“Then indeed you must fly,” cried Wyat; “such unhallowed love will tend to perdition of soul and body.”
“Oh that there was any hope for me!” she ejaculated.
“There is hope,” replied Wyat. “I will protect you—will care for you—will love you.”
“Love me!” exclaimed Mabel, a deep blush overspreading her pale features. “You love another.”
“Absence has enabled me to overcome the vehemence of my passion,” replied Wyat, “and I feel that my heart is susceptible of new emotions. But you, maiden,” he added coldly, “you are captivated by the admiration of the king.”
“My love, like yours, is past,” she answered, with a faint smile; “but if I were out of Herne's power I feel that I could love again, and far more deeply than I loved before—for that, in fact, was rather the result of vanity than of real regard.”
“Mabel,” said Wyat, taking her hand, and gazing into her eyes, “if I set you free, will you love me?”
“I love you already,” she replied; “but if that could be, my whole life should be devoted to you. Ha!” she exclaimed with a sudden change of tone, “footsteps are approaching; it is Fenwolf. Hide yourself within that recess.”
Though doubting the prudence of the course, Wyat yielded to her terrified and imploring looks, and concealed himself in the manner she had indicated. He was scarcely ensconed in the recess, when the door opened, and Morgan Fenwolf stepped in, followed by her grandfather. Fenwolf gazed suspiciously round the little chamber, and then glanced significantly at old Tristram, but he made no remark.
“What brings you here?” demanded Mabel tremblingly.