The Tower of London: A Historical Romance, Illustrated

XXXV. – HOW XIT DISCOVERED THE SECRET OF HIS BIRTH; AND HOW HE WAS KNIGHTED UNDER THE TITLE OF SIR NARCISSUS LE GRAND

Life is full of the saddest and the strongest contrasts. The laugh of derision succeeds the groan of despair – the revel follows the funeral – the moment that ushers the new-born babe into existence, is the last, perchance, of its parent – without the prison walls, all is sunshine and happiness – within, gloom and despair. But throughout the great city which it commanded, search where you might, no stronger contrasts of rejoicing and despair could be found, than were now to be met with in the Tower of London. While, on the one hand, every dungeon was crowded, and scarcely an hour passed that some miserable sufferer did not expire under the hand of the secret tormentor, or the public executioner; on the other, there was mirth, revelry, and all the customary celebrations of victory. As upon Mary’s former triumph over her enemies, a vast fire was lighted in the centre of the Tower Green, and four oxen, roasted whole at it, were distributed, together with a proportionate supply of bread, and a measure of ale or mead, in rations, to every soldier in the fortress; and as may be supposed, the utmost joviality prevailed. To each warder was allotted an angel of gold, and a dish from the royal table; while to the three giants were given the residue of a grand banquet, a butt of Gascoign wine, and, in consideration of their valiant conduct during the siege, their yearly fee, by the queen’s command, was trebled. On the night of these festivities, a magnificent display of fireworks took place on the Green, and an extraordinary illumination was effected by means of a row of barrels filled with pitch, ranged along the battlements of the White Tower, which being suddenly lighted, cast forth a glare that illumined the whole fortress, and was seen at upwards of twenty miles’ distance.

Not unmindful of the queen’s promise, Xit, though unable to find a favourable opportunity of claiming it, did not fail to assume all the consequence of his anticipated honours. He treated those with whom he associated with the utmost haughtiness; and though his arrogant demeanour only excited the merriment of the giants, it drew many a sharp retort, and not a few blows, from such as were not disposed to put up with his insolence. The subject that perpetually occupied his thoughts, was the title he ought to assume; – for he was thoroughly dissatisfied with his present appellation. “Base and contemptible name!” he exclaimed. “How I loathe it! – and how did I acquire it? It was bestowed upon me, I suppose, in my infancy, by Og, to whose care I was committed. A mystery hangs over my birth. I must unravel it. Let me see: – Two-and-twenty years ago, (come Martinmas,) I was deposited at the door of the Byward Tower in a piece of blanket! – unworthy swaddling-cloth for so illustrious an infant – a circumstance which fully proves that my noble parents were anxious for concealment. Stay! I have heard of changelings – of elfin children left by fairies in the room of those they steal. Can I be such a one? A shudder crosses my frame at the bare idea. And yet my activity, my daring, my high mental qualities, my unequalled symmetry of person, small though it be – all these seem to warrant the supposition. Yes! I am a changeling. I am a fairy child. Yet hold! this will not do. Though I may entertain these notions in secret of my alliance with the invisible world, they will not be accepted by the incredulous multitude. I must have some father, probable, or improbable. Who could he have been? Or who might he have been? Let me see. Sir Thomas More was imprisoned in the Tower about the time of my birth. Could I not be his son? It is more than probable. So was the Bishop of Rochester. But to claim descent from him would bring scandal, upon the church. Besides, he was a Catholic prelate. No, it must be Sir Thomas More. That will account for my wit. Then about the same time there were the Lord Darcy; and Robert Salisbury, Abbot of Vale Crucis; the Prior of Doncaster; Sir Thomas Percy; Sir Francis Bygate; and Sir John Bulmer. All these were prisoners, so that I have plenty to choose from. I will go and consult Og. I wonder whether he has kept the piece of blanket in which I was wrapped. It will be a gross omission if he has not.”

