Chapter VI: Book ONE (3)

While he was debating upon the best means of crushing this danger in the bud, a page from Lady Hastings suddenly presented himself, and informed him that the Queen was at that moment engaged in deep conference with M. Simon Renard, in St. Peter’s Chapel. On inquiry, the Duke learned that Jane, who had been greatly disturbed in mind since her husband’s departure, had proceeded to St. Peter’s Chapel—(a place of worship situated at the north end of the Tower Green, and appropriated to the public devotions of the court and household,)—accompanied by her mother, the Duchess of Suffolk, and her sisters, the Ladies Herbert and Hastings; and that the train had been joined by the Earls of Pembroke and Arundel, De Noailles, and Simon Renard—the latter of whom, when the Queen’s devotions were ended, had joined her. Tarrying for no further information, the Duke summoned his attendants, and hastened to the Tower Green. Entering the chapel, he found the information he had received was correct. The wily ambassador was standing with the Queen before the altar.

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VI.—OF THE SOLEMN EXHORTATION PRONOUNCED TO THE GIANTS BY MASTER EDWARD UNDERHILL, THE “HOT-GOSPELLER,” AT THEIR LODGING IN THE BY-WARD TOWER; AND OF THE EFFECT PRODUCED THEREBY.

In spite of the interruption occasioned by the dwarf, the evening at the Stone Kitchen passed off pleasantly enough. Dame Potentia was restored to good humour by the attentions of the jovial warder, and the giants in consequence were regaled with an excellent and plentiful supper, of which Xit was permitted to partake. Whether it was that their long fasting, or their attendance at the state-banquet, had sharpened the appetites of the three gigantic brethren, or that the viands set before them were of a more tempting nature than ordinary, we pretend not to say, but certain it is that their prodigious performances at the table excited astonishment from all who witnessed them, and elicited the particular approbation of Ribald, who, being curious to ascertain how much they could eat, insisted on helping them to everything on the board, and, strange to say, met with no refusal.

With the profuse hospitality of the period, all the superfluities of the royal feast were placed at the disposal of the household; and it may therefore be conceived that Peter Trusbut’s table was by no means scantily furnished. Nor was he disposed to stint his guests. Several small dishes which had been set before them having disappeared with marvellous celerity, he called for the remains of a lordly baron of beef, which had recently graced the royal sideboard. At the sight of this noble joint, Og, who had just appropriated a dish of roast quails, two of which he despatched at a mouthful, uttered a grunt of intense satisfaction, and abandoning the trifling dainties to Xit, prepared for the more substantial fare.

Assuming the part of carver, Peter Trusbut sliced off huge wedges of the meat, and heaped the platters of the giants with more than would have satisfied men of ordinary appetites. But this did not satisfy them. They came again and again. The meat was of such admirable quality—so well roasted—so full of gravy, and the fat was so exquisite, that they could not sufficiently praise it, nor do it sufficient justice. The knife was never out of Peter Trusbut’s hands; nor was he allowed to remain idle a moment. Scarcely had he helped Og, when Gog’s plate was empty; and before Gog had got his allowance, Magog was bellowing for more. And so it continued as long as a fragment remained upon the bones.

Puffing with the exertion he had undergone, the pantler then sat down, while Ribald, resolved not to be balked of his pastime, entreated Dame Potentia to let her guests wash down their food with a measure of metheglin. After some little solicitation, she complied, and returned with a capacious jug containing about three gallons of the balmy drink. The jug was first presented to Magog. Raising it to his lips, he took a long and stout pull, and then passed it to Gog, who detained it some seconds, drew a long breath, and returned it to Dame Trusbut, perfectly empty. By dint of fresh entreaties from the warder, Dame Potentia was once more induced to seek the cellar; and, on receiving the jug, Og took care to leave little in it for his brethren, but poured out what was left into a beaker for Xit.

They were now literally “giants refreshed;” and Peter Trusbut, perceiving that they still cast wistful glances towards the larder, complied with a significant wink from Ribald, and went in search of further provisions. This time he brought the better half of a calvered salmon, a knuckle of Westphalia ham, a venison pasty with a castellated crust of goodly dimensions, a larded capon, and the legs and carcass of a peacock, decorated with a few feathers from the tail of that gorgeous bird. Magog, before whom the latter dainty was placed, turned up his nose at it, and giving it to Xit, vigorously assaulted the venison pasty. It soon became evident that the board would again be speedily cleared; and though he had no intention of playing the niggardly host on the present occasion, Peter Trusbut declared that this was the last time such valiant trenchermen should ever feed at his cost. But his displeasure was quickly dispelled by the mirth of the warder, who laughed him out of his resolution, and encouraged the giants to proceed by every means in his power. Og was the first to give in. Throwing back his huge frame on the bench, he seized a flask of wine that stood near him, emptied it into a flagon, tossed it off at a draught, and declared he had had enough. Gog soon followed his example. But Magog seemed insatiable, and continued actively engaged, to the infinite diversion of Ribald, and the rest of the guests.

There was one person to whom this festive scene afforded no amusement. This was the fair Cicely. After Cholmondeley’s departure—though wholly unacquainted with what had befallen him—she lost all her sprightliness, and could not summon up a smile, though she blushed deeply when rallied by the warder. In surrendering her heart at the first summons of the enamoured esquire, Cicely had obeyed an uncontrollable impulse; but she was by no means satisfied with herself for her precipitancy. She felt that she ought to have resisted rather than have yielded to a passion which, she feared, could have no happy result; and though her admirer had vowed eternal constancy, and pleaded his cause with all the eloquence and fervour of deep and sincere devotion—an eloquence which seldom falls ineffectually on female ears—she was not so unacquainted with the ways of the world as to place entire faith in his professions. But it was now too late to recede. Her heart was no longer her own; and if her lover had deceived her, and feigned a passion which he did not feel, she had no help for it, but to love on unrequited.

