The Tower of London: A Historical Romance, Illustrated

by William Harrison Ainsworth

VIII.—OF QUEEN MARY’S ATTACHMENT TO COURTENAY.

Mary still continued to hold her court within the Tower. Various reasons were assigned for this choice of residence; but her real motive was that her plans for the restoration of the Catholic religion could be more securely concerted within the walls of the fortress than elsewhere. Simon Renard, who had become her confidential adviser, and through whom she carried on an active correspondence with her cousin, the Emperor Charles the Fifth, could here visit her unobserved. Here, also, she secretly received the envoy of Pope Julius the Third, Francisco Commendone (afterwards the celebrated Cardinal of that name,) and detained him until after the Duke of Northumberland’s execution, that he might convey intelligence of the event, and of the effect produced by it upon the populace, to the Pontiff. To Commendone she gave the strongest assurances of her attachment to the Church of Rome, and of her fixed determination to restore its worship. But at the same time she declared that the change must be gradual, and that any undue precipitation would be fatal. In this opinion both Gardiner and Renard, who were admitted to the conference, concurred. And satisfied with their representations, the envoy departed, overjoyed at the success of his mission.

Other and gentler thoughts, however, than those connected with her government, occupied the bosom of the queen. We have already spoken of the impression produced upon her at their first interview on the Tower-Green, bv the striking figure and noble features of Edward Courtenay, whom she on that occasion created Earl of Devonshire, and of the speculations it gave rise to among the by-standers. The interest she then felt had been subsequently strengthened. And it appeared certain to all who had any means of observation, that if she selected a husband, her choice would fall upon Courtenay.

The progress of her attachment was jealously watched by Renard, who having other designs in view, secretly opposed it. But aware that Mary, like many of her sex, was possessed of a spirit, which would be apt, if thwarted, to run into the opposite extreme, he was obliged to proceed with the utmost caution. He had, moreover, a strong party against him. From the moment it became evident that the Queen regarded the Earl of Devonshire with the eyes of affection, all were eager to pay court to him. Among his warmest supporters were Gardiner and De Noailles; the latter being mainly influenced in his conduct by distrust of the Court of Spain. Renard, therefore, stood alone. But though everything appeared against him, he did not despair of success. Placing reliance upon Mary’s jealous and suspicious character, he felt certain of accomplishing his purpose. Accordingly, he affected to approve her choice; and with the view of carrying out his scheme more effectually, took care to ingratiate himself with Courtenay.

Inexperienced as the latter was in the arts of a court, being then only twenty-one, and having passed fourteen years of his life in close captivity in the Tower, he was easily duped by the wily ambassador; and though repeatedly warned against him by De Noailles, who saw through Renard’s design, he disregarded the caution. Satisfied of the Queen’s favourable disposition towards him, which was evinced by the most marked attention on her part, this young nobleman conceived himself wholly beyond the reach of rivalry; and trusting to his personal advantages, and the hold he had obtained over the affections of his royal mistress, he gave himself little concern about an opposition which he regarded as futile. He looked upon himself as certain of the Queen’s hand; and but for his own imprudence, he would have been actually possessed of it.

Mary’s meditated alliance was agreeable to all parties, except, as just intimated, that of Spain. Already nearly related to the crown by his descent from Edward the Fourth, no objection could be raised against her favourite on the score of rank; while his frank and conciliating manner, combined with his rare endowments of mind and person, won him universal regard. Doctor Thomas Wilson, in the funeral oration pronounced over Courtenay at Padua in 1556, states, that during his long imprisonment in the Tower, “he wholly devoted himself to study, and that neither the augustia loci, nec solitudo, nec amissio libertatis, ilium à literis avocarent; that he made such progress in philosophy, that no nobleman was equal to him in it; that he also explored the mysteria naturae; that he entered into the mathematicorum labyrintha; that he was so fond of painting, that he could easily and laudably make any one’s portrait on a tabula; that he was equally attached to music, and had attained in it absolutam perfectionem; and that to these acquisitions he added the Spanish, French, and Italian languages. In manners he was grave without pride; pleasant without levity; prudent in speech; cautious in answering; modest in disputing; never boasting of himself, nor excluding others; and though familiar with many, yet intimately known to few.” Allowing for the drawbacks which must necessarily be made from such an éloge, enough will remain to prove that his accomplishments were of no common order.

On the onset of his career, however, Courtenay was assailed by temptations which it required more experience of the world to resist. Strictly confined from his earliest youth, it may be conceived that when first exposed to female fascination, his heart was speedily melted. Hitherto, he had only read of beauty. He now felt its full force, and placed no bounds to the admiration which the charms of the dames of honour excited within his breast. It was upon this point of his character, that Renard justly grounded his hopes of alienating the Queen’s affections. Encouraging his new-born licentiousness, he took care that none of his gallantries should fail to reach the ears of his royal mistress. Though of a staid and severe character, Mary was not indisposed to make allowances for one so utterly inexperienced as Courtenay; and her first direction to Renard was to check him. So far from doing this, the artful ambassador incited him to further irregularities, and contrived to place new objects in his way. In vain De Noailles remonstrated, entreating him at least to be more guarded in his conduct. In vain Gardiner sternly rebuked him. He turned a deaf ear alike to remonstrance and reproof; and hurried on by the unbridled impetuosity of youth, passed from one excess to another. Renard witnessed his conduct with secret satisfaction; but he was not prepared for the calmness with which the Queen viewed it. She was greatly displeased, yet as her lover still seemed passionately devoted to her, she looked upon his conduct as resulting from the circumstances of his previous life, and trusting he would soon open his eyes to its folly, was content to pardon it.

Renard then saw that he must have recourse to stronger measures. As Mary’s jealousy was not to be easily aroused, he resolved to bring a more formidable rival into the held. There was one ready made to his hand. It was the Princess Elizabeth. On no one point was the Queen’s vanity more easily touched than by any reference to the superior charms of her sister. Any compliment paid the latter she construed into a slight to herself; and she watched with an uneasy glance the effect produced by her in public. So sensible was Elizabeth of the Queen’s foible, that she kept in the back ground as much as possible. Unaware of the mortification he inflicted upon his royal mistress, and of the injury he did himself, Courtenay often praised the Princess’s beauty in terms so rapturous as to call a blush into her cheek, while the blood was driven from that of Mary. So undisguised was his admiration, that the Queen resolved to remove the object of it from her court; and would have done so, but for the artful management of Renard, who felt that such a step would ruin his plans.

Long before Courtenay had noticed it, the subtle ambassador, well skilled in woman’s feelings, ascertained the state of Elizabeth’s heart, and saw that she was not proof against the captivating manners and personal graces of the handsome young nobleman. It was not difficult for one possessed of so many opportunities as himself to heighten this feeling into a passion; and before long he had the satisfaction to find that the princess was deeply enamoured of her sister’s suitor. Nor was Courtenay less easily enthralled. Apprised of his conquest by Renard, instead of resisting it, he at once surrendered himself to the snare. Again De Noailles, who saw his dangerous position, came to his aid. Again Gardiner rebuked him more severely than before. He derided their remonstrances; and heedless of the changing manner of the Queen—heedless also of the peril to which he exposed the princess, he scarcely attempted to disguise his passion, or to maintain the semblance of love for his royal mistress. Consumed by jealousy, Mary meditated some blow which should satisfy her outraged feelings; while Renard only waited a favourable opportunity to bring matters to a crisis.

Affairs being in this state, it chanced one day that Courtenay received a summons to the Queen’s presence, and instantly repairing thither, he found her alone. His reception was so cold, that he was at no loss to understand she was deeply offended; and he would have thrown himself at her feet, if she had not prevented him by impatiently waving her hand.

“I have sent for you, my lord,” she said, “for the last time—.”

“For the last time, my gracious mistress!” exclaimed Courtenay.

“Do not interrupt me,” rejoined Mary, severely. “I have sent for you to tell you that whatever were the feelings I once entertained for you, they are now entirely changed. I will not remind you of the favours I have shown you—of the honours I have bestowed on you—or of the greater honours I intended you. I will simply tell you that your ingratitude equals your perfidy; and that I banish you henceforth from my presence.”

