“I dame not to see the chase, but the king,” she replied, somewhat petulantly.
“It is not every fair maid who would confess so much,” observed Fenwolf, frowning.
“Then I am franker than some of my sex,” replied Mabel. “But who is the strange man looking at us from behind that tree, grandfather!
“I see no one,” replied the old forester.
“Neither do I,” added Morgan Fenwolf, with a shudder. “You are wilfully blind,” rejoined Mabel. “But see, the person I mentioned stalks forth. Now, perhaps, he is visible to you both.”
And as she spoke, a tall wild-looking figure, armed with a hunting-spear, emerged from the trees and advanced towards them. The garb of the newcomer somewhat resembled that of a forester; but his arms and lower limbs were destitute of covering, and appeared singularly muscular, while his skin was swarthy as that of a gipsy. His jet-black hair hung in elf-locks over his savage-looking features.
In another moment he was beside them, and fixed his dark piercing eyes on Mabel in such a manner as to compel her to avert her gaze.
“What brings you here this morning, Tristram Lyndwood?” he demanded, in a hoarse imperious tone.
“The same motive that brought you, Valentine Hagthorne,” replied the old forester—“to see the royal chase.”
“This, I suppose, is your granddaughter?” pursued Hagthorne.