The foregoing soliloquy occurred in one of the galleries of the palace, where the vain-glorious mannikin was lingering in the hope of being admitted to the royal presence. No sooner did the idea of consulting Og on the subject of his birth occur to him, than he set off to the By-ward Tower, where he found the two unmarried giants employed upon a huge smoking dish of baked meat, and, notwithstanding his importunity, neither of them appeared willing to attend to him. Thus baffled, and his appetite sharpened by the savoury odour of the viands, Xit seized a knife and fork, and began to ply them with great zeal. The meal over, and two ponderous jugs that flanked the board emptied of their contents, Og leaned his huge frame against the wall, and in a drowsy tone informed the dwarf that he was ready to listen to him.

“No sleeping, then, my master,” cried Xit, springing upon his knee, and tweaking his nose. “I have a matter of the utmost importance to consult you about. You must be wide awake.”

“What is it? replied the good-humoured giant, yawning as if he would have swallowed the teazing mannikin.

“It relates to my origin,” replied Xit. “Am I the son of a nobleman?”

“I should rather say you were the offspring of some ape escaped from the menagerie,” answered Og, bursting into a roar of laughter, in which he was joined by Gog, much to the discomfiture of the cause of their merriment. “You have all the tricks-of the species.”

“Dare to repeat that insinuation, base Titan,” cried Xit, furiously, and drawing his sword, “and I will be thy death. I am as illustriously descended as thyself, and on both sides too, whereas thy mother was a frowzy fish-wife. Know that I am the son of Sir Thomas More.”

“Sir Thomas More!” echoed both giants, laughing more immoderately than ever. “What has put that notion into thy addle pate?”

“My better genius,” replied Xit, “and unless you can show me who was my father, I shall claim descent from him.”

“You will only expose yourself to ridicule,” returned Og, patting the mannikin’s shock head – a familiarity which he resented, – “and though I and my brethren laugh at you, and make a jest of you, we do not desire others to do so.”

“Once graced by knighthood, no man, be he of my stature or of yours, my overgrown master, shall make a jest of me with impunity,” replied Xit, proudly. “But since you think I am not the son of Sir Thomas More, from whom can I safely claim descent?”

“I would willingly assist you to a father,” replied Og, smothering a laugh, “but on my faith, I can think of none more probable than Hairun’s pet monkey, or perhaps old Max.”

“Anger me not,” shrieked Xit, in extremity of fury, “or you will rue it. What has become of the blanket in which I was wrapped?”

“The blanket!” exclaimed Og, “why, it was a strip scarcely bigger than my hand.”

“Is it lost?” demanded Xit, eagerly.

“I fear so,” replied Og. “Stay! now I recollect, I patched an old pair of hose with it.”

“Patched a pair of hose with it!” cried Xit. “You deserve to go in tatters during the rest of your days. You have destroyed the sole clue to my origin.”

“Nay, if that blanket will guide you, I have taken the best means of preserving it,” rejoined Og; – “for I think I have the hose still.”

“Where are they?” inquired Xit. “Let me see them instantly.”

“If they still exist, they are in a large chest in the upper chamber,” replied Og. “But be not too much elated, for I fear we shall be disappointed.”

“At all events, let us search without a moment’s delay,” rejoined Xit, jumping down, and hurrying up the staircase.

He was followed somewhat more leisurely by the two giants, and the trunk was found crammed under a heap of lumber into an embrasure. The key was lost, but as Xit’s impatience would not allow him to wait to have it unfastened by a smith, Og forced it open with the head of a halbert. It contained a number of old buskins, cloaks of all hues and fashions, doublets, pantoufles, caps, buff-boots and hose. Of the latter there were several pair, and though many were threadbare enough, it did not appear that any were patched.

Xit, who had plunged into the trunk to examine each article, was greatly disappointed.

“I fear they are lost,” observed Og.

“It would seem so,” replied Xit, “for there are only a doublet and cloak left. Oh! that a worshipful knight’s history should hang on so slight a tenure!”