“How have I offended your highness?” demanded Courtenay, panic-stricken.

“How?” cried Mary, fiercely—her eyes kindling, and her countenance assuming the terrible expression she inherited from her father. “Do you affect ignorance of the cause? I have overlooked your indiscretions, though I have not been ignorant of them, imputing them to youth and inexperience. I have overlooked them, I say, because I thought I discovered amid all this vice and folly the elements of a noble nature—and because,” and her voice faltered—“I persuaded myself that you loved me.”

“Have you no faith in my adjurations of attachment?” cried Courtenay, prostrating himself, and endeavouring to take her hand.

“None,” rejoined the queen, withdrawing her hand; “none whatever. Arise, my lord, and do not further degrade yourself. You may love the queen, but you do not love the woman.—You may prize my throne, but you do not prize me.”

“You wrong me, gracious madam. On my soul you do,” rejoined Courtenay. “I may have trifled with others, but I have given my heart wholly to you.”

“It is false!” cried Mary, furiously. “You love the princess, my sister.”

Courtenay turned very pale. But he instantly recovered himself.

“Your highness is mistaken,” he answered.

“What!” cried the queen, her anger increasing each moment. “Dare you persist in the denial of your falsehood? Dare you tell me to my face that you have not breathed words of passion to her? Dare you assert that you have not lamented your engagement to me? Dare you say this?”

“I dare, madam.”

“Then your own words shall give you the he, traitor,” replied the queen. “Here is your letter to her,” she added, producing a paper, “wherein you tell her so.”

“Confusion!” uttered Courtenay, “Renard has betrayed me.”

“Is this letter your writing?” demanded the queen.

“I will not prevaricate, madam,” replied Courtenay; “it is.”

“And in the face of this you declare you have not deceived me?”

“I have deceived you, gracious madam,” replied Courtenay. “But I have never ceased to love you.”

“My lord!—my lord!” exclaimed Mary, in a menacing tone. “Beware how you attempt to deceive me further, or as God shall judge me, you shall find that the daughter of Henry the Eighth is not to be offended with impunity.”

“I know you are terrible in anger, gracious madam,” replied Courtenay; “but you are also just. Judge me—condemn me, if you please, but hear me: he who gave you that letter,—Simon Renard,—counselled me to write it.”

“Ha!” exclaimed the queen.

“I have been guilty of folly—madness—” rejoined Courtenay—“but not the black perfidy your highness imagines. Dismiss me from your presence—send me into exile—I deserve any punishment—but do not believe that I have ceased to love you.”

“I know not what you term love, my lord,” replied Mary; “but I have no idea of sharing the affection of any man with another. Grant, however, that you speak the truth, why have you addressed this passionate epistle to the Princess Elizabeth?”

“I have already said I was deceived,” replied Courtenay. “I cannot excuse my conduct—though I lament it.”

“Are you sincere?” said Mary, who began to be softened by her lover’s apparent penitence.

“By what oath shall I confirm my truth?” he replied, fervently.

“I will test it more surely,” rejoined the queen, as if struck by a sudden idea.

“In any way your highness thinks proper,” returned Courtenay.

“Summon the Princess Elizabeth to our presence instantly,” said Mary, striking a small bell, the sound of which brought an usher before her.

“The Princess Elizabeth!” exclaimed Courtenay.

“Ay, the Princess,” repeated the queen. “I will confront you with her. Bid the lord chancellor and the ambassadors of Spain and France attend us,” she continued to the usher.

“I know not what your highness intends,” said Courtenay, as the attendant departed. “But I will die rather than do aught to prejudice the princess.”

“I doubt it not, my lord,” rejoined Mary, bitterly. “But though I cannot punish the perfidy of a lover, I can the disobedience of a subject. If you refuse to obey my commands, you will take the consequences.”

Courtenay bit his lips to repress the answer that rose to them.

In a few minutes, the usher returned and announced the Princess Elizabeth, as well as Gardiner, Renard, and De Noailles. Instantly perceiving how matters stood, the imperial ambassador deemed his own triumph complete, and Courtenay’s disgrace certain.

“My lord,” said Mary, addressing Gardiner, “it is no secret to you, neither to you, M. Renard, nor to you, M. De Noailles—that of all those proposed to me in marriage—the Princes of Spain and Portugal, the King of the Romans, Cardinal Pole, and others—I have preferred this man, whom I myself have raised to the rank he now holds, and enriched with the estates he enjoys.”

“We know it, gracious Madam,” replied Gardiner, alarmed at the ominous commencement, “and we think your highness has made a happy choice, and one most acceptable to your subjects. Do we not, M. Renard?”

The ambassador bowed, but said nothing.

“The alliance is in all respects agreeable to my sovereign, Henry the Second of France,” observed De Noailles.

“What then if I inform you,” pursued Mary, “that the Earl of Devonshire has rejected my proposal? What if he has broken his oath of fidelity? What if he has cast aside the crown offered him, and smitten by the charms of a youthful beauty, abandoned the Queen, who has stooped to raise him to her throne!”

“Impossible!” exclaimed Gardiner and De Noailles.

“You are mistaken,” rejoined Mary, sternly. “You shall hear him avow his perfidy with his own lips.”

“When I do hear it,” replied De Noailles, looking steadily at Courtenay, “I will believe it. But I cannot think him capable of such madness.”

“Nor I,” said Gardiner, glancing significantly from beneath his bent brows.

Elizabeth, who on the commencement of the Queen’s address had turned very pale, could with difficulty maintain her composure. Her agitation did not escape the notice of Mary, whose jealousy was increased by the sight.

“What if I tell you,” she continued, “that this false earl has transferred his affections to our sister?”

“Your highness!” exclaimed Elizabeth.

“Peace!” cried the Queen, fiercely. “And she, well knowing his engagement to ourself, has dared to encourage his suit.”

“Whoever told your majesty this, lied in his throat,” cried Courtenay. “I own myself guilty, but the Princess Elizabeth is no partner to my folly.”

“You do well to shield her, my lord,” retorted Mary. “But you cannot deceive me. She is equally culpable.”

“Nay, more so, if it comes to this,” interposed Elizabeth, whose spirit, which was quite equal to her sisters, was aroused. “If I had repressed my admiration for the Earl of Devonshire, he would have made no advances to me. I am the most to blame in this matter.”

“Not so;” replied Courtenay. “Let my folly and presumption be visited on my own head. I pray your highness to pass sentence on me at once. But do not let the Princess suffer for my fault.”

“So, so!” exclaimed Mary, with a bitter laugh, “I have brought you to your confessions at last. If I had before doubted your love for each other, your present conduct would have convinced me of it. You shall have your request, my lord,” she added, turning to Courtenay. “I will pass sentence upon you.”

“Hold, madam,” cried Gardiner. “Before the sentence is passed and irrevocable, reflect—if only for one moment. You are a great queen, and the daughter of a great king. But the rashness of one moment may annihilate all your future peace, destroy the hopes of your people, and the prosperity of your reign. The conduct of the Earl of Devonshire is unpardonable, I allow. But for your own sake—for the sake of your kingdom—not for his—I beseech you to overlook it. That he loves you, I am assured.”

“Let him declare as much,” said Renard.

“Hear me, then,” replied Courtenay, throwing himself at the-Queen’s feet. “I bitterly repent my rashness; and though I can never hope to be restored to the place I once held in your Majesty’s affections, I shall never cease to reproach myself—never cease to love you.”

Mary was visibly moved.

“If I thought you sincere?” she said.

“I will answer for his sincerity,” said Gardiner.

“And I,” added De Noailles. “She relents,” he continued in a whisper to Courtenay. “Improve the advantage you have gained.”

“Grant me an instant’s private audience with your Majesty,” implored Courtenay; “and I feel certain I can remove all your doubts.”

“No, my lord,” rejoined Mary. “As our rupture has been public, our reconciliation (if it takes place,) shall be public, also.”