While her bosom alternately fluttered with hope, or palpitated with fear, and her hands mechanically pursued their employment, she chanced to raise her eyes, and beheld the sinister gaze of Lawrence Nightgall fixed upon her. There was something in his malignant look that convinced her he read what was passing in her breast—and there was a bitter and exulting smile on his lip which, while it alarmed her on her account, terrified her (she knew not why) for her lover.

“You are thinking of the young esquire who left you an hour ago,” he observed sarcastically.

“I will not attempt to deny it,” replied Cicely, colouring; “I am.”

“I know it,” rejoined the jailer; “and he dared to tell you he loved you?”

Cicely made no reply.

“And you?—what answer did you give him, mistress?” continued Nightgall, furiously grasping her arm. “What answer did you give him, I say?”

“Let me go,” cried Cicely. “You hurt me dreadfully. I will not be questioned thus.”

“I overheard what you said to him,” rejoined the jailer. “You told him that you loved him—that you had loved no other—and would wed no other.”

“I told him the truth,” exclaimed Cicely. “I do love him, and will wed him.”

“It is false,” cried Nightgall, laughing maliciously. “You will never see him again.”

“How know you that?” she cried, in alarm.

“He has left the Tower—for ever,” returned the jailer, moodily.

“Impossible!” cried Cicely. “The Duke of Northumberland has given orders that no one shall go forth without a pass. Besides, he told me he was returning to the palace.”

“I tell you he is gone,” thundered Nightgall. “Hear me, Cicely,” he continued, passionately. “I have loved you long—desperately. I would give my life—my soul for you. Do not cast me aside for this vain court-gallant, who pursues you only to undo you. He would never wed you.”

“He has sworn to do so,” replied Cicely.

“Indeed!” cried Nightgall, grinding his teeth, “The oath will never be kept. Cicely, you must—you shall be mine.”

“Never!” replied the maiden. “Do you suppose I would unite myself to one whom I hate, as I do you?”

“Hate me!” cried the jailer, grasping her arm with such force that she screamed with pain. “Do you dare to tell me so to my face?”

“I do,” she rejoined. “Release me, monster!”

“Body of my father! what’s the matter?” roared Magog, who was sitting near them. “Leave go your hold of the damsel, Master Nightgall,” he added, laying down his knife and fork.

“Not at your bidding, you overgrown ox!” replied the jailer. “We’ll see that,” replied the giant. And stretching out his hand, he seized him by the nape of the neck, and drew him forcibly backwards.

“You shall bleed for this, caitiff!” exclaimed Nightgall, disengaging himself, and menacing him with his poniard.

“Tush!” rejoined Magog, contemptuously, and instantly disarming him. “Your puny weapon will serve me for a toothpick,” he added, suiting the action to the word. And, amid the loud laughter of the assemblage, the jailer slunk away, muttering interjections of rage and vengeance.

Nightgall’s dark hints respecting Cholmondeley were not without effect upon Cicely, who, well aware of his fierce and revengeful character, could not help fearing some evil; and when he quitted the Stone Kitchen, an undefinable impulse prompted her to follow him. Hastily descending the stairs, on gaining the postern she descried him hurrying along the road between the ballium wall and the external line of fortifications, and instantly decided on following him.

On reaching the projecting walls of the Beauchamp Tower, behind which she sheltered herself, she saw that he stopped midway between that fortification and the next turret, then known as the Devilin, or Robin the Devil’s Tower, but more recently, from having been the prison of the unfortunate Earl of Essex, as the Devereux Tower. Here he disappeared. Hastening to the spot, Cicely looked for the door, through which he must have passed; and after some little search, discovered it. Pushing against it, it yielded to the pressure, and admitted her to a low passage, evidently communicating with some of the subterranean dungeons which she knew existed under this part of the fortress.

She had scarcely set foot within this passage, when she perceived the jailor returning; and had barely time to conceal herself behind an angle of the wall, when he approached the spot where she stood. In his haste he had forgotten to lock the door, and he now, with muttered execrations, hastened to repair his error; cutting off by this means the possibility of Cicely’s retreat. And here, for the present, it will be necessary to leave her, and return to the Stone Kitchen.

The attention which must otherwise have been infallibly called to Cicely’s disappearance was diverted by the sudden entrance of a very singular personage, whose presence served somewhat to damp the hilarity of the party. This was Master Edward Underhill—a man of some ability, but of violent religious opinions, who, having recently been converted to the new doctrines, became so zealous in their support and propagation, that he obtained among his companions the nick-name of the “Hot-gospeller.” He was a tall thin man, with sandy hair, and a scanty beard of the same colour. His eyes were blear and glassy, with pink lids utterly devoid of lashes, and he had a long lantern-shaped visage. His attire was that of a gentleman-pensioner.

Rebuking the assemblage for their unseemly mirth, and mounting upon a stool, Master Underhill would fain have compelled them to listen to a discourse on the necessity of extirpating papacy and idolatry from the land—but he was compelled, by the clamour which his exordium occasioned, to desist. He was, moreover, brought down, with undue precipitation, from his exalted position by Xit, who creeping under the stool, contrived to overset it, and prostrated the Gospeller on the floor, to the infinite entertainment of the guests, and the no small damage of his nose.

This incident, though received in good part even by the principal sufferer, served to break up the party. Apprehensive of some further disturbance, and not without fears that the giants might indulge as freely with the fluids as they had done with the solids, Dame Trusbut took advantage of the occurrence to dismiss her guests, which she did without much ceremony.