“Many a knight’s history has hung on less,” replied Gog. “But what have we rolled up in that corner?”

“As I live, a pair of watchet-coloured hose,” cried Xit.

“The very pair we are in quest of,” rejoined Og. “Unfold them, and you will find the piece of blanket in the seat.”

Xit obeyed, and mounting on the side of the box held out the huge garments, and there, undoubtedly in the region intimated by Og, was a piece of dirty flannel.

“And this, then, was my earliest covering,” apostrophised Xit. “In this fragment of woollen cloth my tender limbs were swathed!”

“Truly were they,” replied Og, laughing. “And when I first beheld thee it was ample covering. But what light does it throw upon thy origin?”

“That remains to be seen,” returned Xit. And unsheathing his dagger he began to unrip the piece of flannel from the garment in which it was stitched.

The two giants watched his proceedings in silence, and glanced significantly at each other. At length, Xit tore it away.

“It is a labour in vain,” observed Og.

“Not so,” replied Xit. “See you not that this corner is doubled over. There is a name worked within it.”

“The imp is right,” cried Og. “How came I to overlook it.” And he would have snatched the flannel from Xit, but the dwarf darted away, crying, “No one shall have a hand in the discovery but myself. Stand off!”

Trembling with eagerness, he then cut open the corner, and found, worked withinside, the words: NARCISSUS LE GRAND.

“Narcissus Le Grand!” exclaimed Xit, triumphantly. “That was my father’s title. He must have been a nobleman.”

“If that was your father’s name,” returned Gog, “and I begin to think you have stumbled upon the right person at last, he was a Frenchman, and groom of the pantry to Queen Anne Boleyn.”

“He was a dwarf like yourself,” added Og, “and though the ugliest being I ever beheld, had extraordinary personal vanity.”

“In which respect he mightily resembled his son,” laughed Gog; “and since we have found out the father, I think I can give a shrewd guess at the mother.”

“I hope she was a person of distinction?” cried Xit, whose countenance had fallen at the knowledge he had acquired of his paternity.

“She was a scullion,” replied Gog, – “by name Mab Leather-barrow.”

“A scullion!” ejaculated Xit, indignantly. “I, the son of a scullion, – and of one so basely-named as Leatherbarrow – impossible!”

“I am as sure of it as of my existence,” replied Og. “Your mother was not a jot taller, or more well-favoured than your father; and they both, I now remember, disappeared about the time you were found.”

“Which name will you adopt – Le Grand, or Leatherbarrow?” demanded Gog, maliciously.

“This is an unlucky discovery,” thought Xit. “I had better have left my parentage alone. The son of a groom of the pantry and a scullion. What a degrading conjunction! However, I will make the most of it, and not let them have the laugh against me. I shall assume my father’s name,” he added aloud – “Sir Narcissus Le Grand – and a good, well-sounding title it is, as need be desired.”

“It is to be hoped all will have forgotten the former bearer of it,” laughed Og.

“I care not who remembers it,” replied Xit; “the name bespeaks noble descent. Call me in future Narcissus Le Grand. The title fits me exactly, – Narcissus expressing my personal accomplishments – Le Grand my majesty. For the present, you may put ‘master’ to my name. You will shortly have to use a more honourable style of address. Farewell, sirs.”

And thrusting the piece of flannel into his doublet, he strutted to the door.

“Farewell, sweet Master Narcissus,” cried Og.

“Farewell, Leatherbarrow,” added Gog.

“Le Grand,” corrected Xit, halting, with a dignified air; “Le Grand, henceforth, is my name.” And he marched off with his head so erect that, unfortunately missing his footing, he tumbled down the staircase. Picking himself up before the giants, whose laughter enraged him, could reach him, he darted off, and did not return till a late hour, when they had retired to rest.