“It must never take place,” remarked Renard, in an under tone.

“Peace, sir,” said the Queen, aloud. “As far as our government is concerned, we are content to follow your counsel. But in matters of the heart we shall follow its dictates alone.”

“Your Majesty is in the right,” observed Gardiner.

“Declare, my lord,” pursued Mary, addressing Courtenay, “in the presence of these gentlemen, in that of our sister—rival we ought to say,—that you have deceived her, and, though your conduct may have misled her,—have never swerved from your devotion to ourself.”

While the Queen pronounced these words, Renard’s keen glance wandered from Courtenay to Elizabeth. The latter was violently agitated, and seemed to await the Earl’s answer as if her fate hung upon it.

“Do you assert this, my lord?” demanded Mary.

“Hesitate, and you are lost, and so is the Princess,” whispered De Noailles.

Before Courtenay could reply, Elizabeth fainted and would have fallen, if Renard had not flown to her assistance.

“Summon our maids of honour, and let her be instantly cared for,” said Mary, with a look of ill-disguised satisfaction. “My lord,” she added to Courtenay, “you are forgiven.”

The Earl hastily, and with some confusion, expressed his thanks, while, in obedience to the Queen’s mandate, Elizabeth was removed.

“And now, my lord,” said Mary to him, “I must pass from my own affairs to those of my kingdom. I will not detain you further—nor you, M. De Noailles. But I must crave your attendance, my lord, for a few minutes,” she added, turning to Gardiner, “and yours, M. Renard.”

“Your highness may always command my best counsel,” replied the latter, in a slightly sarcastic tone—“provided you will act upon it.”

“Farewell, my lord,” said Mary, extending her hand to Courtenay, which he pressed to his lips. “I shall walk upon the Tower Green in an hour, and shall expect you there.”

“I will attend your Majesty,” replied Courtenay. And accompanied by De Noailles, he quitted the chamber.

“You have had a narrow escape, my lord,” remarked the French Ambassador, as they traversed the long gallery together.

“So narrow that I thought I had lost all chance of the crown,” replied Courtenay. “It is the work of that perfidious Simon Renard. But if I live an hour, I will requite him.”

“You are the victor, my lord,” returned De Noailles. “Maintain your present position, and you may defy his utmost malice.”

“Tarry with me a moment, M. De Noailles,” said Courtenay, “and you shall see how I will avenge myself upon him.”

“Prudence, my good lord—prudence,” replied De Noailles. “Your rashness has already put you once in his power. Do not let it do so a second time.”

“I will punish his treachery, if it costs me my life,” replied Courtenay.

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IX.—OF THE DUEL BETWEEN COURTENAY AND SIMON RENARD; AND HOW IT WAS INTERRUPTED.

M eanwhile, a long discussion was carried on between Mary and her councillors, as to the best means of effecting the entire restoration of the Romish religion.

“I have a letter from Cardinal Pole,” observed the Queen, “wherein his Eminence urges me to adopt no half measures.”

“It will not be safe to do so as matters now stand, gracious madam,” replied Gardiner. “You must proceed cautiously. The noxious weed, heresy, has taken too deep a root in this country to be forcibly extirpated. I need not remind you of the murmurs that followed the celebration of mass in the chapel in the White Tower, for the repose of the King your brothers soul—of Cranmer’s vehement opposition—of the lord mayor’s remonstrance, because mass was sung in another chapel in the city—of the riot for a similar cause in Smithfield—of the dagger thrown at Doctor Bourne, when he preached at Saint Paul’s Cross, and inveighed against the deprivation of our prelates during the late reign. Your Majesty did wisely to declare, at my suggestion, that although your conscience is stayed in matters of religion, yet you meant not to compel and constrain other men’s consciences. Abide by this declaration a little longer. The two chief opponents of our religion, Ridley and Latimer, are already prisoners in the fortress, and Cranmer will be speedily brought hither.”

“So speedily, my lord, that he shall be lodged within it today,” replied Mary. “The order is already signed for his committal on a charge of high treason for counselling our disinheritance, and aiding the Duke of Northumberland with horse and men against us in the revolt of the Lady Jane Grey.”

“When will your highness have him arraigned?” asked Gardiner.

“After our coronation,” replied Mary; “when Lady Jane Grey and her husband shall also be tried.”

“Suffolk is already liberated,” remarked Renard; “and yet he was more deeply implicated than Cranmer.”

“True,” replied Mary; “but he is not so dangerous.”

“The counsel of my master, the emperor,” rejoined Renard, “as I have more than once stated to your Highness, is to spare none of the rebels—above all, the Lady Jane Grey, who, though she may have been the instrument of others, is yet in the eyes of the people the principal offender.”

“Poor Lady Jane!” exclaimed Mary, in a compassionate tone. “She is very young—very beautiful. I would rather reconcile her to our church than doom her to the block.”

“I do not despair of being able to accomplish her conversion,” said Gardiner, “though she is an obstinate heretic. I have appointed to-morrow for a conference with her on the subject of her religion, and I trust to be able to convince her of her errors.”

“With your lordship’s permission, I will attend the conference,” said Renard.

“By all means,” replied Gardiner. “It will take place in the Beauchamp Tower. Her husband, Lord Guilford Dudley, has become a proselyte, and they will be both present at the disputation.”

“I leave the care of her soul in your hands, my lord,” replied Mary. “And now I must to my own devotions.”

So saying, she dismissed them, and proceeded to an oratory, where she was joined by her confessor, Feckenham.

On issuing from the audience-chamber, Renard perceived De Noailles and Courtenay pacing the gallery.

“I have waited for you, sir,’’ said the latter, advancing to meet him.

“I am sorry to have detained your lordship so long,” replied Renard.

“Apologies are needless,” rejoined Courtenay. “M. Renard, you are a double-faced villain.”

“Rail on my lord, and welcome,” replied Renard, contemptuously. “Your ill-humour has no effect on me!”

“Coward! will not that move you?” cried Courtenay, taking off his glove, and striking him with it in the face.

“Ha!” exclaimed Renard fiercely, and half-unsheathing his sword. “Follow me, my lord, and you shall find me as prompt to avenge an insult as you can be to offer one.”

“My lord,” interposed De Noailles, “and you, M. Renard, I warn you before you proceed further in this quarrel, that it will deeply offend the queen.”

“It was not my seeking,” replied Renard, sternly. “But since it is forced upon me, I will not be stayed. As his lordship has found no difficulty in duping her majesty with a feigned passion, so, if he survives, he may readily make out his case by an equally false statement that I was the aggressor.”

“Insolent!” cried Courtenay. “Fool that I was to place any faith in one in whom the whole perfidy of his country seems concentred. Follow me, and quickly, or I will repeat the blow—unless,” he added with bitter scorn, “like your own arrogant but cowardly nation you prefer avenging it by assassination.”

“The cowardice will be yours, my lord,” rejoined Renard, haughtily, “if you attempt to repeat the blow—nay, if you tarry here longer, I shall think you desire to attract the attention of some of her majesty’s attendants, and by causing us to be arrested, contrive to escape my vengeance.”

“Trust me, sir, I have no such intention,” replied Courtenay. “An Englishman never deals a blow without allowing his adversary to return it. M. De Noailles, I request your attendance at the duel. It will be a mortal combat—for I will neither give mercy nor receive it from this perfidious villain.”

“Pardon me, my lord, if I refuse your request,” replied De Noailles. “I pledge my word that I will not interrupt you, nor cause you to be interrupted during the adjustment of your differences. But I will be no party to the duel.”

“As you please,” replied Courtenay. “Come then, sir,” he added, turning to Renard, “and let the recollection of the insult I have offered you be fresh in your memory.”

“M. De Noailles,” said Renard, “I take you to witness before I depart, that I have not sought this quarrel. Whatever ensues, you will avouch the truth.”

“Undoubtedly,” replied De Noailles. “Whither are you going?” he demanded.

“To the palace-garden,” replied Courtenay. “It is the only place in the Tower, where we can be free from interruption. Beneath the trees we shall be unobserved.”

