“By the Holy Trinity, I swear it,” replied Wyat.
As the words were uttered, the door behind the arras was suddenly shut with violence.
“Curses on you, villain! you have left the door open,” cried Wyat fiercely. “Our conversation has been overheard.”
“I will soon see by whom,” cried Adam, springing to his feet, and rushing towards the door, which opened upon a long corridor.
“Well!” cried Wyat, as Adam returned the next moment, with cheeks almost as white as his own—“was it the cardinal?”
“It was the devil, I believe!” replied the old man. “I could see no one.”
“It would not require supernatural power to retreat into an adjoining chamber!” replied Wyat, affecting an incredulity he was far from feeling.
“Your worship's adjuration was strangely interrupted,” cried the old man, crossing himself devoutly. “Saint Dunstan and Saint Christopher shield us from evil spirits!”
“A truce to your idle terrors, Adam,” said Wyat. “Take these packets,” he added, giving him Henry's despatches, “and guard them as you would your life. I am going on an expedition of some peril to-night, and do not choose to keep them about me. Bid the grooms have my steed in readiness an hour before midnight.”
“I hope your worship is not about to ride into the forest at that hour?” said Adam, trembling. “I was told by the stout archer, whom the king dubbed Duke of Shoreditch, that he and the Duke of Richmond ventured thither last night, and that they saw a legion of demons mounted on coal-black horses, and amongst them Mark Fytton, the butcher, who was hanged a few days ago from the Curfew Tower by the king's order, and whose body so strangely disappeared. Do not go into the forest, dear Sir Thomas!”