The Tower of London: A Historical Romance, Illustrated
TextXXII. – OF JANE’S RETURN TO SION HOUSE; AND OF HER ENDEAVOURS TO DISSUADE HER HUSBAND FROM JOINING THE CONSPIRACY AGAINST QUEEN MARY
That night Lord Guilford Dudley and Jane, attended by Cholmondeley, who was included in the pardon, left the Tower, and repaired to Sion House. On finding herself once more restored to freedom, and an inmate of the house she loved so well, Jane was completely prostrated. Joy was more difficult to bear than affliction; and the firmness that had sustained her throughout her severest trials now altogether forsook her. But a few days brought back her calmness, and she poured forth her heartfelt thanks to that beneficent Being, who had restored her to so much felicity. Measureless content seemed hers, and as she traversed the long galleries and halls of the ancient mansion – as she wandered through its garden walks, – or by the river’s side – she felt that even in her proudest moment she had never known a tithe of the happiness she now experienced.
Day after day flew rapidly by, and pursuing nearly the same course she had adopted in prison, she never allowed an hour to pass that was not profitably employed. But she observed with concern that her husband did not share her happiness. He grew moody and discontented, and became far more reserved than she had heretofore known him. Shunning her society, he secluded himself in his chamber, to which he admitted no one but Cholmondeley.
This conduct Jane attributed in some degree to the effect produced upon his spirits by the reverse of fortune he had sustained, and by his long imprisonment. But she could not help fearing, though he did not confide the secrets of his bosom to her, that he still cherished the project he had darkly hinted at. She was confirmed in this opinion by the frequent visits of her father, who like her husband, had an anxious look, and by other guests who arrived at nightfall, and departed as secretly as they came.
As soon as this conviction seized her, she determined, at the hazard of incurring his displeasure, to speak to her husband on the subject; and accordingly, one day, when he entered her room with a moodier brow than usual, she remarked, “I have observed with much uneasiness, dear Dudley, that ever since our release from imprisonment, a gradually-increasing gloom has taken possession of you. You shun my regards, and avoid my society, – nay, you do not even converse with me, unless I wring a few reluctant answers from you. To what must I attribute this change?”
“To anything but want of affection for you, dear Jane,” replied Dudley, with a melancholy smile, while he fondly pressed her hand. “You had once secrets from me, it is my turn to retaliate, and be mysterious towards you.”
“You will not suppose me influenced by idle curiosity if I entreat to be admitted to your confidence, my dear lord,” replied Jane. “Seeing you thus oppressed with care, and knowing how much relief is afforded by sharing the burthen with another, I urge you, for your own sake, to impart the cause of your anxiety to me. If I cannot give you counsel, I can sympathy.”
Dudley shook his head, and made a slight effort to change the conversation.
“I will not be turned from my purpose,” persisted Jane; “I am the truest friend you have on earth, and deserve to be trusted.”
“I would trust you, Jane, if I dared,” replied Dudley.
“Dared!” she echoed. “What is there that a husband dares not confide to his wife?”
“In this instance much,” answered Dudley; “nor can I tell you what occasions the gloom you have noticed, until I have your plighted word that you will not reveal aught I may say to you. And further, that you will act according to my wishes.”
“Dudley,” returned Jane gravely, “your demand convinces me that my suspicions are correct. What need of binding me to secrecy, and exacting my obedience, unless you are acting wrongfully, and desire me to do so likewise? Shall I tell why you fear I should divulge your secret – why you are apprehensive I should hesitate to obey your commands? You are plotting against the queen, and dread I should interfere with you.”
“I have no such fears,” replied Dudley, sternly.
“Then you own that I am right?” cried Jane, anxiously.
“You are so far right,” replied Dudley, “that I am resolved to depose Mary, and restore you to the throne, of which she has unjustly deprived you.”
“Not unjustly, Dudley, for she is the rightful queen, and I was an usurper,” replied Jane. “But oh! my dear, dear lord, can you have the ingratitude – for I will use no harsher term, to requite her clemency thus?”
“I owe her no thanks,” replied Dudley, fiercely. “I have solicited no grace from her, and if she has pardoned me, it was of her own free will. It is part of her present policy to affect the merciful. But she showed no mercy towards my father.”