“Lead on then, my lord,” cried Renard, impatiently. “The affair ought to have been arranged by this time.”

Hastily quitting the corridor, they descended the grand staircase, and traversing with rapid steps a long suite of apartments, passed through a small door opening from the range of building called the Queen’s gallery, upon the privy garden. At the western angle of this garden stood a grove of trees, and thinking themselves unobserved they hastened towards it.

It chanced however at this moment that Xit was passing along one of the walks, and struck by their furious looks he immediately conjectured their errand, and being, as has before been shown, of an inquisitive turn, determined to watch them, and with this view struck into a shrubbery, which effectually screened him from observation.

On reaching the grove, Renard instantly divested himself of his cloak, and drawing his rapier and dagger, placed himself in an attitude of defence. Courtenay did not remove his mantle, and therefore he was in readiness before his adversary. The preliminary forms always observed by the combatants of the period, being gone through, the conflict commenced with great fury on the side of Courtenay, and with equal animosity, but more deliberation, on that of Renard. As the latter was the most perfect swordsman of his time, he felt little doubt as to the result of the combat—but still the fury of the Earl was so irresistible that he broke through his surest wards. In one of these furious passes Renard received a slight wound in the arm, and roused by the pain, he forgot his cautious system, and returned Courtenay’s thrusts with others equally desperate.

Feeling that he was no match for his antagonist, who was evidently his superior both in force and skill, the Earl now determined to bring the combat to a close, before his strength should be further exhausted. Collecting all his energies, he dashed upon Renard with such impetuosity, that the latter was compelled to retreat, and his foot catching against the root of a tree, he fell, and lay at the mercy of his antagonist.

“Strike!” he cried. “I will never yield.”

“No,” replied Courtenay. “I will not take this advantage. Arise, and renew the combat.”

“Your courtesy is like your attachment, misplaced, my lord,” replied Renard, springing to his feet, and preparing to attack him. “Look to yourself.”

The combat recommenced with fresh fury, and must have speedily terminated fatally, if a sudden interruption had not occurred. Alarmed by the deadly nature of the strife, and thinking he should gain credit with the queen if he prevented any accident to her favourite, Xit no sooner beheld the swords drawn, than he ran off as swiftly as he could to the garden-gate, near the Lanthorn Tower, where he know Og was stationed. The giant did not require to be bid twice to accompany him; but grasping his immense halbert, hurried in the direction of the fight, and reached the grove just as it had recommenced.

The combatants were so occupied with each other, and so blinded with rage, that they did not hear his approach. Og, however, soon made them sensible of his presence. Bidding them in a voice of thunder lay down their arms, and finding himself wholly disregarded, he rushed between them, and seizing each by the doublet, hurled them forcibly backwards—swearing lustily that if either advanced another footstep, he would fell him to the ground with his partizan. By this time Xit, who had come up, drew his sword, and seconded the giant’s threat, adding with his usual coxcombical dignity, “My lords, I command you, in the Queen’s name, to deliver up your weapons to me.”

Upon this, he took off his cap, and strutting up to Courtenay, demanded his sword.

“What if I refuse it, sirrah?” said the earl, who in spite of his indignation, could scarcely help laughing at the dwarf’s assurance.

“Your lordship, I am assured, will not compel me to enforce its delivery,” replied Xit.

“I will not,” replied Courtenay, delivering the weapon to him.

“I shall not fail to report your magnanimity to my royal mistress,” returned Xit. “Now yours, worshipful sir,” he added, to Renard.

“Take it,” replied the ambassador, flinging his rapier on the ground. “It is fit that an affair so ridiculously begun, should have such a ridiculous termination.”

“It is not ended, sir,” rejoined Courtenay.

“You will note that, Magog,” interposed Xit. “His lordship says it is not ended. Her Majesty must hear of this. I take upon myself to place you both in arrest. Attach their persons, Magog.”

“This insolence shall not go unpunished,” cried Courtenay, angrily.

“Heed him not, Magog,” whispered Xit. “I am sure her highness will approve our conduct. At all events, I take the responsibility of the arrest upon myself—though I promise thee, if there is any reward, thou shalt share it. I arrived at a critical minute for your lordship,” he added, in an under tone to Courtenay. “Your adversary’s blade was within an inch of your breast.”

“Peace, knave,” cried Courtenay.

“Bring them along, Magog,” said Xit, “while I run to the palace to apprise her Majesty of the occurrence, and ascertain her pleasure concerning them.’

“Hold!” exclaimed Courtenay. “Take this purse, and keep silence on the subject.”

“No, my lord,” replied Xit, with an offended look, “I am above a bribe. Had your lordship—but no matter. Magog, you will answer for their peaceable conduct. I am off to the palace.”

And he hurried away, while the giant followed at a slow pace with Courtenay and Renard.

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X.—OF THE CONFERENCE HELD BETWEEN BISHOP GARDINER AND LADY JANE GREY IN THE BEAUCHAMP TOWER.

During all this time, Jane was kept a close prisoner in the Brick Tower, and neither allowed to hold any intercourse with her husband, nor to correspond with him. Heart-breaking as the deprivation was to her in the first instance, she became in some degree reconciled to it, on learning from her jailor,—who displayed as much humanity towards her as was consistent with his office,—that he bore his fate with the utmost fortitude and resignation.

Entertaining no hopes of mercy, Jane’s whole time was past in preparation for her end. Except the few hours of refreshment actually required by nature, every moment was devoted to the most intense application, or to fervent prayer. By degrees, all trace of sorrow vanished from her features, and they assumed a spiritualized and almost angelic expression. Lovely as she was before, she looked far more lovely now—or rather her beauty was of a more refined and exalted character. She was frequently visited by the queen’s confessor, Feckenham, who used every effort to induce her to renounce her religion,—but in vain. When told that the sure way to her Majesty’s favour would be to embrace the faith of Rome—she replied that, anxious as she was to obtain the queen’s forgiveness, she could not purchase it at the price of her salvation, and that the only favour she desired was to pass the brief residue of her days unmolested. Northumberland’s apostacy was a terrible shock to her. Feckenham brought the intelligence, and boasted of the convert the Catholic Church had gained.

“You may have induced the Duke to recant with his lips, sir,” replied Jane; “but of this I am assured, he died a Protestant in heart.”

“It may be so,” rejoined Feckenham. “He was hypocrite enough to act thus. It is enough for us that he publicly abjured his errors. And before long, others of his house will follow his example.”

“What mean you, sir?” demanded Jane, anxiously. “You do not surely allude to my husband?”

Feckenham made no reply, but with a significant smile departed. The insinuation was not lost upon Jane. And now she more than ever lamented that she was not near her husband, to strengthen his wavering faith, and confirm his resolution. Well knowing that his character in a great measure resembled his father’s, she feared that the inducement held out by his enemies might be too much for his resistance. Unable to communicate her fears to him—or to offer any of the counsel her heart suggested, she could only relieve her distresses by earnest supplications in his behalf. But even prayer did not on this occasion afford her the consolation it was wont to do. The Duke of Northumberland’s recantation perpetually haunted her; and the thought that her husband might be made a similar example filled her with inexpressible dread..

While suffering from these agonising reflections, she received another visit from Feckenham. The expression of his countenance, which was triumphing and sinister, alarmed her, and she almost felt unwilling, though at the same time anxious, to question him.

After enjoying her suspense for a few minutes, he said, “Daughter, you blamed the Duke of Northumberland for being reconciled to our church. What, if I inform you that Lord Guilford Dudley has been likewise converted?”

“I should indeed be grieved to hear it,” replied Jane, in a tone of anguish; “but I trust it is not so.”

“It is as I have said,” answered Feckenham.

“Heaven pardon him!” exclaimed Jane. “You bring me ill news, indeed. I had far rather you came to tell me the executioner was waiting for me—nay, that my husband was about to be led to the block—than this fatal intelligence. I thought our separation would be short. But now I find it will be eternal.”

“You are in error, daughter,” rejoined Feckenham, sternly. “You will neither be separated from your husband in this world, nor the next, if you are equally conformable.”

