“Answer no such inquiries in future,” said Tristram angrily.
“But, grandfather, I could not refuse to answer the cardinal,” she replied, in a deprecating voice.
“No more excuses, but attend to my injunctions,” said Tristram. “Have you seen Morgan Fenwolf to-day?”
“No; and I care not if I never see him again,” she replied pettishly.
“You dislike him strangely, Mab,” rejoined her grandfather; “he is the best keeper in the forest, and makes no secret of his love for you.”
“The very reason why I dislike him,” she returned.
“By the same rule, if what the cardinal stated be true—though, trust me, he was but jesting—you ought to dislike the king. But get my supper. I have need of it, for I have fasted long.”
Mabel hastened to obey, and set a mess of hot pottage and other viands before him. Little more conversation passed between them, for the old man was weary, and sought his couch early.
That night Mabel did nothing but dream of the king—of stately chambers, rich apparel, and countless attendants. She awoke, and finding herself in a lowly cottage, and without a single attendant, was, like other dreamers of imaginary splendour, greatly discontented.
The next morning her grandsire went again to Bray Wood, and she was left to muse upon the event of the previous day. While busied about some trifling occupation, the door suddenly opened, and Morgan Fenwolf entered the cottage. He was followed by a tall man, with a countenance of extreme paleness, but a noble and commanding figure. There was something so striking in the appearance of the latter person, that it riveted the attention of Mabel. But no corresponding effect was produced on the stranger, for he scarcely bestowed a look upon her.