Two days after this discovery, – the queen being then at the Tower, – as he was pacing the grand gallery of the palace, according to custom, an usher tapped him on the shoulder, and desired him to follow him. With a throbbing heart Xit obeyed, and, putting all the dignity he could command into his deportment, entered the presence-chamber. On that very morning, as good luck would have it, his tailor had brought him his new habiliments; and arrayed in a purple velvet mantle lined with carnation-coloured silk, a crimson doublet slashed with white, orange-tawny hose, yellow buskins fringed with gold, and a green velvet cap, decorated with a plume of ostrich feathers, and looped with a diamond aigrette, he cut, in his own opinion, no despicable figure.

If the dwarf had entertained any doubts as to why he was summoned they would have been dispersed at once, as he advanced, by observing that the three giants stood at a little distance from the queen, and that she was attended only by a few dames of honour, her female jester, and the vice-chamberlain, Sir John Gage, who held a crimson velvet cushion, on which was laid a richly-ornamented sword. A smile crossed the queen’s countenance as Xit drew nigh, and an irrepressible titter spread among the dames of honour. Arrived within a few yards of the throne, the mannikin prostrated himself as gracefully as he could. But he was destined to mishaps. And in this the most important moment of his life, his sword, which was of extraordinary length, got between his legs, and he was compelled to remove it before his knee would touch the ground.

“We have not forgotten our promise – rash though it was,” observed Mary, “and have summoned thy comrades to be witness to the distinction we are about to confer upon thee. In the heat of the siege, we promised that whoso would bring us Bret, alive or dead, should have his request, be it what it might. Thou wert his captor, and thou askest – ”

“Knighthood at your majesty’s hands,” supplied Xit.

“How shall we name thee?” demanded Mary.

“Narcissus Le Grand,” replied the dwarf. “I am called familiarly Xit. But it is a designation by which I do not desire to be longer distinguished.”

Mary took the sword from Sir John Gage, and placing it upon the dwarf’s shoulder, said, “Arise, Sir Narcissus.”

The new-made knight immediately obeyed, and making a profound reverence to the queen, was about to retire, when she checked him.

“Tarry a moment, Sir Narcissus,” she said. “I have a further favour to bestow upon you.”

“Indeed!” cried the dwarf, out of his senses with delight. “I pray your majesty to declare it.”

“You will need a dame,” returned the queen.

“Of a truth,” replied Sir Narcissus, tenderly ogling the bevy of beauties behind the throne, “I need one sadly.”

“I will choose for you,” said the queen.

“Your highness’s condescension overwhelms me,” rejoined Sir Narcissus, wondering which would fall to his share.

“This shall be your bride,” continued the queen, pointing to Jane the Fool, “and I will give her a portion.”

Sir Narcissus had some ado to conceal his mortification. Receiving the announcement with the best grace he could assume, he strutted up to Jane, and taking her hand, said, “You hear her highness’s injunctions, sweetheart. You are to be Lady Le Grand. I need not ask your consent, I presume?”

“You shall never have it,” replied Jane the Fool, with a coquettish toss of the head, “if her highness did not command it.”

“I shall require to exert my authority early,” thought Sir Narcissus, “or I shall share the fate of Magog.”

“I, myself, will fix the day for your espousals,” observed Mary. “Meanwhile, you have my permission to woo your intended bride for a few minutes in each day.”

“Only a few minutes!” cried Sir Narcissus, with affected disappointment. “I could dispense with even that allowance,” he added to himself.

“I cannot reward your services as richly,” continued Mary, addressing the gigantic brethren, “but I am not unmindful of them, – nor shall they pass unrequited. Whenever you have a boon to ask, hesitate not to address me.”

The three giants bowed their lofty heads.

“A purse of gold will be given to each of you,” continued the queen; “and on the day of his marriage, I shall bestow a like gift upon Sir Narcissus.” She then waved her hand, and the new-made knight and his companions withdrew.