“And does not your present conduct, dear Dudley, prove how necessary it is for princes, who would preserve their government undisturbed, to shut their hearts to compassion?” returned Jane. “You will fail in this enterprise if you proceed in it. And even I, who love you most, and am most earnest for your happiness and honour, do not desire it to succeed. It is based upon injustice, and will have no support from the right-minded.”
“Tush!” cried Dudley, impatiently. “I well knew you would oppose my project, and therefore I would not reveal it to you. You shall be queen in spite of yourself.”
“Never again,” rejoined Jane, mournfully; – “never again shall my brow be pressed by that fatal circlet. Oh! if it is for me you are about to engage in this wild and desperate scheme, learn that even if it succeeded, it will be futile. Nothing should ever induce me to mount the throne again; nor, if I am permitted to occupy it, to quit this calm retreat. Be persuaded by me, dear Dudley. Abandon your project. If you persist in it, I shall scarcely feel justified in withholding it from the queen.”
“How, madam,” exclaimed Dudley, sternly; “would you destroy your husband?”
“I would save him,” replied Jane.
“A plague upon your zeal!” cried Dudley, fiercely. “If I thought you capable of such treachery, I would ensure your silence.”
“And if I thought you capable, dear Dudley, of such black treason to a sovereign to whom you owe not merely loyalty and devotion, but life itself, no consideration of affection, still less intimidation, should prevent me from disclosing it, so that I might spare you the commission of so foul a crime.”
“Do so, then,” replied Dudley, in a taunting tone. “Seek Mary’s presence. Tell her that your husband and his brothers are engaged in a plot to place you on the throne. Tell her that your two uncles, the Lords John and Thomas Grey, are conspiring with them – that your father, the Duke of Suffolk, is the promoter, the leader, of the design.”
“My father!” exclaimed Jane, with a look of inexpressible anguish.
“Add that the Earl of Devon, Sir Thomas Wyat, Throckmorton, Sir Peter Carew, and a hundred others, are leagued together to prevent the spread of popery in this country – to cast off the Spanish yoke, with which the people are threatened, and to place a Protestant monarch on the throne. Tell her this, and bring your husband – your father – your whole race – to the block. Tell her this, and you, the pretended champion of the gospel, will prove yourself its worst foe. Tell her this – enable her to crush the rising rebellion, and England is delivered to the domination of Spain – to the inquisition – to the rule of the pope – to idolatrous oppression. Now, go and tell her this.”
“Dudley, Dudley,” exclaimed Jane, in a troubled tone, “you put evil thoughts into my head – you tempt me sorely.”
“I tempt you only to stand between your religion and the danger with which it is menaced,” returned her husband. “Since the meeting of parliament, Mary’s designs are no longer doubtful; and her meditated union with Philip of Spain has stricken terror into the hearts of all good Protestants. A bloody and terrible season for our church is at hand, if it be not averted. And it can only be averted by the removal of the bigoted queen who now fills the throne.”
“There is much truth in what you say, Dudley,” replied Jane, bursting into tears. “Christ’s faithful flock are indeed in fearful peril; but bloodshed and rebellion will not set them right. Mary is our liege mistress, and if we rise against her we commit a grievous sin against heaven, and a crime against the state.”
“Crime or not,” replied Dudley, “the English nation will never endure a Spanish yoke nor submit to the supremacy of the see of Rome. Jane, I now tell you that this plot may be revealed – may be defeated; but another will be instantly hatched, for the minds of all true Englishmen are discontented, and Mary will never maintain her sovereignty while she professes this hateful faith, and holds to her resolution of wedding a foreign prince.”
“If this be so, still I have no title to the throne,” rejoined Jane. “The Princess Elizabeth is next in succession, and a Protestant.”
“I need scarcely remind you,” replied Dudley, “that the act just passed, annulling the divorce of Henry the Eighth from Catherine of Arragon, has annihilated Elizabeth’s claims, by rendering her illegitimate. Besides, she has, of late, shown a disposition to embrace her sister’s creed.”
“It may be so given out – nay, she may encourage the notion herself,” replied Jane; “but I know Elizabeth too well to believe for a moment she could abandon her faith.”
“It is enough for me she has feigned to do so,” replied Dudley, “and by this means alienated her party. On you, Jane, the people’s hopes are fixed. Do not disappoint them.”
“Cease to importune me further, my dear lord. I cannot govern myself – still less, a great nation.”
“You shall occupy the throne, and entrust the reins of government to me,” observed Dudley.