It was then for the first time that she noticed the absence of Cicely. Not being able to find her, the recollection of the handsome esquire, and of the attention he had paid her, rushed to her mind; and with a dreadful foreboding of impending misery, she despatched her husband to the palace to make inquiries after him; while she herself went to the gate—to the ramparts—everywhere, in short, that she thought it likely she could gain any information,—but everywhere without success.

The giants, meanwhile, with Xit, betook themselves to their lodgings in the By-ward Tower. The herald and the men-at-anns, who, it may be remembered, had charge of the prisoner Gilbert, not having received any further instructions respecting him, accompanied them thither. They were also attended by Master Edward Underhill, who was bent upon admonishing them, having been given to understand they were relapsing into papacy.

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Arrived at the entrance of the By-ward Tower, the giants volunteered to take charge of the prisoner till the morning—an offer which was gladly accepted by the herald, who, intrusting him to their care, departed. But the Gospeller was not to be got rid of so easily. He begged to be admitted, and, partly by entreaties, partly by a bribe to the dwarf, succeeded in his object. The first care of the giants, on entering their abode—an octagonal chamber of stone, about sixteen feet wide, and twenty high, with a vaulted coiling, supported by sharp groined arches of great beauty, springing from small slender columns,—was to light a candle placed in front of an ancient projecting stone fireplace. Their next was to thrust the prisoner into the arched embrasure of a loop-hole at one side of it.

The walls of the chamber were decorated with the arms and accoutrements of the gigantic brethren,—the size of which would have been sufficient to strike any chance-beholder with wonder. Over the embrasure in which they had placed the prisoner, hung an enormous pair of gauntlets, and a morion of equal size. Here was a quiver full of arrows, each shaft far exceeding a cloth-yard in length—there a formidable club, armed with sharp steel spikes; while the fire-place was garnished with a couple of immense halberts. Having drawn a large pot of wine, which they first offered to their guest, who refused it, they each took a deep draught; and informing Underhill, if he was still resolved to hold forth, he had better commence without further delay, they disposed themselves to listen to him.

Placing a small table in the centre of the chamber, Og seated himself opposite it, and took Xit upon his knee; while Gog sat down beside him, and Magog supported his huge bulk against the wall. Divesting himself of his cap and sword, and placing an hour-glass on the table, the Hot-gospeller then opened a small volume, which he took from beneath his cloak; from which he began to read certain passages and to comment upon them in a vehement tone.

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His exhortation opened with a burst of rejoicing on the accession of Queen Jane—in which he pronounced terrible anathemas against all those who sought to restore the fallen religion. Perceiving the fierce gaze of the prisoner fixed upon him, he directed his chief thunders against him, and, excited by his subject, soon worked himself into a state approaching to frenzy.

In this strain he continued for some time, when a sound arose which drowned even his vehemence. Overcome with drowsiness, the three giants, who for a short time vainly endeavoured to attend to the discourse of the Gospeller, had now sunk into a comfortable slumber—and the noise which they made was tremendous. In vain Underhill endeavoured to rouse them by thumping the table. Gog gazed at him for an instant with half-shut eyes, and then leaning on Og’s shoulder, who, with head dropped back and mouth wide open, was giving audible proof of his insensible condition, he speedily dropped asleep again. Such was the astounding din, that the Gospeller could not even make himself heard by the dwarf, who, perched on Og’s knee at a few paces’ distance, stared in amazement at his gesticulations.

More than an hour having passed in this manner, the Hot-gospeller, whose energies were wholly exhausted, came to a pause; and after menacing his insensible audience with proportionate punishment in the next world—especially the idolatrous prisoner, whom he threatened with gesture as well as with word—he closed his volume, and prepared to depart. With some difficulty the three giants were awakened; and it was only by the assistance of Xit, who tweaked their noses and plucked their beards, that this could be accomplished.

Just as Master Underhill was taking his leave, Dame Trusbut arrived in the greatest tribulation. The fair Cicely was nowhere to be found. Her husband had been to the palace. Nothing could be heard of the young esquire; nor could Lawrence Nightgall be met with. In this emergency, she had come to entreat the giants to aid her in her search. They agreed to go at once—and Xit was delighted with the prospect of such employment. Accordingly, the door was locked upon the prisoner, and they set forth with the distracted dame.

As soon as he was left alone, Gilbert surveyed the chamber to sec if there was any means by which he might effect his escape. An idea speedily occurred to him: by the help of one of the halberts he contrived to free himself from his bonds, and then clambered up the chimney.

VII.—HOW CUTHBERT CHOLMONDELEY WAS THROWN INTO A DUNGEON NEAR THE DEVILIN TOWER; AND HOW A MYSTERIOUS FEMALE FIGURE APPEARED TO HIM THERE.

On recovering from the stunning effects of the blow he had received, Cuthbert Cholmondeley found himself stretched on the floor of a gloomy vault, or dungeon, for such he judged it. At first, he thought he must be dreaming, and tried to shake off the horrible nightmare by which he supposed himself oppressed. But a moment’s reflection undeceived him; and starting to his feet, he endeavoured to explore the cell in which he was confined. A heavy chain, which bound his leg to the floor, prevented him from moving more than a few paces; and, convinced that escape was impossible, he sank upon the ground in despair.

Unable to assign any cause for his imprisonment, and wholly at a loss to imagine what offence he had committed, he taxed his brain as to everything that had recently happened to him. This naturally directed his thoughts to the fair Cicely—and with her gentle image came the recollection of the malicious countenance and threatening gestures of Lawrence Nightgall. Remembering what Magog had told him of the jealousy and vindictive nature of this person, and remembering also that he had heard him described as the chief jailer, he felt that he need seek no further for the motive and the author of his imprisonment.

