Beneath it he perceived a figure, which he at first took for that of the spectral hunter; but his fears were relieved by a shout from the person, who at the same moment appeared to catch sight of him.
Satisfied that, in the present instance, he had to do with a being of this world, Surrey ran towards the tree, and on approaching it perceived that the object of his alarm was a young man of very athletic proportions, and evidently, from his garb, a keeper of the forest.
He was habited in a jerkin of Lincoln green cloth, with the royal badge woven in silver on the breast, and his head was protected by a flat green cloth cap, ornamented with a pheasant's tail. Under his right arm he carried a crossbow; a long silver-tipped horn was slung in his baldric; and he was armed with a short hanger, or wood-knife. His features were harsh and prominent; and he had black beetling brows, a large coarse mouth, and dark eyes, lighted up with a very sinister and malignant expression.
He was attended by a large savage-looking staghound, whom he addressed as Bawsey, and whose fierceness had to be restrained as Surrey approached.
“Have you seen anything?” he demanded of the earl.
“I have seen Herne the Hunter himself, or the fiend in his likeness,” replied Surrey.
And he briefly related the vision he had beheld.
“Ay, ay, you have seen the demon hunter, no doubt,” replied the keeper at the close of the recital. “I neither saw the light, nor heard the laughter, nor the wailing cry you speak of; but Bawsey crouched at my feet and whined, and I knew some evil thing was at hand. Heaven shield us!” he exclaimed, as the hound crouched at his feet, and directed her gaze towards the oak, uttering a low ominous whine, “she is at the same trick again.”
The earl glanced in the same direction, and half expected to see the knotted trunk of the tree burst open and disclose the figure of the spectral hunter. But nothing was visible—at least, to him, though it would seem from the shaking limbs, fixed eyes, and ghastly visage of the keeper, that some appalling object was presented to his gaze.
“Do you not see him?” cried the latter at length, in thrilling accents; “he is circling the tree, and blasting it. There! he passes us now—do you not see him?”
“No,” replied Surrey; “but do not let us tarry here longer.”
So saying he laid his hand upon the keeper's arm. The touch seemed to rouse him to exertion: He uttered a fearful cry, and set off at a quick pace along the park, followed by Bawsey, with her tail between her legs. The earl kept up with him, and neither halted till they had left the wizard oak at a considerable distance behind them.
“And so you did not see him?” said the keeper, in a tone of exhaustion, as he wiped the thick drops from his brow.
“I did not,” replied Surrey.
“That is passing strange,” rejoined the other. “I myself have seen him before, but never as he appeared to-night.”
“You are a keeper of the forest, I presume, friend?” said Surrey. “How are you named?”
“I am called Morgan Fenwolf,” replied the keeper; “and you?”
“I am the Earl of Surrey;' returned the young noble.
“What!” exclaimed Fenwolf, making a reverence, “the son to his grace of Norfolk?”
The earl replied in the affirmative.
“Why, then, you must be the young nobleman whom I used to see so often with the king's son, the Duke of Richmond, three or four years ago, at the castle?” rejoined Fenwolf “You are altogether grown out of my recollection.”
“Not unlikely,” returned the earl. “I have been at Oxford, and have only just completed my studies. This is the first time I have been at Windsor since the period you mention.”
“I have heard that the Duke of Richmond was at Oxford likewise,” observed Fenwolf.
“We were at Cardinal College together,” replied Surrey. “But the duke's term was completed before mine. He is my senior by three years.”
“I suppose your lordship is returning to the castle?” said Fenwolf.
“No,” replied Surrey. “My attendants are waiting for me at the Garter, and if you will accompany me thither, I will bestow a cup of good ale upon you to recruit you after the fright you have undergone.”
Fenwolf signified his graceful acquiescence, and they walked on in silence, for the earl could not help dwelling upon the vision he had witnessed, and his companion appeared equally abstracted. In this sort they descended the hill near Henry the Eighth's Gate, and entered Thames Street.
II.
Of Bryan Bowntance, the Host of the Garter—Of the Duke of
Shoreditch—Of the Bold Words uttered by Mark Fytton, the
Butcher, and how he was cast into the Vault of the Curfew
Tower.
Turning off on the right, the earl and his companion continued to descend the hill until they came in sight of the Garter—a snug little hostel, situated immediately beneath the Curfew Tower.
Before the porch were grouped the earl's attendants, most of whom had dismounted, and were holding their steeds by the bridles. At this juncture the door of the hostel opened, and a fat jolly-looking personage, with a bald head and bushy grey beard, and clad in a brown serge doublet, and hose to match, issued forth, bearing a foaming jug of ale and a horn cup. His appearance was welcomed by a joyful shout from the attendants.
“Come, my masters!” he cried, filling the horn, “here is a cup of stout Windsor ale in which to drink the health of our jolly monarch, bluff King Hal; and there's no harm, I trust, in calling him so.”
“Marry, is there not, mine host;” cried the foremost attendant. “I spoke of him as such in his own hearing not long ago, and he laughed at me in right merry sort. I love the royal bully, and will drink his health gladly, and Mistress Anne Boleyn's to boot.”
And he emptied the horn.
“They tell me Mistress Anne Boleyn is coming to Windsor with the king and the knights-companions to-morrow—is it so?” asked the host, again filling the horn, and handing it to another attendant.
The person addressed nodded, but he was too much engrossed by the horn to speak.
“Then there will be rare doings in the castle,” chuckled the host; “and many a lusty pot will be drained at the Garter. Alack-a-day! how times are changed since I, Bryan Bowntance, first stepped into my father's shoes, and became host of the Garter. It was in 1501—twenty-eight years ago—when King Henry the Seventh, of blessed memory, ruled the land, and when his elder son, Prince Arthur, was alive likewise. In that year the young prince espoused Catherine of Arragon, our present queen, and soon afterwards died; whereupon the old king, not liking—for he loved his treasure