“There your ambitious designs peep forth, my lord,” rejoined Jane. “It is for yourself, not for me you are plotting. You would be king!”
“I would,” returned Dudley. “There is no need to mask my wishes now.”
“Sooner than this shall be,” rejoined Jane, severely, “I will hasten to Whitehall, and warn Mary of her danger.”
“Do so,” replied Dudley, “and take your last farewell of me. You are aware of the nature of the plot – of the names and object of those concerned in it. Reveal all – make your own terms with the queen. But think not you can check it. We have gone too far to retreat. When the royal guards come hither to convey me to the Tower, they will not find their prey, but they will soon hear of me. You will precipitate measures, but you will not prevent them. Go, madam.”
“Dudley,” replied Jane, falling at his feet – “by your love or me – by your allegiance to your sovereign – by your duty to your Maker – by every consideration that weighs with you – I implore you to relinquish your design.”
“I have already told you my fixed determination, madam,” he returned, repulsing her. “Act as you think proper.”
Jane arose and walked slowly towards the door. Dudley laid his hand upon his sword, half drew it, and then thrusting it back into the scabbard, muttered between his ground teeth, “No, no – let her go. She dares not betray me.”
As Jane reached the door, her strength failed her, and she caught against the hangings for support. “Dudley,” she murmured, “help me – I faint.”
In an instant, he was by her side.
“You cannot betray your husband he said, catching her in his arms.
“I cannot – I cannot,” she murmured, as her head fell upon his bosom.
Jane kept her husband’s secret. But her own peace of mind was utterly gone. Her walks – her studies – her occupations had no longer any charms for her. Even devotion had lost its solace. She could no longer examine her breast as heretofore – no longer believe herself reproachless! She felt she was an accessary to the great crime about to be committed; and with a sad presentiment of the result, she became a prey to grief, – almost to despair.
XXIII. – HOW XIT WAS IMPRISONED IN THE CONSTABLE TOWER; AND HOW HE WAS WEDDED TO THE “SCAVENGER’S DAUGHTER.”
Persuading himself that his capture was matter of jest, Xit kept up his braggadocio air and gait, until he found himself within a few paces of the Constable Tower, – a fortification situated on the east of the White Tower, and resembling in its style of architecture, though somewhat smaller in size, the corresponding structure on the west, the Beauchamp Tower. As Nightgall pointed to this building, and told him with a malicious grin that it was destined to be his lodging, the dwarf’s countenance fell. All his heroism forsook him; and casting a half-angry, half-fearful look at his guards, who were laughing loudly at his terrors, he darted suddenly backwards, and made towards a door in the north-east turret of the White Tower.
Nightgall and the guards, not contemplating any such attempt, were taken completely by surprise, but immediately started after him. Darting between the legs of the sentinel stationed at the entrance of the turret, who laughingly presented his partizan at him, Xit hurried up the circular staircase leading to the roof. His pursuers were quickly after him, shouting to him to stop, and threatening to punish him severely when they caught him. But the louder they shouted, the swifter the dwarf fled; and, being endowed with extraordinary agility, arrived, in a few seconds, at the doorway leading to the roof. Here half-a-dozen soldiers, summoned by the cries, were assembled to stop the fugitive. On seeing Xit, with whose person they were well acquainted – never supposing he could be the runaway, – they inquired what was the matter.
“The prisoner! the prisoner!” shouted Xit, instantly perceiving their mistake, and pushing through them, “Where is he? What have you done with him?”
“No one has passed us,” replied the soldiers. “Who is it?”
“Lawrence Nightgall,” replied Xit, keeping as clear of them as he could. “He has been arrested by an order from the privy-council, and has escaped.”
At this moment, Nightgall made his appearance, and was instantly seized by the soldiers. An explanation quickly ensued, but, in the meantime, Xit had flown across the roof, and reaching the opposite turret at the south-east angle, sprang upon the platform, and clambering up the side of the building at the hazard of his neck, contrived to squeeze himself through a loophole.
“We have him safe enough,” cried one of the soldiers, as he witnessed Xit’s manoeuvre. “Here is the key of the door opening into that turret, and he cannot get below.”
So saying, he unlocked the door and admitted the whole party into a small square chamber, in one corner of which was the arched entrance to a flight of stone steps. Up these they mounted, and as they gained the room above, they perceived the agile mannikin creeping through the embrazure.
“Have a care!” roared Nightgall, who beheld this proceeding with astonishment; “You will fall into the court below and be dashed to pieces.”
