Do not go with him, grandsire,” cried Mabel. “In the name of all the saints, I implore you, do not.”
“Silence her!” said Herne in a harsh, imperious voice, “or I leave you.”
The old man looked imploringly at his granddaughter.
“You know the conditions of your liberation?” said Herne.
“I do—I do,” replied Tristram hastily, and with a shudder.
“Oh, grandfather!” cried Mabel, falling at his feet, “do not, I conjure you, make any conditions with this dreaded being, or it will be at the expense of your salvation. Better I should perish at the stake—better you should suffer the most ignominious death, than this should be.”
“Do you accept them?” cried Herne, disregarding her supplications.
Tristram answered in the affirmative.
“Recall your words, grandfather—recall your words!” cried Mabel. “I will implore pardon for you on my knees from the king, and he will not refuse me.”
“The pledge cannot be recalled, damsel,” said Herne; “and it is to save you from the king, as much as to accomplish his own preservation, that your grandsire consents. He would not have you a victim to Henry's lust.” And as he spoke, he divided the forester's bonds with his knife. “You must go with him, Mabel,” he added.