“Am I to understand, then, that his apostacy, for I can give it no milder term, has been purchased by an offer of pardon?” demanded Jane.

“I said not so, daughter,” replied Feckenham; “but I now tell you that his hopes of grace rest with yourself.”

“With me?” cried Jane, with a look of agony.

“With you, daughter,” repeated the confessor. “Much as it rejoices our pious Queen to win over one soul like that of Lord Guilford Dudley to the true faith—gladly as she will receive his recantation, she will pledge herself to mercy only on one condition.”

“And that is—”

“Your conversion.”

“A safe promise, for her clemency will never be exhibited,” replied Jane. “Not even to purchase my husband’s life would I consent. I would willingly die to bring him back to the paths from which he has strayed. But I will not surrender myself to Rome and her abominations.”

“Your firmness, in a good cause, daughter, would elicit my approbation,” replied Feckenham. “As it is, it only excites my compassion. I am deeply concerned to see one so richly gifted so miserably benighted—one so fair so foully spotted with heresy. I should esteem it a glorious victory over Satan to rescue your soul from perdition, and will spare no pains to do so.”

“It is in vain, sir,” replied Jane; “and if I have hitherto repressed my anger at these solicitations, it is because feeling firm in myself, I look upon them merely as an annoyance, to which it is my duty to submit with patience. But when I perceive the mischief they have done to others, I can no longer contain my indignation. Yours is a pernicious and idolatrous religion,—a religion founded on the traditions of men, not on the word of God—a religion detracting from the merits of our Saviour—substituting mummery for the simple offices of prayer,—and though I will not be uncharitable enough to assert that its sincere professors will not be saved,—yet I am satisfied, that no one to whom the true light of heaven has once been vouchsafed, can believe in it, or be saved by it.”

“Since you are thus obstinate, daughter,” replied Feckenham, “let us dispute point by point, and dogma by dogma, of our creeds, and I think I can convince you of the error in which you rest. Do not fear wearying me. I cannot be better employed.”

“Pardon me, then, sir, if I reply, than I can be far better employed,” returned Jane; “and, though I would not shrink from such a discussion—were it useful,—and do not fear its result, yet, as no good can arise from it, I must decline it.”

“As you please, daughter,” rejoined Feckenham. “But I must own that your refusal to accept my challenge seems a tacit admission of the weakness of your cause.”

“Put what construction you please upon it, sir,—so you leave me in peace,” replied Jane. “I will fight the good fight when called upon to do so. But I will not waste the little time that remains to me in fruitless disputation.”

“Before I depart, however, daughter,” rejoined Feckenham, “let me deliver your husband’s message to you.”

“What is it?” inquired Jane, eagerly,—“and yet, I almost dread to ask.”

“He implored you not to be his executioner,” answered Feckenham.

“His executioner!—my husband’s executioner!—oh, no!—no! that I can never be!” cried Jane, bursting into tears.

“That you will be, unless you consent,” replied the priest, coldly.

“I beseech you, sir, urge me no further,” rejoined Jane.

“I would lay down my life for my husband a thousand times, but I cannot save him thus. Tell him that I will pray for him night and day,—and oh! tell him that his swerving from his faith has wounded me more severely than the axe will ever do.”

“I shall tell him that I left you in the same obstinate state I found you—deaf to the voice of truth—inaccessible to natural affection, and besotted with heresy. Daughter, you love not your husband.”

“Not love him!” echoed Jane, passionately. “But no,—you shall not shake my firmness. I thought to die calmly, and I looked forward to death as to a certain restoration to my husband. This hope is now at an end. It is you, sir, who are his true executioner. Not content with robbing him of his eternal happiness, you impute his destruction to me. Tell him I love him too well to grant his request—and if he loves me, and hopes to be reunited to me in the bonds of unceasing happiness, he will remain unshaken in his adherence to the Protestant faith.”

“Then you absolutely refuse compliance?” demanded Fecken-ham.

“Absolutely,” replied Jane.

“Your husband’s blood be upon your head!” exclaimed the confessor, in a menacing voice.

And without another word, he departed.

As soon as the door of her chamber was locked, and Jane felt herself alone, she threw herself on her knees, and was about to pour out her heart in earnest supplication for her husband, but the shock had been too great for her, and she fainted. On reviving, she was scarcely able to move, and it was some time before she entirely regained her strength.

Repairing to the palace, Feckenham detailed the interview to the queen, observing in conclusion, “I still do not despair of her conversion, and shall leave no means untried to accomplish it.” The next day, he again visited Jane, but with no better success. He found her in great affliction, and she earnestly implored to be allowed to see her husband, if only for a few minutes, and in the presence of witnesses. The confessor replied that in her present frame of mind her request could not be granted. But that if she showed herself conformable she should no longer be separated from him, and he would answer for their ultimate pardon. “I have already acquainted you with my determination, sir,” rejoined Jane, “and you will seek in vain to move me. The rack should not shake my constancy; neither shall the mental torture to which you subject me.”

When Feckenham reported the result of his mission to Gardiner, the bishop decided upon holding a religious conference with the captive, feeling confident that notwithstanding her boasted learning and zeal, he could easily overcome her in argument. To induce her to assent to the plan, it was agreed that a meeting should be allowed between her and her husband on the occasion. When the matter was announced to Jane, she readily expressed her acquiescence, and begged that it might not be delayed, as she had no preparation to make. “Take heed,” she observed, in conclusion, “lest I win back from you the treasure you have gained.”

“We shall add to it a greater treasure—yourself, madam,” replied the confessor.

On the following day, she was summoned by an officer of the guard to attend the Bishop in the Beauchamp Tower. Taking up a volume of the Holy Scriptures lying on a table beside her, and wrapping herself in an ermined surcoat, she arose and followed the officer—quitting her chamber for the first time for nearly two months. On issuing into the open air, the effect was almost overpowering, and she could not repress her tears.

It was a bright, sunshiny morning, and everything looked so beautiful—so happy, that the contrast with her recent sufferings was almost too much for her. Bearing up resolutely against her feelings, in order forcibly to divert her attention she fixed her eyes upon the reverend walls of the White Tower, which she was at that moment passing. Near it she perceived the three gigantic warders, all of whom doffed their caps as she approached. Og coughed loudly, as if to clear his throat; Gog hastily brushed the moisture from his eyes with his sleeve; while Magog, who was the most tender-hearted of the three, fairly blubbered aloud. Xit, who formed one of the group, but who was the least affected, bade her be of good cheer.

This encounter was so far of service to Jane, that it served to distract her thoughts, and she had in a great measure regained her composure, when another incident occurred, which had nearly upset her altogether. As she passed near the porch of Saint Peter’s Chapel, she beheld Simon Renard emerge from it. And if she felt her blood chilled by the sight of her implacable foe, her alarm was not diminished on hearing him call to her guards to bring her within the chapel. At a loss to comprehend the meaning of this mysterious summons, Jane entered the sacred structure. Coldly saluting her, Renard informed her that her husband was within the chapel. Trembling at the intimation, Jane looked eagerly round. At first, she could discern nothing; but, guided by the ambassador’s malignant glance, she perceived a figure kneeling in front of the altar. Instantly recognising her husband, with an exclamation of delight that made him spring to his feet, she rushed forward and threw herself into his arms.

After the first passionate emotion had subsided, Jane inquired how he came to be there.

“Do you not know?” replied Lord Guilford. “Or have you been kept in ignorance of the terrible tragedy which has been recently enacted? Look there!” And he pointed downwards.

Jane obeyed, and saw that she was standing upon a gravestone, on which was inscribed in newly-cut letters—

JOHN DUDLEY, DUKE OF NORTHUMBERLAND.

—DECAPITATED AUGUST 22, 1553

Jane trembled and leaned upon her husband for support. “Here is the victim—there the executioner,” said Lord Guilford, pointing from the grave to Renard.