XXXVI. – HOW CHOLMONDELEY LEARNT THE HISTORY OF CICELY; HOW NIGHTGALL ATTEMPTED TO ASSASSINATE RENARD; AND OF THE TERRIBLE FATE THAT BEFEL HIM

Cuthbert Cholmondeley, after upwards of a week’s solitary confinement, underwent a rigorous examination by certain of the Council relative to his own share in the conspiracy, and his knowledge of the different parties connected with it. He at once admitted that he had taken a prominent part in the siege, but refused to answer any other questions. “I confess myself guilty of treason and rebellion against the queen’s highness,” he said, “and I ask no further mercy than a speedy death. But if the word of one standing in peril of his life may be taken, I solemnly declare, and call upon you to attest my declaration, – that the Lady Jane Grey is innocent of all share in the recent insurrection. For a long time, she was kept in total ignorance of the project, and when it came to her knowledge, she used every means, short of betraying it, – tears, entreaties, menaces, – to induce her husband to abandon the design.”

“This declaration will not save her,” replied Sir Edward Hastings, who was one of the interrogators, sternly, – “By not revealing the conspiracy, she acquiesced in it. Her first duty was to her sovereign.”

“I am aware of it, and so is the unfortunate lady herself,” replied Cholmondeley. “But I earnestly entreat you, in pity for her misfortunes, to report what I have said to the queen.”

“I will not fail to do so,” returned Hastings; “but I will not deceive you. Her fate is sealed. And now, touching the Princess Elizabeth’s share in this unhappy affair. Do you know aught concerning it?”

“Nothing whatever,” replied Cholmondeley; “and if I did, I would not reveal it.”

“Take heed what you say, sir,” rejoined Sir Thomas Brydges, who was likewise among the examiners, “or I shall order you to be more sharply questioned.”

Nightgall heard this menace with savage exultation.

“The rack will wrest nothing from me,” said Cholmondeley, firmly.

Brydges immediately sat down at a table, and writing out a list of questions to be put to the prisoner, added an order for the torture, and delivered it to Nightgall.

Without giving Cholmondeley time to reflect upon his imprudence, the jailor hurried him away, and he did not pause till he came to the head of the stairs leading to the torture-chamber. On reaching the steps, Nightgall descended first, but though he opened the door with great caution, a glare of lurid light burst forth, and a dismal groan smote the ears of the listener. It was followed by a creaking noise, the meaning of which the esquire too well divined.

Some little time elapsed before the door was again opened, and the voice of Nightgall was heard from below calling to his attendants to bring down the prisoner. The first object that caught Cholmondeley’s gaze on entering the fatal chamber, was a figure, covered from head to foot in a blood-coloured cloth. The sufferer, whoever he was, had just been released from the torture, as two assistants were supporting him, while Wolfytt was arranging the ropes on the rack. Sorrocold, also, who held a small cup filled with some pungent-smelling liquid, and a sprinkling-brush in his hand, was directing the assistants.

Horror-stricken at the sight, and filled with the conviction from the mystery observed, and the stature of the veiled person, that it was Lord Guilford Dudley, Cholmondeley uttered his name in a tone of piercing anguish. At the cry, the figure was greatly agitated – the arms struggled – and it was evident that an effort was made to speak. But only an inarticulate sound could be heard. The attendants looked disconcerted, and Nightgall stamping his foot angrily, ordered them to take their charge away. But Cholmondeley perceiving their intention, broke from those about him, and throwing himself at the feet of him whom he supposed to be Dudley, cried – “My dear, dear lord, it is I, your faithful esquire, Cuthbert Cholmondeley. Make some sign, if I am right in supposing it to be you.”

The figure struggled violently, and shaking off the officials, raised the cloth, and disclosed the countenance of the unfortunate nobleman – but oil! how changed since Cholmondeley had seen him last – how ghastly, how distorted, how death-like, were his features!

“You here!” cried Dudley. “Where is Jane? Has she fled? Has she escaped?”

“She has surrendered herself,” replied Cholmondeley, “in the hope of obtaining your pardon.’”