The assurance, however, which he had thus gained, afforded him no consolation, but rather tended to increase his disquietude. If he had been a prisoner of state, he might have hoped for eventual release; but placed in the hands of so remorseless and unscrupulous an enemy as Nightgall had shown himself, he felt he had little to hope. This consideration filled him with anguish, which was heightened as he thought of the triumph of his savage rival, who by some means—for he seemed desperate enough to have recourse to any expedient—might possess himself of the object of his passion. Fired by this thought, Cholmondeley again sprang to his feet, and strove with all his force to burst his bondage. But the effort was fruitless; and by lacerating his hands, and straining his limbs, he only added bodily torture to his mental suffering. Exhausted at length, he sank once more upon the floor.

By this time, having become habituated to the gloom of the place, he fancied he could make out that it was an arched cell of a few feet in width, and corresponding height. The only light admitted was from the entrance, which appeared to open upon a passage branching off on the left, and upon a further range of dungeons extending in the same direction.

Not altogether unacquainted with the prisons of the Tower, Cholmondeley felt against the walls to try whether he could find any of those melancholy memorials which their unfortunate inmates delighted to bequeath to their successors, and which might serve as a clue to the particular place of his confinement. But nothing but the smooth surface of the stone met his touch. This circumstance, however, and the peculiar form of the cell, induced him to think that it must be situated beneath, or at no great distance from the Devilin Tower, as he had heard of a range of subterranean dungeons in that quarter: and, it may be added, he was right in his conjecture.

The cell in which he was thrown was part of a series of such dreadful receptacles, contrived in the thickness of the ballium wall, and extending from the Beauchamp Tower to the Devilin Tower. They were appropriated to those prisoners who were doomed to confinement for life.

Horrible recollections then flashed upon his mind of the dreadful sufferings he had heard that the miserable wretches immured in these dungeons underwent—how some were tortured—some destroyed by secret and expeditious means—others by the more lingering process of starvation. As the latter idea crossed him, he involuntarily stretched out his hand to ascertain whether any provisions had been left him; but he could find none.

The blood froze in his veins as he thought of dying thus; his hair stiffened upon his head; and he was only prevented from crying out to make his lamentable case known to the occupants of any of the adjoining cells, by the conviction of its utter futility. But this feeling passed away, and was succeeded by calmer and more consolatory reflections. While in this frame of mind, Nature asserted her sway, and he dropped asleep.

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How long he remained thus, he knew not; but he was awakened by a loud and piercing scream. Raising himself, he listened intently. The scream was presently repeated in a tone so shrill and unearthly, that it filled him with apprehensions of a new kind. The outcry having been a third time raised, he was debating within himself whether he should in any way reply to it, when he thought he beheld a shadowy figure glide along the passage. It paused at a short distance from him. A glimmer of light fell upon the arch on the left, but the place where the figure stood was buried in darkness. After gazing for some time at the mysterious visitant, and passing his hand across his brow to assure himself that his eyesight did not deceive him, Cholmondeley summoned courage enough to address it. No answer was returned; but the figure, which had the semblance of a female, with the hands raised and clasped together as if in supplication or prayer, and with a hood drawn over the face, remained perfectly motionless. Suddenly, it glided forward, but with a step so noiseless and swift, that almost before the esquire was aware of the movement, it was at his side. He then felt a hand cold as marble placed upon his own, and upon grasping the fingers they appeared so thin and bony, that he thought he must have encountered a skeleton. Paralysed with fright, Cholmondeley shrunk back as far as he was able; but the figure pursued him, and shrieked in his ear—“My child, my child!—you have taken my child!”

Convinced from the voice that he had a being of this world to deal with, the esquire seized her vestment, and resolved to detain her till he had ascertained who she was and what was the cause of her cries; but just as he had begun to question her, a distant footstep was heard, ands uttering a loud shriek, and crying—“He comes!—he comes!”—the female broke from him and disappeared.

Fresh shrieks were presently heard in a more piteous tone than before, mixed with angry exclamations in a man’s voice, which Cholmondeley fancied sounded like that of Nightgall. A door was next shut with great violence; and all became silent.

While he was musing on this strange occurrence, Cholmondeley heard footsteps advancing along the passage on the left, and in another moment Lawrence Nightgall stood before him.

The jailer, who carried a lamp, eyed the captive for a few moments in silence, and with savage satisfaction.

“It is to you, then, I owe my imprisonment, villain,” said Cholmondeley, regarding him sternly.

“It is,” replied the jailer; “and you can readily conjecture, I doubt not, why I have thus dealt with you.”

“I can,” resumed the esquire; “your jealousy prompted you to the deed. But you shall bitterly rue it.”

“Bah!” exclaimed Nightgall. “You are wholly in my power. I am not, however, come to threaten, but to offer you freedom.”

“On what terms?” demanded Cholmondeley.

“On these,” replied the jailer, scowling—“that you swear to abandon Cicely.”

“Never!” replied the esquire.

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“Then your fate is sealed,” rejoined Nightgall. “You shall never quit this spot.”

“Think not to move me by any such idle threat,” returned Cholmondeley. “You dare not detain me.”

“Who shall prevent me?” laughed the jailor, scornfully. “I, alone, possess the key of these dungeons. You are their sole occupant.”

“That is false,” retorted the esquire. “There is another captive,—a miserable female,—whom I, myself, have seen.”

“Has she been here?” cried Nightgall, with a look of disquietude.

“Not many minutes since,” replied the other, fixing a scrutinizing glance upon him. “She came in search of her child. What have you done with it, villain?”

Cholmondeley had no particular object in making the inquiry. But he was astonished at the effect produced by it on the jailer, who started and endeavoured to hide his confusion by pulling his cap over his brows.

“She is a maniac,” he said, at length, in a hoarse voice.

“If it be so,” rejoined the esquire, severely; “she has been driven out of her senses by your barbarous usage. I more than suspect you have murdered her child.”