“Three months ago,” said the Ambassador, who stood with folded arms at a little distance from them, “within this very chapel, I told the Duke of Northumberland he would occupy that grave. My words have been fulfilled. And I now tell you, Lord Guilford Dudley, and you Lady Jane, that unless you are reconciled with our holy Church, you will rest beside him.”

With these words he quitted the chapel, and the guards closing round the captives, they were compelled to follow. During their short walk, Jane passionately implored her husband not to yield to the persuasions of his enemies. He hung his head and returned no answer, and she inferred from his silence, that he was not disposed to yield to her solicitations. They were now close upon the Beauchamp Tower, when Dudley, pointing to a barred window in the upper story of one of its turrets, observed—“Within that room my father parsed the last few weeks of his existence.”

Ascending the spiral stone stairs of the tower, they passed beneath the arched doorway, and entered the principal chamber—now used—as has more than once been observed—as the mess-room of the garrison. Here they found Gardiner awaiting their arrival, he was seated on a high backed arm chair between Bonner and Feckenham, who occupied stools on either side of him, while behind him stood the friar who had attended the Duke of Northumberland on the scaffold. Across one of the deep and arched embrazures of the room looking towards the south, a thick curtain was drawn, and before it, at a small table covered with a crimson cloth, on which writing materials were placed, sat a secretary prepared to take down the heads of the disputation. On Jane’s appearance, Gardiner and the other ecclesiastics arose and gravely saluted her.

“You are welcome, daughter,” said the bishop. “You have come hither an unbeliever in our doctrines. I trust you will depart confirmed in the faith of Rome.”

“I am come to vanquish, not to yield, my lord,” replied Jane, firmly. “And as I shall give you no quarter, so I expect none.”

“Be it so,” rejoined the bishop. “To you, my son,” he continued, addressing Lord Guilford, “I can hold very different language. I can give you such welcome as the prodigal son received, and rejoice in your reconciliation with your heavenly father. And I sincerely trust that this noble lady, your consort, will not be a means of turning aside that mercy which her most gracious Majesty is desirous of extending towards you.”

“My lord,” said Jane, stepping between them, and steadfastly regarding the bishop, “if I am wrong and my husband is right, the Queen will do well not to punish the innocent with the guilty. And you, dear Dudley,” she continued, taking his hand, and gazing at him with streaming eyes, “grant me one favour—the last I shall ever ask of you.”

“Daughter!” observed Gardiner, severely, “I cannot permit this interference. I must interpose my authority to prevent your attempting to shake your husband’s determination.”

“All I ask, my lord, is this,” rejoined Jane, meekly; “that he will abide the issue of the disputation before he renounces his faith for ever. It is a request, which I am sure neither he, nor you will refuse.”

“It is granted, daughter,” replied Gardiner; “the rather that I feel so certain of convincing you that I doubt not you will then as strongly urge his reconciliation as you now oppose it.”

“I would that not my husband alone, but that all Christendom could be auditors of our conference, my lord,” replied Jane. “In this cause I am as strong, as in the late on which I was engaged I was weak. With this shield,” she continued, raising the Bible which she carried beneath her arm, “I cannot sustain injury.” Advancing towards the table at which the secretary was seated, she laid the sacred volume upon it. She then divested of her surcoat, and addressed a few words, in an under tone, to her husband, while the ecclesiastics conferred together. While this was passing, Lord Guilford’s eye accidentally fell upon his father’s inscription on the wall, and he called Jane’s attention to it. She sighed as she looked, and remarked, “Do not let your name be stained like his.”

Perceiving Simon Renard gazing at them with malignant satisfaction, she then turned to Gardiner and said, “My lord, the presence of this person troubles me. I pray you, if he be not needful to our conference, that you will desire him to withdraw.”

The bishop acquiesced, and having signified his wishes to the ambassador, he feigned to depart. But halting beneath the arched entrance, he remained an unseen witness of the proceedings.

A slight pause ensued, during which Jane knelt beside the chair, and fervently besought heaven to grant her strength for the encounter. She then arose, and fixing her eye upon Gardiner, said in a firm tone, “I am ready, my lord, I pray you question me, and spare me not.”

No further intimation was necessary to the bishop, who immediately proceeded to interrogate her on the articles of her faith; and being a man of profound learning, well versed in all the subtleties of scholastic dispute, he sought in every way to confound and perplex her. In this he was likewise assisted by Bonner and Feckenham, both of whom were admirable theologians, and who proposed the most difficult questions to her. The conference lasted several hours, during which Jane sustained her part with admirable constancy—never losing a single point—but retorting upon her opponents questions, which they were unable to answer—displaying such a fund of erudition—such powers of argument—such close and clear reasoning—and such profound knowledge of the tenets of her own faith and of theirs, that they were completely baffled and astounded. To a long and eloquent address of Gardiner’s she replied at equal length, and with even more eloquence and fervour, concluding with these emphatic words—“My lord, I have lived in the Protestant faith, and in that faith I will die. In these sad times, when the power of your church is in the ascendant, it is perhaps needful there should be martyrs in ours to prove our sincerity. Amongst these I shall glory to be numbered—happy in the thought that my firmness will be the means in after ages, of benefiting the Protestant church. On this rock,” she continued, pointing to the Bible, which lay open before her—“my religion is built, and it will endure, when yours, which is erected on sandy foundations, shall be utterly swept away. In this sacred volume, I find every tenet of my creed, and I desire no other mediator between my Maker and myself.”

As she said this, her manner was so fervid, and her look so full of inspiration, that all her listeners were awe-stricken, and gazed at her in involuntary admiration. The secretary suspended his task to drink in her words; and even Simon Renard, who ensconced beneath the door-way, seemed no inapt representation of the spirit of evil, appeared confounded.

After a brief pause, Gardiner arose, saying, “the conference is ended, daughter. You are at liberty to depart. If I listen longer,” he added, in an under tone to his companions, “I shall be convinced against my will.”

“Then you acknowledge your defeat, my lord,” said Jane, proudly.

“I acknowledge that it is in vain to make any impression on you,” answered the bishop.

“Jane,” cried her husband, advancing towards her, and throwing himself on his knees before her, “you have conquered, and I implore your forgiveness. I will never change a religion of which you are so bright an ornament.”

“This is indeed a victory,” replied Jane, raising him and clasping him to her bosom. “And now, my lord,” she added to Gardiner, “conduct us to prison or the scaffold as soon as you please. Death has no further terrors.”

After a parting embrace, and an assurance from her husband, that he would now remain constant in his faith, Jane was removed by her guard to the Brick Tower, while Lord Guilford was immured in one of the cells adjoining the room in which the conference had taken place.

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XI.—HOW CUTHBERT CHOLMONDELEY REVISITED THE STONE KITCHEN; AND HOW HE WENT IN SEARCH OF CICELY.

Cuthbert Cholmondeley, who, it may be remembered, attended Lord Guilford Dudley, when he was brought from Sion House to the Tower, was imprisoned at the same time as that unfortunate nobleman, and lodged in the Nun’s Bower—a place of confinement so named, and situated, as already mentioned, in the upper story of the Coal Harbour Tower. Here he was detained until after the Duke of Northumberland’s execution, when, though he was not restored to liberty, he was allowed the range of the fortress. The first use he made of his partial freedom was to proceed to the Stone Kitchen, in the hope of meeting with Cicely; and his bitter disappointment may be conceived on finding that she was not there, nor was anything known of her by her foster-parents.

“Never since the ill-fated Queen Jane, whom they now call a usurper, took her into her service, have I set eyes upon her,” said Dame Potentia, who was thrown into an agony of affliction, by the sight of Cholmondeley. “Hearing from old Gunnora Braose, that when her unfortunate mistress was brought back a captive to the Tower she had been left at Sion House, and thinking she would speedily return, I did not deem it necessary to send for her; but when a week had elapsed, and she did not make her appearance, I desired her father to go in search of her. Accordingly, he went to Sion House, and learnt that she had been fetched away, on the morning after Queen Jane’s capture, by a man who stated he had come from us. This was all Peter could learn. Alas! Alas!”

“Did not your suspicions alight on Nightgall?” asked Cholmondeley.