“False hope! – delusive expectation!” exclaimed Dudley, in a tone of the bitterest anguish. “She will share my fate. I could have died happy – could have defied these engines, if she had escaped – but now! – ”

“Away with him!” interposed Nightgall. “Throw the cloth over his head.”

“Oh God! I am her destroyer!” shrieked Dudley, as the order was obeyed, and he was forced out of the chamber.

Cholmondeley was then seized by Wolfytt and the others, and thrown upon his back on the floor. He made no resistance, well knowing it would be useless; and he determined, even if he should expire under the torture, to let no expression of anguish escape him. He had need of all his fortitude; for the sharpness of the suffering to which he was subjected by the remorseless Nightgall, was such as few could have withstood. But not a groan burst from him, though his whole frame seemed rent asunder by the dreadful tension.

“Go on,” cried Nightgall, finding that Wolfytt and the others paused. “Turn the rollers round once more.”

“You will wrench his bones from their sockets, – he will expire if you do,” observed Sorrocold.

“No matter,” replied Nightgall; “I have an order to question him sharply, and I will do so, at all hazards.”

“Do so at your own responsibility, then,” replied Sorrocold, retiring. “I tell you he will die if you strain him further.”

“Go on, I say,” thundered Nightgall. But as he spoke, the sufferer fainted, and Wolfytt refused to comply with the jailor’s injunctions.

Cholmondeley was taken off the engine. Restoratives were applied by Sorrocold, and the questions proposed by the lieutenant put to him by Nightgall. But he returned no answer; and uttering an angry exclamation at his obstinacy, the jailor ordered him to be taken back to his cell, where he was thrown upon a heap of straw, and left without light or food.

For some time, Cholmondeley remained in a state of insensibility, and when he recovered, it was to endure far greater agony than he had experienced on the rack. His muscles were so strained that he was unable to move, and every bone in his body appeared broken. The thought, however, that Cicely was alive, and in the power of his hated rival, tormented him more sharply than his bodily suffering. Supposing her dead, though his heart was ever constant to her memory, and though he was a prey to deep and severe grief, yet the whirl of events in which he had been recently engaged had prevented him from dwelling altogether upon her loss. But now, when he knew that she still lived, and was in the power of Nightgall, all his passion – all his jealousy, returned with tenfold fury. The most dreadful suspicions crossed him; and his mental anguish was so great as to be almost intolerable. While thus tortured in body and mind, the door of his cell was opened, and Nightgall entered, dragging after him a female. The glare of the lamp so dazzled Cholmondeley’s weakened vision, that he involuntarily closed his eyes. But what was his surprise to hear his own name pronounced by well-known accents, and, as soon as he could steady his gaze, to behold the features of Cicely – but so pale, so emaciated, that he could scarcely recognise them.

“There,” cried Nightgall, with a look of fiendish exultation, pointing to Cholmondeley. “I told you you should sec your lover. Glut your eyes with the sight. The arms that should have clasped you are nerveless – the eyes that gazed so passionately upon you, dim – the limbs that won your admiration, crippled. Look at him – and for the last time. And let him gaze on you, and see whether in these death-pale features – in this wasted form, there are any remains of the young and blooming maiden that won his heart.”

“Cicely,” cried Cholmondeley, making an ineffectual attempt to rise, “do I indeed behold you? I thought you dead.”

“Would I were so,” she cried, kneeling beside him, “rather than what I am. And to see you thus – and without the power to relieve you.”

“You can relieve me of the worst pang I endure,” returned Cholmondeley. “You have been long in the power of that miscreant – exposed to his violence, his ill-usage, to the worst of villany. Has he dared to abuse his power? Do not deceive me! Has he wronged you? – Are you his minion? Speak! And the answer will either kill me at once, or render my death on the scaffold happy. Speak! Speak!”

“I am yours, and yours only – in life or death, dear Cholmondeley,” replied Cicely. “Neither entreaties nor force should make me his.”

