“Such treacherous fires are not confined to these regions, knave,” rejoined Wolsey. “Mankind are often lured, by delusive gleams of glory and power, into quagmires deep and pitfalls. Holy Virgin; what have we here?”
The exclamation was occasioned by a figure that suddenly emerged from the ground at a little distance on the right. Wolsey's mule swerved so much as almost to endanger his seat, and he called out in a loud angry tone to the author of the annoyance—“Who are you, knave? and what do you here?”
I am a keeper of the forest, an't please your grace, replied the other, doffing his cap, and disclosing harsh features which by no means recommended him to the cardinal, “and am named Morgan Fenwolf. I was crouching among the reeds to get a shot at a fat buck, when your approach called me to my feet.”
“By St. Jude! this is the very fellow, your grace, who shot the hart-royal the other day,” cried Patch.
“And so preserved the Lady Anne Boleyn,” rejoined the cardinal. “Art sure of it, knave?”
“As sure as your grace is of canonisation,” replied Patch. “That shot should have brought you a rich reward, friend—either from the king's highness or the Lady Anne,” remarked Wolsey to the keeper.
“It has brought me nothing,” rejoined Fenwolf sullenly.
“Hum!” exclaimed the cardinal. “Give the fellow a piece of gold, Patch.”
“Methinks I should have better earned your grace's bounty if I had let the hart work his will,” said Fenwolf, reluctantly receiving the coin.
“How, fellow?” cried the cardinal, knitting his brows.