“You cannot escape me,” rejoined He me, with a triumphant laugh; “you cannot avoid your fate. But I want not to deal harshly with you. I love you, and would win you rather by persuasion than by force. Consent to be mine, then, and I give Wyat his life and liberty.”
“I cannot—I cannot!” she replied.
“Not only do I offer you Wyat's life as the price of your compliance,” persevered Herne; “but you shall have what ever else you may seek—jewels, ornaments, costly attire, treasure—for of such I possess a goodly store.”
“And of what use would they be to me here?” said Mabel.
“I will not always confine you to this cave,” replied Herne. “You shall go where you please, and live as you please, but you must come to me whenever I summon you.”
“And what of my grandsire?” she demanded.
“Tristram Lyndwood is no relative of yours,” replied Herne. “I will now clear up the mystery that hangs over your birth. You are the offspring of one who for years has exercised greater sway than the king within this realm, but who is now disgraced and ruined, and nigh his end. His priestly vows forbid him to own you, even if he desired to do so.”
“Have I seen him?” demanded Mabel.
“You have,” replied Herne; “and he has seen you—and little did he know when he sought you out, that he was essaying to maintain his own power, and overturn that of another, by the dishonour of his daughter—though if he had done so,” he added, with a scoffing laugh, “it might not have restrained him.”
“I know whom you mean,” said Mabel. “And is it possible he can be my father?”