“This is clearly the work of the fiend,” said Shoreditch; “it is useless to strive against him.”
“That tall black man was doubtless Herne himself.” said Paddington. “I am glad he did us no injury. I hope the king will not provoke his malice further.”
“Well, we must inform Captain Bouchier of the mischance,” said Shoreditch. “I would not be in thy skin, Mat Bee, for a trifle. The king will be here presently, and then—”
“It is impossible to penetrate through the devices of the evil one,” interrupted Mat. “I could have sworn it was the royal signet, for I saw it on the king's finger as he delivered the order. I wish such another chance of capturing the fiend would occur to me.”
As the words were uttered, the door of a recess was thrown suddenly open, and Herne, in his wild garb, with his antlered helm upon his brow, and the rusty chain depending from his left arm, stood before them. His appearance was so terrific and unearthly that they all shrank aghast, and Mat Bee fell with his face on the floor.
“I am here!” cried the demon. “Now, braggart, wilt dare to seize me?”
But not a hand was moved against him. The whole party seemed transfixed with terror.
“You dare not brave my power, and you are right,” cried Herne—“a wave of my hand would bring this old tower about your ears—a word would summon a legion of fiends to torment you.”
“But do not utter it, I pray you, good Herne—excellent Herne,” cried Mat Bee. “And, above all things, do not wave your hand, for we have no desire to be buried alive,—have we, comrades? I should never have said what I did if I had thought your friendship within hearing.”
“Your royal master will as vainly seek to contend with me as he did to bury me beneath the oak-tree,” cried Herne. “If you want me further, seek me in the upper chamber.”