At length he reached the woody height overlooking the marshy tract that formed the limit of his ride.Once more the moon had withdrawn her lustre, and a huge indistinct black mass alone pointed out the position of the haunted tree.Around it wheeled a large white owl, distinguishable by its ghostly plumage through the gloom, like a sea-bird in a storm, and hooting bodingly as it winged its mystic flight.No other sound was heard, nor living object seen.
While gazing into the dreary expanse beneath him, Wyat for the first time since starting experienced a sensation of doubt and dread; and the warning of his old and faithful attendant rushed upon his mind.He tried to recite a prayer, but the words died away on his lips--neither would his fingers fashion the symbol of a cross.
But even these admonitions did not restrain him.Springing from his foaming and panting steed, and taking the bridle in his hand, he descended the side of the acclivity.Ever and anon a rustling among the grass told him that a snake, with which description of reptile the spot abounded, was gliding away from him.His horse, which had hitherto been all fire and impetuosity, now began to manifest symptoms of alarm, quivered in every limb, snorted, and required to be dragged along forcibly.
When within a few paces of the tree, its enormous rifted trunk became fully revealed to him; but no one was beside it.Wyat then stood still, and cried in a loud, commanding tone, "Spirit, I summon thee!--appear!"At these words a sound like a peal of thunder rolled over head, accompanied by screeches of discordant laughter.Other strange and unearthly noises were heard, and amidst the din a blue phosphoric light issued from the yawning crevice in the tree, while a tall, gaunt figure, crested with an antlered helm, sprang from it.At the same moment a swarm of horribly grotesque, swart objects, looking like imps, appeared amid the branches of the tree, and grinned and gesticulated at Wyat, whose courage remained unshaken during the fearful ordeal.Not so his steed.After rearing and plunging violently, the affrighted animal broke its hold and darted off into the swamp, where it floundered and was lost.
"You have called me, Sir Thomas Wyat," said the demon, in a sepulchral tone."I am here.What would you?""My name being known to you, spirit of darkness, my errand should be also," replied Wyat boldly.
"Your errand is known to me," replied the demon."You have lost a mistress, and would regain her?""I would give my soul to win her back from my kingly rival," cried Wyat.
I accept your offer," rejoined the spirit." Anne Boleyn shall be yours.
Your hand upon the compact."
Wyat stretched forth his hand, and grasped that of the demon.
His fingers were compressed as if by a vice, and he felt himself dragged towards the tree, while a stifling and sulphurous vapour rose around him.A black veil fell over his head, and was rapidly twined around his brow in thick folds.
Amid yells of fiendish laughter he was then lifted from the ground, thrust into the hollow of the tree, and thence, as it seemed to him, conveyed into a deep subterranean cave.
II.In what manner Wolsey put his Scheme into Operation.
Foiled in his scheme of making Wyat the instrument of Anne Boleyn's overthrow, Wolsey determined to put into immediate operation the plan he had conceived of bringing forward a rival to her with the king.If a choice had been allowed him, he would have selected some high-born dame for the purpose; but as this was out of the question - and as, indeed, Henry had of late proved insensible to the attractions of all the beauties that crowded his court except Anne Boleyn-he trusted to the forester's fair granddaughter to accomplish his object.The source whence he had received intelligence of the king's admiration of Mabel Lyndwood was his jester, Patch - a shrewd varlet who, under the mask of folly, picked up many an important secret for his master, and was proportionately rewarded.
Before executing the scheme, it was necessary to ascertain whether the damsel's beauty was as extraordinary as it had been represented;and with this view, Wolsey mounted his mule one morning, and, accompanied by Patch and another attendant, rode towards the forest.
It was a bright and beautiful morning, and preoccupied as he was, the plotting cardinal could not be wholly insensible to the loveliness of the scene around him.Crossing Spring Hill, he paused at the head of a long glade, skirted on the right by noble beech-trees whose silver stems sparkled in the sun shine, and extending down to the thicket now called Cooke's Hill Wood.From this point, as from every other eminence on the northern side of the forest, a magnificent view of the castle was obtained.
The sight of the kingly pile, towering above its vassal woods, kindled high and ambitious thoughts in his breast.
"The lord of that proud structure has been for years swayed by me," he mused, "and shall the royal puppet be at last wrested from me by a woman's hand? Not if I can hold my own."Roused by the reflection, he quickened his pace, and shaping his course towards Black Nest, reached in a short time the borders of a wide swamp lying between the great lake and another pool of water of less extent situated in the heart of the forest.This wild and dreary marsh, the haunt of the bittern and the plover, contrasted forcibly and disagreeably with the rich sylvan district he had just quitted.
"I should not like to cross this swamp at night," he observed to Patch, who rode close behind him.