Xit replied by a loud laugh, and disappeared. When Nightgall gained the outlet, he could see nothing of him, and after calling to him for some time and receiving no answer, the party adjourned to the leads, where they found he had gained the cupola of the turret, and having clambered up the vane, had seated himself in the crown by which it was surmounted. In this elevated, and as he fancied, secure position, he derided his pursuers, and snapping off a piece of the iron-work, threw it at Nightgall, and with so good an aim that it struck him in the face.
A council of war was now held, and it was resolved to summon the fugitive to surrender; when, if he refused to comply, means must be taken to dislodge him. Meanwhile, the object of this consultation had been discovered from below. His screams and antics had attracted the attention of a large crowd, among whom were his friends the giants. Alarmed at his arrest, they had followed to see what became of him, and were passing the foot of the turret at the very moment when he had reached its summit. Xit immediately recognized them, and hailed them at the top of his voice. At first, they were unable to make out whence the noise proceeded; but at length, Gog chancing to look up, perceived the dwarf, and pointed him out to his companions.
Xit endeavoured to explain his situation, and to induce the giants to rescue him; but they could not hear what he said, and only laughed at his gestures and vociferations. Nightgall now called to him in a peremptory tone to come down. Xit refused, and pointing to the crown in which he was seated, screamed, “I have won it, and am determined not to resign it. I am now in the loftiest position in the Tower. Let him bring me down who can.”
“I will be no longer trifled with,” roared Nightgall. “Lend me your arquebuss, Winwike. If there is no other way of dislodging that mischievous imp, I will shoot him as I would a jackdaw.”
Seeing he was in earnest, Xit thought fit to capitulate. A rope was thrown him which he fastened to the vane, and after bowing to the assemblage, waving his cap to the giants, and performing a few other antics, he slided down to the leads in safety. He was then seized by Nightgall, and though he promised, to march as before between his guards, and make no further attempt to escape, he was carried, much to his discomfiture, – for even in his worst scrapes he had an eye to effect, – to the Constable Tower, and locked up in the lower chamber.
“So, it has come to this,” he cried, as the door was barred outside by Nightgall. “I am now a state prisoner in the Tower. Well, I only share the fate of all court favourites and great men – of the Dudleys, the Rochfords, the Howards, the Nevills, the Courtenays, and many others whose names do not occur to me. I ought rather to rejoice than be cast down that I am thus distinguished. But what will be the result of it? Perhaps, I shall be condemned to the block. If I am, what matter? I always understood from Mauger that decapitation was an easy death – and then what a crowd there will be to witness my execution – Xit’s execution – the execution of the famous dwarf of the Tower! The Duke of Northumberland’s will be nothing to it. With what an air I shall ascend the steps – how I shall bow to the assemblage – how I shall raise up Mauger when he bends his lame leg to ask my forgiveness – how I shall pray with the priest – address the assemblage – take off my ruff and doublet, and adjust my head on the block! One blow and all is over. One blow – sometimes, it takes two or three – but Mauger understands his business, and my neck will be easily divided. That’s one advantage, among others, of being a dwarf. But to return to my execution. It will be a glorious death, and one worthy of me. I have half a mind to con over what I shall say to the assembled multitude. Let me see. Hold! it occurs to me that I shall not be seen for the railing. I must beg Mauger to allow me to stand on the block. I make no doubt he will indulge me – if not, I will not forgive him. I have witnessed several executions, but I never yet beheld what I should call a really good death. I must try to realize my own notions. But I am getting on a little too fast. I am neither examined, nor sentenced yet. Examined! that reminds me of the rack. I hope they won’t torture me. To be beheaded is one thing – to be tortured another. I could bear anything in public, where there are so many people to look at me, and applaud me – but in private it is quite another affair. The very sight of the rack would throw me into fits. And then suppose I should be sentenced to be burnt like Edward Underhill – no, I won’t suppose that for a moment. It makes me quite hot to think of it. Fool that I was, to be seduced by the hope of rank and dignity held out to me by the French ambassador, to embark in plots which place me in such jeopardy as this! However, I will reveal nothing. I will be true to my employer.”
Communing thus with himself, Xit paced to and fro within his prison, which was a tolerably spacious apartment, semi-circular in form, and having deep recesses in the walls, which were of great thickness.
