“What in Heaven’s name can it be, Sir Richard?” he inquired.  “It must be a drove of wild cattle,” replied the baronet, trembling.

“Wild cattle!” ejaculated James, in great alarm; “and sae near us.  Zounds! we shall be trampled and gored to death by these bulls of Basan.  Sir Richard, ye are a fause traitor thus to endanger the safety o’ your sovereign, and ye shall answer for it, if harm come o’ it.”

“I am unable to account for it, sire,” stammered the frightened baronet.  “I gave special directions to the prickers to drive the beasts away.”

“Ye shouldna keep sic deevils i’ your park, man,” cried the monarch.  “Eh! what’s that?”

Amidst all this consternation and confusion the bellowing was redoubled, and the crashing of branches drew nearer and nearer, and Nicholas Assheton rushed forward with the King’s horse, saying, “Mount, sire; mount, and away!”

But James was so much alarmed that his limbs refused to perform their office, and he was unable to put foot in the stirrup.  Seeing his condition, Nicholas cried out, “Pardon, my liege; but at a moment of peril like the present, one must not stand on ceremony.”

So saying, he took the King round the waist, and placed him on his steed.

At this juncture, a loud cry was heard, and a man in extremity of terror issued from the wood, and dashed towards the hollow.  Close on his heels came the drove of wild cattle, and, just as he gained the very verge of the descent, the foremost of the herd overtook him, and lowering his curled head, caught him on the points of his horns, and threw him forwards to such a distance that he alighted with a heavy crash almost at the King’s feet.  Satisfied, apparently, with their vengeance, or alarmed by the numerous assemblage, the drove instantly turned tail and were pursued into the depths of the forest by the prickers.

Having recovered his composure, James bade some of the attendants raise the poor wretch, who was lying groaning upon the ground, evidently so much injured as to be unable to move without assistance.  His garb was that of a forester, and his bulk—­for he was stoutly and squarely built—­had contributed, no doubt, to the severity of the fall.  When he was lifted from the ground, Nicholas instantly recognised in his blackened and distorted features those of Christopher Demdike.

“What?” he exclaimed, rushing towards him.  “Is it thou, villain?”

The sufferer only replied by a look of intense malignity.

“Eh! what—­d’ye ken wha it is?” demanded James.  “By my saul!  I fear the puir fellow has maist of his banes broken.”

“No great matter if they be,” replied Nicholas, “and it may save the application of torture in case your Majesty desires to put any question to him.  Chance has most strangely thrown into your hands one of the most heinous offenders in the kingdom, who has long escaped justice, but who will at length meet the punishment of his crimes.  The villain is Christopher Demdike, son of the foul hag who perished in the flames on the summit of Pendle Hill, and captain of a band of robbers.”