Again a noise similar to that heard a moment before resounded from the lower part of the room. Wyat immediately flew thither, and drawing his sword, searched about with its point, but ineffectually.
“It could not be fancy,” he said; “and yet nothing is to be found.”
“I do not like jesting about Herne the Hunter,” remarked Surrey, “after what I myself have seen. In your present frame of mind I advise you not to hazard an interview with the fiend. He has power over the desperate.”
Wyat returned no answer. He seemed lost in gloomy thought, and soon afterwards took his leave.
On returning to his lodgings, he summoned his attendants, and ordered them to proceed to Kingston, adding that he would join them there early the next morning. One of them, an old serving-man, noticing the exceeding haggardness of his looks, endeavoured to persuade him to go with them; but Wyat, with a harshness totally unlike his customary manner, which was gracious and kindly in the extreme, peremptorily refused.
“You look very ill, Sir Thomas,” said the old servant; “worse than I ever remember seeing you. Listen to my counsel, I beseech you. Plead ill health with the king in excuse of your mission to France, and retire for some months to recruit your strength and spirits at Allington.”
“Tush, Adam Twisden! I am well enough,” exclaimed Wyat impatiently. “Go and prepare my mails.”
“My dear, dear master,” cried old Adam, bending the knee before him, and pressing his hand to his lips; “something tells me that if I leave you now I shall never see you again. There is a paleness in your cheek, and a fire in your eye, such as I never before observed in you, or in mortal man. I tremble to say it, but you look like one possessed by the fiend. Forgive my boldness, sir. I speak from affection and duty. I was serving-man to your father, good Sir Henry Wyat, before you, and I love you as a son, while I honour you as a master. I have heard that there are evil beings in the forest—nay, even within the castle—who lure men to perdition by promising to accomplish their wicked desires. I trust no such being has crossed your path.”
“Make yourself easy, good Adam,” replied Wyat; “no fiend has tempted me.”
“Swear it, sir,” cried the old man eagerly—“swear it by the Holy Trinity.”