“The name is well known to me,” she replied, in trembling tones; “and I have seen you once—at my grandfather's cottage. But why have you come here? Do you know where you are?
“I know that I am in the cave of Herne the Hunter,” replied Wyat; “and one of my motives for seeking it was to set you free. But there is nothing to prevent your flight now.”
“Alas! there is,” she replied. “I am chained here by bonds I cannot break. Herne has declared that any attempt at escape on my part shall be followed by the death of my grandsire. And he does not threaten idly, as no doubt you know. Besides, the most terrible vengeance would fall on my own head. No,—I cannot—dare not fly. But let us not talk in the dark. Come with me to procure a light. Give me your hand, and I will lead you to my cell.”
Taking the small, trembling hand offered him, Wyat followed his conductress down the passage. A few steps brought them to a door, which she pushed aside, and disclosed a small chamber, hewn out of the rock, in a recess of which a lamp was burning. Lighting the lamp which she had recently extinguished, she placed it on a rude table.
“Have you been long a prisoner here?” asked Wyat, fixing his regards upon her countenance, which, though it had lost somewhat of its bloom, had gained much in interest and beauty.
“For three months, I suppose,” she replied; “but I am not able to calculate the lapse of time. It has seemed very—very long. Oh that I could behold the sun again, and breathe the fresh, pure air!
“Come with me, and you shall do so,” rejoined Wyat.
“I have told you I cannot fly,” she answered. “I cannot sacrifice my grandsire.”
“But if he is leagued with this demon he deserves the worst fate that can befall him,” said Wyat. “You should think only of your own safety. What can be the motive of your detention?”
“I tremble to think of it,” she replied; “but I fear that Herne has conceived a passion for me.”