“Entertain what suspicions you please,” replied Nightgall, evidently relieved by the surmise. “I am not accountable for the ravings of a distracted woman.”

“Who is she?” demanded the esquire.

“The names of those confined within these cells are never divulged,’” returned the jailer. “She has been a prisoner of state for nineteen years.”

“And during that term her child was born—ha?” pursued Cholmondeley.

“I will answer no further questions,” replied Nightgall, doggedly. “One word before I depart. I am not your only enemy. You have others more powerful, and equally implacable. You have incurred the displeasure of the Privy Council, and I have a warrant, under the hands of its chief members, for your execution. I am now about to summon the headsman for the task.”

“Then your offer to liberate me was mere mockery,” observed the esquire.

“Not so,” replied the other; “and I again repeat it. Swear to abandon Cicely, and to maintain profound silence as to what you have just seen, and I will convey you by a secret passage underneath the Tower moat to a place of security, where you will be beyond the reach of your enemies, and will take the risk of your escape upon myself. Do you agree to this?”

“No,” replied Cholmondeley, firmly. “I distrust your statement, and defy your malice.”

“Obstinate fool!” growled the jailer. “Prepare to meet your fate in an hour.”

“Whenever it comes it will find me prepared,” rejoined the esquire.

Nightgall glared at him fiercely for a moment from beneath his shaggy brows. He then strode sullenly away. But his departure was prevented by Cicely, who suddenly appeared at the mouth of the dungeon.

“You here!” he exclaimed recoiling, and trembling as if an apparition had crossed his path. “How have you obtained admittance?”,

“It matters not,” she answered. “I am come to purchase your prisoner’s freedom.”

“You know the terms?” rejoined the jailer, eagerly.

“I do,” she replied; “and will comply with them when you have fulfilled your share of the compact.”

“Cicely!” cried Cholmondeley, who had been to the full as much astonished at her unexpected appearance as the jailer. “Cicely!” he cried, starting to his feet, and extending his hands towards her. “Do not consent to his proposal. Do not sacrifice yourself for me. I would die a thousand deaths rather than you should be his.”

“Heed him not,” interposed Nightgall, grasping her arm, and preventing her from approaching her lover; “but attend to me. You see this warrant,” he added, producing a parchment. “It is from the Council, and directs that the prisoner’s execution shall take place in such manner as may best consist with despatch and secrecy. If I deliver it to Manger, the headsman, it will be promptly obeyed. And I shall deliver it, unless you promise compliance.”

“The villain deceives you, dear Cicely,” cried Cholmondeley, in a voice of anguish. “The Council have not the power of life and death. They cannot—dare not order my execution without form or trial.”

“The Council will answer for their actions themselves,” rejoined Nightgall, carelessly. “Their warrant will bear me and my comrades harmless. Mauger will not hesitate to act upon it. What is your determination, Cicely?”

“Free him,” she replied.

“Recal your words, sweet Cicely,” cried Cholmondeley, throwing himself at her feet, “if you have any love for me. You doom me to worse than death by this submission.”

“Cholmondeley,” she replied in a mournful voice, “my resolution is taken, and even you cannot induce me to change it. The opening of our love has been blighted. My heart has been crushed, almost before it knew for whom it beat. It matters not now what becomes of me. If my life could preserve yours, or restore you to freedom, I would freely yield it. But as nothing will suffice except my hand, I give that. Think of me no more,—or think of me only as another’s.‘’’

“That thought were madness!” groaned Cholmondeley.

“Master Lawrence Nightgall,” continued Cicely, “you say you can conduct the prisoner beyond the walls of the Tower, Bring me back some token that you have done so, and I am yours.”

“Willingly,” replied the jailer.

“Retire then for a moment, while I arrange with him what the token shall be.”

Nightgall hesitated.

“Refuse, and I retract my promise,” she added.

And the jailer, with a suspicious look, reluctantly left the cell.

“Cicely, my beloved,” cried Cholmondeley, clasping her in his arms, “why—why have you done this?”

“To preserve you,” she replied, hurriedly. “Once out of this dungeon, I can bring assistance to liberate you.”

“Indeed!” ejaculated Nightgall, who, having placed his ear to the wall, lost not a syllable of their discourse.

“It will be unavailing,” replied Cholmondeley. “No one will venture to oppose an order of the Council. You must make known my case to Lord Guilford Dudley. Take this ring. Explain all to him, and I may yet be saved. Do you hear me, Cicely?”

“I do,” she replied “And I,” added Nightgall.

“In case you fail,” continued the esquire, “the token of my escape shall be”—And placing his lips close to her ear, he spoke a few words in so low a tone, that they escaped the jailer. “Till you receive that token treat Nightgall as before.”

“Doubt it not,” she answered.

“I am content,” said the esquire.

“I see through the design,” muttered the jailer, “and will defeat it. Have you done?” he added, aloud.

“A moment,” replied Cholmondeloy, again pressing the damsel to his bosom, “I would sooner part with my life’s-blood than resign you.”

“I must go,” she cried, disengaging herself from his embrace. “Now, Master Nightgall, I am ready to attend you.”

“In an hour I shall return and release you,” said the jailer, addressing the prisoner. “Your hand, Cicely.”

“I will go alone,” she replied, shrinking from him with a look of abhorrence.

“As you please,” he rejoined, with affected carelessness. “You are mine.”

“Not till I have received the token. Farewell!” she murmured, turning her tearful gaze upon Cholmondeley.

“For ever!” exclaimed the youth.

And as they quitted the cell, he threw himself despairingly on the ground.

Issuing from the outer door of the dungeon, Cicely and her companion took their way towards the Stone Kitchen. They had not proceeded far, when they perceived several persons approaching them, who, as they drew nearer, proved to be Dame Potentia, Xit, and the giants.