“Ay, marry, did they,” replied the pantler’s wife; “but he averred he had never quitted the Tower. And as I had no means of proving it upon him, I could do nothing more than tax him with it.”

“He still retains his office of jailer, I suppose?” said Cholmondeley.

“Of a surety,” answered Potentia; “and owing to Simon Renard, whom you may have heard, is her Majesty’s right hand, he has become a person of greater authority than ever, and affects to look down upon his former friends.”

“He cannot look down upon me at all events,” exclaimed a loud voice behind them. And turning at the sound, Cholmondeley beheld the bulky figure of Gog darkening the door-way.

A cordial greeting passed between Cholmondeley and the giant, who in the same breath congratulated him upon his restoration to liberty, and condoled with him on the loss of his mistress.

“In the midst of grief we must perforce eat,” observed the pantler, “and our worthy friends, the giants, as well as Xit, have often enlivened our board, and put care to flight. Perhaps you are not aware that Magog has been married since we last saw you.”

“Magog married!” exclaimed Cholmondeley, in surprise.

“Ay. indeed!” rejoined Gog, “more persons than your worship have been astonished by it. And shall I let you into secret—if ever husband was henpecked, it is my unfortunate brother. Your worship complains of losing your mistress. Would to heaven he had had any such luck! And the worst of it is that before marriage she was accounted the most amiable of her sex.”

“Ay, that’s always the case,” observed Peter Trusbut; “though I must do my dame the justice to say that she did not disguise her qualities during my courtship.”

“I will not hear a word uttered in disparagement of Dame Potentia,” cried Ribald, who at that moment entered the kitchen, “even by her husband. Ah! Master Cholmondeley I am right glad to see you. I heard of your release to-day. So, the pretty bird is flown you find—and whither none of us can tell, though I think I could give a guess at the fowler.”

“So could I,” replied Cholmondeley.

“I dare say both our suspicions tend to the same mark,” said Ribald—“but we must observe caution now—for the person I mean is protected by Simon Renard, and others in favour with the queen.”

“He is little better than an assassin,” said Cholmondeley; “and has detained a wretched woman whom he has driven out of her senses by his cruelty a captive in the subterranean dungeons beneath the Devilin Tower.”

And he proceeded to detail all he knew of the captive Alexia.

“This is very dreadful, no doubt,” remarked Ribald, who had listened to the recital with great attention. “But as I said before, Nightgall is in favour with persons of the greatest influence, and he is more dangerous and vindictive than ever. What you do, you must do cautiously.”

By this time, the party had been increased by the arrival of Og and Xit, both of whom, but especially the latter, appeared rejoiced to meet with the young esquire.

“Ah! Master Cholmondeley,” said the elder giant, heaving a deep sigh. “Times have changed with us all since we last met. Jane is no longer Queen. The Duke of Northumberland is beheaded. Cicely is lost. And last and worst of all, Magog is married.”

“So I have heard from Gog,” replied Cholmondeley, “and I fear not very much to your satisfaction.1’

“Nor his own either,” replied Og, shrugging his shoulders. “However it can’t be helped. He must make the best of a bad bargain.”

“It might be helped though,” observed Xit. “Magog seems to have lost all his spirit since he married. If I had to manage her, I’d soon let her see the difference.”

“You, forsooth!” exclaimed Dame Potentia, contemptuously. “Do you imagine any woman would stand in awe-of you!”

And before the dwarf could elude her grasp, she seized him by the nape of the neck, and regardless of his cries, placed him upon the chimney-piece, amid a row of shining pewter plates.

“There you shall remain,” she added, “till you beg pardon for your impertinence.”

Xit looked piteously around, but seeing no hand extended to reach him down, and being afraid to spring from so great a height, he entreated the dame’s forgiveness in a humble tone; and she thereupon set him upon the ground.

“A pretty person you are to manage a wife,” said Dame Potentia, with a laugh, in which all, except the object of it, joined.

It being Cholmondeley’s intention to seek out a lodging at one of the warder’s habitations, he consulted Peter Trusbut on the subject, who said, that if his wife was agreeable, he should be happy to accommodate him in his own dwelling. The matter being referred to Dame Potentia she at once assented, and assigned him Cicely’s chamber.

On taking possession of the room, Cholmondeley sank upon a chair, and for some time indulged the most melancholy reflections, from which he was aroused by a tremendous roar of laughter, such as he knew could only be uttered by the gigantic brethren, proceeding from the adjoining apartment. Repairing thither, he found the whole party assembled round the table, which was, as usual, abundantly, or rather superabundantly, furnished. Amongst the guests were Magog and his wife, and the laughter he had heard was occasioned by a box administered by the latter to the ears of her spouse, because he had made some remark that sounded displeasing in her own. Magog bore the blow with the utmost philosophy, and applied himself for consolation to a huge pot of metheglin, which he held to his lips as long as a drop remained within it.

“We had good doings in Queen’s Jane’s reign,” remarked Peter Trusbut, offering the young esquire a seat beside him, “but we have better in those of Queen Mary.”

And, certainly, his assertion was fully borne out by the great joints of beef, the hams, the pasties, and pullets with which the table groaned, and with which the giants were making their accustomed havoc. In the midst stood what Peter Trusbut termed a royal pasty, and royal it was, if size could confer dignity. It contained two legs of mutton, the pantler assured his guests, besides a world of other savoury matters, enclosed in a wall of rye-crust, and had taken twenty-four hours to bake.

“Twenty-four hours!” echoed Magog. “I will engage to consume it in the twentieth part of the time.”

“For that observation you shall not even taste it,” said his arbitrary spouse.

Debarred from the pasty, Magog made himself some amends by attacking a gammon of Bayonne bacon, enclosed in a paste, and though he found it excellent, he had the good sense to keep his opinion to himself. In this way, the supper passed off—Ribald jesting as usual, and devoting himself alternately to the two dames—Peter Trusbut carving the viands and assisting his guests—and the giants devouring all before them.

Towards the close of the repast, Xit, who always desired to be an object of attention, determined to signalise himself by some feat. Brandishing his knife and fork, he therefore sprang upon the table, and striding up to the royal pasty, peeped over the side, which was rather higher than himself, to take a survey of the contents.

While he was thus occupied, Dame Placida, who was sitting opposite to the pasty, caught him by the skirts of his doublet, and tossed him into the pie, while Peter Trusbut instantly covered it with the thick lid of crust, which had been removed when it was first opened. The laughter which followed this occurrence was not diminished, as the point of Xit’s knife appeared through the wall of pastry—nor was it long before he contrived to cut a passage out.

His re-appearance was hailed with a general shout of merriment. And Magog was by no means displeased at seeing him avenge himself by rushing towards his plump partner, and before she could prevent him, throw his arms round her, and imprint a sounding kiss upon her lips, while his greasy habiliments besmeared her dress.

Xit would have suffered severely for this retaliation, if it had not been for the friendly interference of Ribald, who rescued him from the clutches of the offended dame, and contrived with a tact peculiar to himself not only to appease her anger, but to turn it into mirth. Order being once more restored, the dishes and plates were removed, and succeeded by flagons and pots of ale and wine. The conversation then began to turn upon a masque about to be given to the Queen by the Earl of Devonshire, at which they were all to assist, and arrangements were made as to the characters they should assume. Though this topic was interesting enough to the parties concerned, it was not so to Cholmondeley, who was about to retire to his own chamber to indulge his grief unobserved, when his departure was arrested by the sudden entrance of Lawrence Nightgall.

At the jailor’s appearance, the merriment of the party instantly ceased, and all eyes were bent upon him.

“Your business here, master Nightgall?” demanded Peter Trusbut, who was the first to speak.

“My business is with Master Cuthbert Cholmondeley,” replied the jailor.

“State it then at once,” replied the esquire, frowning. “It is to ascertain where you intend to lodge, that I may report it to the lieutenant,” said Nightgall.

“I shall remain here,” replied Cholmondeley, sternly—“in Cicely’s chamber.”