“The time is come when I will show you no further consideration,” observed Nightgall, moodily. “And if the question your lover has just asked, is repeated, it shall be differently answered. You shall be mine to-morrow, either by your own free consent, or by force. I have spared you thus long, in the hope that you would relent, and not compel me to have recourse to means I would willingly avoid. Now, hear me. I have brought you hither to gratify my vengeance upon the miserable wretch, writhing at my feet, who has robbed me of your affections, and whose last moments I would embitter by the certainty that you are in my power. But though it will be much to me to forego the promised gratification of witnessing his execution, or knowing that he will be executed, yet I will purchase your compliance even at this price. Swear to wed me to-morrow, and to accompany me unresistingly whithersoever I may choose to take you, and, in return, I swear to free him.”

“He made a like proposal once before, Cicely,” cried the esquire. “Reject it. Let us die together.”

“It matters little to me how you decide,” cried Nightgall. “Mine you shall be, come what will.”

“You hear what he says, Cholmondeley,” cried Cicely, distractedly. “I cannot escape him. Oh, let me save you!”

“Never!” rejoined Cholmondeley, trying to stretch his hands towards her. “Never! You torture me by this hesitation. Reject it, if you love me, positively – peremptorily!”

“Oh, Heaven direct me!” cried Cicely, falling upon her knees. “If I refuse, I am your destroyer.”

“You will utterly destroy me, if you yield,” groaned Cholmondeley.

“Once wedded to me,” urged Nightgall, “you shall set him free yourself.”

“Oh, no, no, no!” cried Cicely. “Death were better than that. I cannot consent. Cholmondelcy, you must die.”

“You bid me live,” returned the esquire.

“You have signed his death-warrant!” cried Nightgall, seizing her hand. “Come along.”

“I will die here,” shrieked Cicely, struggling.

“Villain!” cried Cholmondeloy, “your cruelty will turn her brain, as it did that of her mother Alexia.”

“How do you know Alexia was her mother?” demanded Nightgall, starting, and relinquishing his grasp of Cicely.

“I am sure of it,” replied Cholmondeley. “And, what is more, I am acquainted with the rightful name and title of your victim. She was the wife of Sir Alberic Mountjoy, who was attainted of heresy and high treason, in the reign of Henry the Eighth.”

“I will not deny it,” replied Nightgall. “She was so. But how did you learn this?”

“Partly, from an inscription upon a small silver clasp, which I found upon her hood when I discovered her body in the Devilin Tower,” replied Cholmondeley; “and partly, from inquiries since made. I have ascertained that the Lady Mountjoy was imprisoned with her husband in the Tower; and that at the time of his execution she received a pardon. I would learn from you why she was subsequently detained? – why she was called Alexia? – and why her child was taken from her?”

“She lost her senses on the day of her husbands death,” replied Nightgall. “I will tell you nothing more.”

“Alas!” cried Cicely, who had listened with breathless interest to what was said, “hers was a tragical history.”

“Yours will be still more tragical, if you continue obstinate,” rejoined Nightgall. “Come along.”

“Heaven preserve me from this monster!” she shrieked. “Help me, Cholmondeley.”

“I am powerless as a crushed worm,” groaned the esquire, in a tone of anguish.

Nightgall laughed exultingly, and twining his arms around Cicely, held his hand over her mouth to stifle her cries, and forced her from the cell.

The sharpest pang he had recently endured was light to Cholmondeley, compared with his present maddening sensations, and had not insensibility relieved him, his reason would have given way. How long he remained in this state he knew not, but, on reviving, he found himself placed on a small pallet, and surrounded by three men, in sable dresses. His attire had been removed, and two of these persons were chafing his limbs with an ointment, which had a marvellous effect in subduing the pain, and restoring pliancy to the sinews and joints; while the third, who was no other than Sorrocold, bathed his temples with a pungent liquid. In a short time, he felt himself greatly restored, and able to move; and when he thought how valuable the strength he had thus suddenly and mysteriously acquired would have been a short time ago, he groaned aloud.