As he glanced around, an Idea occurred to him. “Every prisoner of consequence confined within the Tower carves his name on the walls,” he said. “I must carve mine, to serve as a memorial of my imprisonment.”
The only implement left him was his dagger, and using it instead of a chisel, he carved, in a few hours, the following inscription in characters nearly as large as himself: —
X I T.
1553.
By the time he had finished his work, he was reminded by a clamorous monitor within him, that he had had no supper, and he recalled with agonizing distinctness the many glorious meals he had consumed with his friends the giants. He had not even the common prisoners fare, a loaf and a cup of water, to cheer him.
“Surely they cannot intend to starve me,” he thought. “I will knock at the door and try whether any one is without.” But though he thumped with all his might against it, no answer was returned. Indignant at this treatment, he began to rail against the giants, as if they had been the cause of his misfortunes.
“Why do they not come to deliver me?” he cried, in a peevish voice. “The least they could do would be to bring me some provisions. But, I warrant me, they have forgotten their poor famishing dwarf, while they are satisfying their own inordinate appetites. What would I give for a slice of Hairun’s wild boar now! The bare idea of it makes my mouth water. But the recollection of a feast is a poor stay for a hungry stomach. Cruel Og! barbarous Gog! inhuman Magog! where are ye now? Insensible that ye are to the situation of your friend, who would have been the first to look after you had ye been similarly circumstanced! Where are ye, I say – supping with Peter Trusbut, or Ribald, or at our lodging in the By-ward Tower? Wherever ye are, I make no doubt you have plenty to eat, whereas I, your best friend, who would have been your patron, if I had been raised to the dignity promised by De Noailles – am all but starving. It cannot be – hilloah! hilloah! help!” And he kicked against the door as if his puny efforts would burst it open. “The queen cannot be aware of my situation. She shall hear of it – but how?”
Perplexing himself how to accomplish this, he flung himself on a straw mattress in one corner, which, together with a bench and a small table constituted the sole furniture of the room, and in a short time fell asleep. He was disturbed by the loud jarring of a door, and, starting to his feet, perceived that two men had entered the room, one of whom bore a lantern, which he hold towards him. In this person Xit at once recognised Nightgall; and in the other, as he drew nearer, Wolfytt the sworn tormentor. The grim looks of the latter so terrified Xit, that he fell back on the mattress in an ecstacy of apprehension. His fright seemed to afford great amusement to the cause of it, for he burst into a coarse loud laugh that made the roof ring again. His merriment rather restored the dwarf, who ventured to inquire, in a piteous accent, whether they had brought him any supper.
“Ay, ay!” rejoined Wolfytt, with a grin. “Follow us, and you shall have a meal that shall serve you for some days to come.”
“Readily,” replied Xit. “I am excessively hungry, and began to think I was quite forgotten.”
“We have been employed in making all ready for you,” rejoined Wolfytt. “We were taken a little by surprise. It is not often we have such a prisoner as you.”
“I should think not,” returned Xit, whose vanity was tickled by the remark. “I was determined to let posterity know that one dwarf had been confined within the Tower. Bring your lantern this way, Master Nightgall, and you will perceive I have already carved my name on the wall.”
“So I see,” growled Nightgall, holding the light to the inscription. “Bring him along, Wolfytt.”
“He will not need, sir,” returned Xit, with dignity. “I am ready to attend you.”
“Good!” exclaimed Wolfytt. “Supper awaits us, he! he!” They then passed through the door, Xit strutting between the pair. Descending a short flight of stone steps, they came to another strong door, which Nightgall opened. It admitted them to a dark narrow passage, which, so far as it could be discerned, was of considerable extent. After pursuing a direct course for some time, they came to an opening on the left, into which they struck. This latter passage was so narrow that they were obliged to walk singly. The roof was crusted with nitrous drops, and the floor was slippery with moisture.
“We are going into the worst part of the Tower,” observed Xit, who began to feel his terrors revive. “I have been here once before. I recollect it leads to the Torture Chamber, the Little-Ease, and the Pit. I hope you are not taking me to one of those horrible places?”
“Poh! poh!” rejoined Wolfytt, gruffly. “You are going to Master Nightgall’s bower.”
“His bower!” exclaimed Xit, surprised by the term – “what! where he keeps Cicely?”
At the mention of this name, Nightgall, who had hitherto maintained a profound silence, uttered an exclamation of anger, and regarded the dwarf with a withering look.