“What have you been doing, Cicely?” inquired her adoptive mother, angrily. “I have been searching for you everywhere!”

“You shall know anon,” replied the maiden. “But come with me to the palace. I must see Lord Guilford Dudley, or the Duke of Northumberland, without a moment’s delay.”

“Warders,” interposed Nightgall, authoritatively: “go to Master Manger’s lodging in the Bloody Tower. Bid him hasten with two assistants, and the sworn tormentor, to the dungeon beneath the Devilin Tower. He will know which I mean. Justice is about to be done upon a prisoner.”

“Oh no—no—do not go,” cried Cicely, arresting the giants. “He does not mean it. He is jesting.”

“Go home, then, and do not stir forth till I bring you the token,” rejoined Nightgall, in a deep whisper.

“In Heaven’s name, what is the meaning of all this?” cried Dame Potentia, in amazement.

“I will inform you,” replied the jailer, drawing her aside. “Your daughter was about to elope with the young esquire. I detected them trying to escape by the secret passage beneath the moat, of which you know I have the key. Lock her within her chamber. Pay no attention to her tears, entreaties, or assertions. And, above all, take care no one has any communication with her.”

“Trust me to guard her,” rejoined Dame Potentia. “I know what these court-gallants are. They will venture anything, and contrive anything, when a pretty girl is concerned. But what has happened to the esquire?”

“He is safe for the present,” answered Nightgall, significantly.

Cicely, meantime, had availed herself of their conversation, to whisper a few words to Xit.

“Take this ring,” she said, placing the ornament given her by her lover, in the hands of the dwarf, “and fly to the palace. Show it to Lord Guilford Dudley, and say that the wearer is imprisoned in the dungeons beneath the Devilin Tower. Assistance must be speedily rendered, as he is ordered for immediate and secret execution. Do you understand?”

“Most precisely, lovely damsel,” replied Xit, kissing her hand, as he took the ring; “and I guess the name and condition of the prisoner, as well as the nature of the interest you take in him.”

“Fly!” interrupted Cicely. “Not a moment is to be lost. You shall be well rewarded for your trouble.”

“I desire no higher reward than your thanks, adorable maiden,” replied Xit. “Your behests shall be punctually obeyed.” So saying, he disappeared.

“Come, young mistress,” cried Dame Potentia, seizing her adoptive daughter’s arm, “you must to your chamber. You have led me and your father, and these worthy warders, a pretty dance. But you shall lead us all where you list, if I let you out of my sight in future.”

And thanking the giants, who had looked on in speechless astonishment, she dragged Cicely along with her.

“Remember!” whispered Nightgall, as he walked a few paces by the side of the latter.

“I shall expect the token in an hour,” she answered in the same tone.

“You shall have it,” he rejoined.

With this, he halted, and retraced his steps. The others then separated. Cicely was conveyed to the Stone Kitchen; and the giants, after looking in vain for Xit, and calling to him repeatedly but without effect, returned to the By-ward Tower. Just as they reached it, a shot was fired from the battlements, and was immediately answered from those of the Middle Tower. Other reports followed. And, alarmed by the sounds, the huge brethren hastily unlocked the door of their lodging, and entering it, to their infinite dismay, found the prisoner gone.

VIII.—HOW GILBERT ESCAPED FROM THE BY-WARD TOWER, AND SWAM ACROSS THE MOAT; HOW OG HUNG XIT UPON A HOOK; AND HOW LAWRENCE NIGHTGALL BROUGHT THE TOKEN TO CICELY.

Gilbert having freed himself from his bonds, and clambered into the chimney in the By-ward Tower in the manner previously related, ascended without any inconvenience, except what was occasioned by the pungent smoke arising from the blazing fagots beneath, until he reached the level of the upper story, where another fire-place, connected with the passage up which he was mounting, so narrowed its limits, that it seemed scarcely possible to proceed further. The sound of voices in the chamber on this floor also alarmed him, and for some minutes he suspended his labour to listen. But as nothing occurred to disturb him, and it was evident, from the conversation of the speakers, that he had not been noticed, he presently resumed his task, and redoubling his efforts, soon vanquished all obstacles, and gained the opening of the chimney.

Here a fresh difficulty awaited him; and one for which he was wholly unprepared. The smoke found a vent through a small circular opening or louver, as it was termed,—for there was no chimney-top to disperse it to the air,—in the battlements. Through this opening he must necessarily creep; and, provided he could accomplish the feat, he had to elude the vigilance of the sentinels stationed on the roof of the turret. Luckily, the night was profoundly dark; and the gloom, increased by a thick mist from the river, was so intense, that an object could scarcely be discerned at a foot’s distance. Thus favoured, Gilbert resolved to hazard the attempt.

Watching his opportunity, he drew himself cautiously through the louver, and without being noticed by the sentinel, who was standing beside it, crouched beneath the carriage of a culverin. In this state, he remained for a short time, meditating what course he should next pursue, and nerving himself for some desperate attempt, when a door at the side of the southern turret suddenly opened, and three men-at-arms, the foremost of whom carried a torch, came to relieve guard.

Aware that he should now infallibly be discovered, Gilbert started to his feet, and drawing a dagger which he had picked up in the giants’ chamber, stood upon his defence. The movement betrayed him. Though confounded by his appearance, the sentinel nearest him presented his partizan at his breast and commanded him to surrender. Gilbert answered by striking up the man’s arm, and instantly sprang over the battlements.

A loud splash told that he had fallen into the moat. The men held the torch over the side of the turret. But it was too dark to distinguish any object below. Presently, however, a noise was heard in the water that convinced them the fugitive was swimming for the opposite bank. One of the soldiers instantly discharged his caliver in the direction of the sound,—but without effect.