“I can keep a secret if need be,” continued Xit, in a deprecatory tone, alarmed at his own indiscretion. “Neither Cuthbert Cholmondeley, nor Dame Potentia, nor any one else, shall hear of her from me, if you desire it, good Master Nightgall.”
“Peace!” thundered the jailor.
“You will get an extra turn of the rack for your folly, you crack-brained jackanapes,” laughed Wolfytt.
Luckily the remark did not reach Xit’s ears. He was too much frightened by Nightgall’s savage look to attend to anything else.
They had now reached a third door, which Nightgall unlocked and fastened as soon as the others had passed through it. The passage they entered was even darker and damper than the one they had quitted. It contained a number of cells, some of which, as was evident from the groans that issued from them, were tenanted.
“Is Alexia here?” inquired Xit, whose blood froze in his veins as he listened to the dreadful sounds.
“Alexia!” vociferated Nightgall, in a terrible voice. “What do you know of her?”
“Oh, nothing, nothing,” replied Xit. “But I have heard Cuthbert Cholmondeley speak of her.”
“She is dead,” replied Nightgall, in a sombre voice; “and I will bury you in the same grave with her, if her name ever passes your lips again.”
“It shall not, worthy sir,” returned Xit, – “it shall not. Curse on my unlucky tongue, which is for ever betraying me into danger!”
They had now arrived at an arched doorway in the wall, which being opened by Nightgall, discovered a flight of steps leading to some chamber beneath. Nightgall descended, but Xit refused to follow him.
“I know where you are taking me,” he cried. “This is the way to the torture-chamber.”
Wolfytt burst into a loud laugh, and pushed him forward.
“I won’t go,” screamed Xit, struggling with all his force against the tormentor. “You have no authority to treat me thus. Help! kind Og! good Gog! dear Magog! – help! or I shall be lamed for life. I shall never more be able to amuse you with my gambols, or the tricks that so much divert you. Help! help! I say.”
“Your cries are in vain,” cried Wolfytt, kicking him down the steps; “no one can save you now.”
Precipitated violently downwards, Xit came in contact with Nightgall, whom he upset, and they both rolled into the chamber beneath, where the latter arose, and would have resented the affront upon his comrade, or, at all events, upon the dwarf, if he had not been in the presence of one of whom he stood in the greatest awe. This was Simon Renard, who was writing at a table. Disturbed by the noise, the ambassador glanced round, and on perceiving the cause immediately resumed his occupation. Near him stood the thin erect figure of Sorrocold, – his attenuated limbs appearing yet more meagre from the tight-fitting black hose in which they were enveloped, The chirurgcon wore a short cloak of sad-coloured cloth, and a doublet of the same material. His head was covered by a flat black cap, and a pointed beard terminated his hatchet-shaped, cadaverous face. His hands rested on a long staff, and his dull heavy eyes were fixed upon the ground.
At a short distance from Sorrocold, stood Mauger, bare-headed, and stripped to his leathern doublet, his arms folded upon his bosom, and his gaze bent upon Renard, whose commands he awaited. Nightgall’s accident called a smile to his grim countenance, but it instantly faded away, and gave place to his habitual sinister expression.
Such were the formidable personages in whoso presence Xit found himself. Nor was the chamber less calculated to strike terror into his breast than its inmates. It was not the torture-room visited by Cholmondeley, when he explored the subterranean passages of the fortress, but another and larger chamber contiguous to the former, yet separated from it by a wall of such thickness that no sound could penetrate through it. It was square-shaped, with a deep round-arched recess on the right of the entrance, at the further end of which was a small cell, surmounted with a pointed arch. On the side where Renard sat, the wall was decorated with thumb-screws, gauntlets, bracelets, collars, pincers, saws, chains and other nameless implements of torture. To the ceiling was affixed a stout pulley with a rope, terminated by an iron hook, and two leathern shoulder-straps. Opposite the door-way stood a brasier, filled with blazing coals, in which a huge pair of pincers were thrust; and beyond it was the wooden frame of the rack, already described, with its ropes and levers in readiness. Reared against the side of the deep dark recess, previously mentioned, was a ponderous wheel, as broad in the felly as that of a waggon, and twice the circumference. This antiquated instrument of torture was placed there to strike terror into the breasts of those who beheld it – but it was rarely used. Next to it was a heavy bar of iron employed to break the limbs of the sufferers tied to its spokes.