This served as an alarm to the guards posted on the western ramparts, as well as to those on the Middle Tower, both of which commanded this part of the moat, and other shots were immediately fired. A signal was then rapidly passed from tower to tower, and from portal to portal, until it reached the Bulwark-gate, which formed the only entrance to the fortress on the west, and a body of armed men carrying lights instantly sallied forth and hurried towards the side of the moat.

Gilbert, meanwhile, swam for his life. Guided by the torches, which served to discover his enemies rather than to betray him, he effected a secure landing, But before he had climbed the steep bank, he was observed by a soldier, who, making towards him, shouted to his comrades for assistance. In the struggle that ensued, the torch borne by the soldier was extinguished, and bursting from him, Gilbert darted at a swift pace up Tower-hill. His pursuers were close upon him. But, well acquainted with the spot, he contrived to baffle them, by flinging himself beneath the permanent scaffold, then standing upon the brow of the eminence, and thus eluded observation. As soon as his foes had passed, he struck off swiftly to the left, and leaping a low wall, skirted All-hallows Church, and speedily gained Tower-street.

While Gilbert was flying in this direction, his pursuers finding themselves at fault, hastened back, and endeavoured to discover some trace of him. Some mounted the steps of the scaffold to see whether he had taken refuge on its blood-stained planks,—some crept under it,—others examined the posts of the neighbouring gallows,—while a fourth party flew to the postern gate, which defended the southern extremity of the city wall, in the hope that he might have been stopped by the watch. All, however, it is needless to say, were disappointed. And after some time had been fruitlessly expended, the whole party returned to the Tower to report the unsuccessful issue of their expedition.

Meanwhile, the report of the musquetry had reached the ears of Lord Clinton, the constable, who, attended by the lieutenant, the gentleman-porter, and a numerous patrol, chanced to be making the round of the fortifications at the time, and he descended to the gates to ascertain the cause of the alarm. On learning it, he immediately summoned the herald and the gigantic warders to his presence, and after sharply rebuking the former for neglect, ordered him into custody till the morning, when he proposed to take the duke’s pleasure as to his punishment. He then turned to the giants, who tried to soften his displeasure by taking the blame upon themselves, and telling them he would listen to their statement when the herald was examined, and, in the interim, they would be answerable with their lives for any further dereliction of duty, he dismissed the assemblage, and returned with his train to the ramparts.

Among those who had been gathered together in the guardroom near the By-ward Tower,—where the foregoing examination took place,—were Nightgall and Xit,—the latter having just returned from the palace, after a vain attempt to deliver his message to Lord Guilford Dudley, who, it has been already stated, was engaged at the time in secret conference with the Duke of Northumberland, and could not therefore be spoken with.

Ever on the alert, and suspicious of those around him, Night-gall overheard Og question the dwarf as to the cause of his absence; and perceiving, from Xit’s manner, that he had some secret to communicate, he contrived to approach them unobserved. He then learnt the message with which the dwarf had been entrusted by Cicely, and enraged at her endeavour to overreach him, snatched the ring from him as he was displaying it to the giant, and threatened him with severe punishment, if he dared to meddle further in the matter.

As soon as he had recovered from his surprise, the affronted mannikin drew his rapier, and making several passes at Nightgall, would have certainly wounded him, if he had not dextrously avoided the blows by interposing the huge bulk of the giant between him and his assailant. The fury of the dwarf was so excessive, and the contortions into which he threw himself so inconceivably diverting, that Og could render him no assistance for laughing. Thrusting his sword between the giant’s legs,—now cutting on the right, now on the left,—Xit tried in every way to hit the jailer, and must have succeeded, if Og, who was by no means desirous to have blood shed in so ridiculous a fray, and who enjoyed the pastime too much to speedily terminate it, had not prevented him.

Gog, moreover, having on the onset disarmed Nightgall, he could not protect himself except by keeping under the shelter of the giant. Foiled in his attempts, Xit’s indignation knew no bounds, and exasperated by the derisive shouts and laughter of the spectators, he threatened to turn his sword against Og if he did not deliver up the jailer to his vengeance. This only produced louder roars of merriment from the by-standers; and the dwarf, whose passion had almost deprived him of reason, uttering a shrill scream like a child robbed of its plaything, threw himself on Og’s leg, and scrambled up his body, with the intention of descending on the other side, and exterminating his foe.

This feat raised the merriment of the spectators to the utmost. Og suffered the imp to ascend without opposition, and clinging to the points of the giant’s slashed red hose, Xit drew himself up to his broad girdle, and then setting one foot on the circlet of raised gold thread which surrounded the badge on his breast, soon gained his shoulder, and would have leapt from thence upon his foe, if Og, who began to think it time to put an end to the sport, had not seized him by the leg as he was in the act of springing off, and held him at arm’s-length, with his heels upwards.

After many useless struggles to liberate himself, and menaces of what he would do when he got free, which, as may be supposed, only provoked still further the laughter of the by-standers, Xit became so unmanageable, that Og fastened him by his nether garments to a hook in the wall, about fourteen feet from the ground, and left him to recover himself.

Thus perched, the dwarf hurled his rapier at Nightgall’s head, and replied to the jeers of the assemblage by such mops and mows as an enraged ape is wont to make at its persecutors. After the lapse of a few minutes, however, he began to find his position so uncomfortable, that he was fain to supplicate for release, to which, on receiving his assurance of quieter conduct for the future, Og consented, and accordingly unhooked him, and set him on the ground.

Nightgall, meanwhile, had taken advantage of this diversion, to leave the Guard-room, and hasten to the Stone Kitchen.

Dame Potentia was just retiring to rest as the jailer reached her dwelling, and it was only by the most urgent importunity that he succeeded in obtaining admission.

“Your pardon, good dame,” he said, as the door was opened. “I have that to tell Cicely, which will effectually cure her love for the young esquire.”

“In that case, you are right welcome, Master Nightgall,” she replied; “for the poor child has almost cried her pretty eyes out since I brought her home. And I have been so moved by her tears, that I greatly misdoubt, if her lover had presented himself instead of you, whether I should have had the heart to refuse to let him see her.”

“Fool!” muttered Nightgall, half aside. “Where is she?” he added, aloud. “I have no time to lose. I have a secret execution to attend before day-break.”

“Yours is a butcherly office, Master Nightgall,” observed Peter Trusbut, who was dozing in an arm-chair by the fire. “Those secret executions, to my mind, are little better than state murders. I would not, for all the power of the Duke of Northumberland, hold your office, or that of Gilliam Mauger, the headsman.”

“Nor I yours, on the same fee, Master Pantler,” rejoined Nightgall. “Tastes differ. Where is your daughter, good dame?”

“In her chamber,” replied Potentia. “Ho! Cicely, sweetheart!” she added, knocking at a door at the end of a short passage leading out of the kitchen on the right. “Here is Master Nightgall desires to speak with you.”

“Does he bring me the token?” demanded the maiden, from within.

“Ay marry, does he, child,” replied the dame, winking at the jailer. “Heaven forgive me the falsehood,” she added,—“for I know not what she means.”

“Leave us a moment, dear mother,” said Cicely, hastily unfastening the door. “Now, Master Nightgall,” she continued, as Dame Potentia retired, and the jailer entered the room, “have you fulfilled your compact?”

“Cicely,” rejoined the jailer, regarding her sternly, “you have not kept faith with me. You have despatched a messenger to the palace.”

“Oh! he is free,” exclaimed the maiden, joyfully,—“your plans have been defeated?”

Nightgall smiled bitterly.

“My messenger cannot have failed,” she continued, with a sudden change of countenance. “I am sure Lord Guilford would not abandon his favourite esquire. Tell me, what has happened?”

“I am come to claim fulfilment of your pledge,” rejoined the jailer.

“Then you have set him free,” cried Cicely. “Where is the token?”

“Behold it,” replied Nightgall, raising his hand, on which her lover’s ring sparkled.

“Lost!—lost!” shrieked Cicely, falling senseless upon the floor.

The jailer gazed at her a moment in silence, but did not attempt to offer any assistance. He then turned upon his heel, and strode out of the room.

“Look to your daughter, dame,” he observed, as he passed through the Stone-kitchen.

IX.—OF THE MYSTERIOUS MANNER IN WHICH GUNNORA BRAOSE WAS BROUGHT TO THE TOWER.

Hurrying along Tower Street, and traversing Eastcheap and Watling Street—then narrow but picturesque thoroughfares—Gilbert,—to whom it is now necessary to return,—did not draw breath till he reached the eastern extremity of St. Paul’s. As he passed this reverend and matchless structure—the destruction of which, was the heaviest loss sustained by the metropolis in the Great Fire—he strained his eyes towards its lofty tower, but the gloom was too profound to enable him to discern anything of it beyond a dark and heavy mass.

“Thou art at present benighted, glorious fane!” he cried aloud. “But a bright dawn shall arise for thee, and all thy ancient splendour, with thy ancient faith, be restored. If I could see Mary queen, and hear mass solemnized within thy walls, I could die content.”

“And you shall hear it,” said a voice in his ear.

“Who speaks?” asked Gilbert, trembling.

“Be at St. Paul’s Cross to-morrow at midnight, and you shall know,” replied the voice. “You are a loyal subject of Queen Mary., and a true Catholic, or your words belie you?”

“I am both,” answered Gilbert.

“Fail not to meet me then,” rejoined the other, “and you shall receive assurance that your wishes shall be fulfilled. There are those at work who will speedily accomplish the object you desire.”

“I will aid them heart and hand,” cried Gilbert.

“Your name?” demanded the other.

“I am called Gilbert Pot,” answered the youth, “and am drawer to Ninion Saunders, at the Baptist’s Head, in Ludgate.”

“A vintner’s boy!” exclaimed the other, disdainfully.

“Ay, a vintner’s boy,” returned Gilbert. “But, when the usurper, Jane Dudley, was proclaimed at Cheapside this morning, mine was the only voice raised for Queen Mary.”

“For which bold deed you were nailed to the pillory,” rejoined the other.

“I was,” replied Gilbert; “and was, moreover, carried to the Tower, whence I have just escaped.”

“Your courage shall not pass unrequited,” replied the speaker. “Where are you going?”

“To my master’s, at the Baptist’s Head, at the corner of Creed Lane—not a bow-shot hence.”

“It will not be safe to go thither,” observed the other. “Your master will deliver you to the watch.”

“I will risk it, nevertheless,” answered Gilbert. “I have an old grandame whom I desire to see.”

“Something strikes me!” exclaimed the other. “Is your grandame the old woman who warned the usurper Jane not to proceed to the Tower?”

“She is,” returned Gilbert.

“This is a strange encounter, in good sooth,” cried the other. “She is the person I am in search of. You must procure me instant speech with her.”

“I will conduct you to her, right willingly, sir,” replied Gilbert. “But she says little to any one, and may refuse to answer your questions.”

“We shall see,” rejoined the other. “Lead on, good Gilbert.”

Followed by his unknown companion, about whom he felt a strange curiosity, not unalloyed with fear, Gilbert proceeded at a rapid pace towards his destination. The whole of the buildings then surrounding Saint Paul’s, it is almost unnecessary to say, were destroyed by the same fire that consumed the Cathedral; and, though the streets still retain their original names, their situation is in some respects changed.