“Here!” exclaimed Nightgall, starting, but instantly recovering himself, he turned to Peter Trusbut, and in a voice of forced composure, added—“You will be responsible then for him, Master Pantler, with your life and goods to the Queen’s highness, which, if he escapes, will both be forfeited.”

“Indeed!” cried Trusbut, in dismay. “I—I—”

“Yes—yes—my husband understands all that,” interposed Dame Potentia; “he will be answerable for him—and so will I.”

“You will understand still further,” proceeded Nightgall, with a smile of triumph, “that he is not to stir forth except for one hour at mid-day, and then that his walks are to be restricted to the green.”

While this was passing, Og observed in a whisper to Xit—“If I were possessed of that bunch of keys at Nightgall’s girdle, I could soon find Cicely.”

“Indeed!” said Xit. “Then you shall soon have them.” And the next minute he disappeared under the table.

“You have a warrant for what you do, I suppose?” demanded Og, desirous of attracting the jailor’s attention.

“Behold it,” replied Nightgall, taking a parchment from his vest. He then deliberately seated himself, and producing an ink-horn and pen, wrote Peter Trusbut’s name upon it.

“Master Pantler,” he continued, delivering it to him, “I have addressed it to you. Once more I tell you, you will be responsible for the prisoner. And with this I take my leave.”

“Not so fast, villain,” said Cholmondeley, seizing his arm with a firm grasp,—“where is Cicely?”

“You will never behold her more,” replied Nightgall. “What have you done with the captive Alexia?” pursued the esquire, bitterly.

“She likewise is beyond your reach,” answered the jailor, moodily. And shaking off Cholmondeley’s grasp, he rushed out of the chamber with such haste as nearly to upset Xit, who appeared to have placed himself purposely in his path.

This occurrence threw a gloom over the mirth of the party.

The conversation flagged, and even an additional supply of wine failed to raise the spirits of the guests. Just as they were separating, hasty steps were heard on the stairs, and Night-gall again presented himself. Rushing up to Cholmondeley, who was sitting apart wrapt in gloomy thought, he exclaimed in a voice of thunder—“My keys!—my keys!—you have stolen my keys.”

“What keys?” demanded the esquire, starting to his feet. “Those of Alexia’s dungeon.”

“Restore them instantly,” cried Nightgall, furiously—“or I will instantly carry you back to the Nun’s Bower.”

“Were they in my possession,” replied Cholmondeley, “nothing should force them from me till I had searched your most secret hiding-places.”

“‘Tis therefore you stole them,” cried Nightgall. “See where my girdle has been cut,” he added, appealing to Peter Trusbut. “If they are not instantly restored, I will convey you all before the lieutenant, and you know how he will treat the matter.”

Terrified by this threat, the pantler entreated the esquire, if he really had the keys, to restore them. But Cholmondeley positively denied the charge, and after a long and fruitless search, all the party except Xit, who had disappeared, having declared their ignorance of what had become of them, Nightgall at last departed, in a state of the utmost rage and mortification.

Soon after this, the party broke up, and Cholmondeley retired to his own room. Though the pantler expressed no fear of his escaping, he did not neglect the precaution of locking the door. Throwing himself on a couch, the esquire, after a time, fell into a sort of doze, during which he was haunted by the image of Cicely, who appeared pale and suffering, and as if imploring his aid. So vivid was the impression, that he started up, and endeavoured to shake it off. In vain. He could not divest himself of the idea that he was at that moment subjected to the persecutions of Nightgall. Having endured this anguish for some hours, and the night being far advanced, he was about to address himself once more to repose, when he heard the lock turned, and glancing in the direction of the door, perceived it cautiously opened by Xit. The mannikin placed his finger to his lips in token of silence, and held up a huge bunch of keys, which Cholmondeley instantly conjectured were those lost by Nightgall. Xit then briefly explained how he had possessed himself of them, and offered them to Cholmondeley.

“I love the fair Cicely,” he said, “hate Nightgall, and entertain a high respect for your worship. I would gladly make you happy with your mistress if I can. You have now at least the means of searching for her, and heaven grant a favourable issue to the adventure. Follow me, and tread upon the points of your feet, for the pantler and his spouse occupy the next room.”

As they crossed the kitchen, they heard a sound proceeding from an adjoining room, which convinced them that neither Peter Trusbut nor Dame Potentia were on the watch.

“They don’t snore quite so loud as my friends the giants,” whispered Xit; “but they have tolerably good lungs.’”

Having, at Xit’s suggestion, armed himself with a torch and materials to light it, and girded on a sword which he found reared against the wall, the esquire followed his dwarfish companion down a winding stone staircase, and speedily issued from the postern.

The night was profoundly dark, and they were therefore unobserved by the sentinels on the summit of the Byward Tower, and on the western ramparts. Without delaying a moment, Cholmondeley hurried towards the Devilin Tower. Xit accompanied him, and after some little search they found the secret door, and by a singular chance Cholmondeley, on the first application, discovered the right key. He then bade farewell to the friendly dwarf, who declined attending him further, and entering the passage, and locking the door withinside, struck a light and set fire to the torch.

Scarcely knowing whither to shape his course, and fully aware of the extent of the dungeons he should have to explore, Cholmondeley resolved to leave no cell unvisited, until he discovered the object of his search. For some time, he proceeded along a narrow arched passage, which brought him to a stone staircase, and descending it, his further progress was stopped by an iron door. Unlocking it, he entered another passage, on the right of which was a range of low cells, all of which he examined, but they were untenanted, except one, in which he found a man whom he recognized as one of the Duke of Northumberland’s followers. He did not, however, dare to liberate him, but with a few words of commiseration passed on.

Turning off on the left, he proceeded for some distance, until being convinced by the hollow sound of the floor that there were vaults beneath, he held his torch downwards, and presently discovered an iron ring in one of the stones. Raising it, he beheld a flight of steps, and descending them, found himself in a lower passage about two feet wide, and apparently of considerable length. Hastily tracking it, he gradually descended until he came to a level, where both the floor and ceiling were damp and humid. His torch now began to burn feebly, and threw a ghastly light upon the slimy walls and dripping roof.

While he was thus pursuing his way, a long and fearful shriek broke upon his ear, and thinking it might proceed from the captive Alexia, he hastened forward as quickly as the slippery path would allow him. It was evident, from the increasing humidity of the atmosphere, that he was approaching the river. As he advanced the cries grew louder, and he became aware, from the noise around, that legions of rats were fleeing before him. These loathsome animals were in such numbers, that Cholmondeley, half-fearing an attack from them, drew his sword.

After proceeding about fifty yards, the passage he was traversing terminated in a low wide vault, in the centre of which was a deep pit. From the bottom of this abyss the cries resounded, and hurrying to its edge, he held down the torch, and discovered, at the depth of some twenty feet, a miserable half-naked object up to his knees in water, and defending himself from hundreds of rats that were swarming around him. While he was considering how he could accomplish the poor wretch’s deliverance, who continued his shrieks more loudly than ever, asserting that the rats were devouring him, Cholmondeley perceived a ladder in a corner of the vault, and lowering it into the pit, the sides of which were perpendicular and flagged, instantly descended.

If he had been horrified at the vociferations of the prisoner, he was now perfectly appalled by the ghastly spectacle he presented. The unfortunate person had not exaggerated his danger when he said that the rats were about to devour him. His arms, body, and face were torn and bleeding, and as Cholmondeley approached he beheld numbers of his assailants spring from him and swim off. More dead than alive, the sufferer expressed his thanks, and taking him in his arms, Cholmondeley carried him up the ladder.

As soon as he had gained the edge of the pit, the esquire, who had been struck with the man’s voice, examined his features by the light of the torch, and was shocked to find that he was one of the attendants of the Duke of Northumberland, with whom he was well acquainted. Addressing him by his name, the man instantly knew him, and informed him that he had been ordered into confinement by the council, and having given some offence to Nightgall, had been tortured and placed in this horrible pit.

“I have been here two days and nights,” he said, “as far as I can guess, without food or light, and should soon have perished, had it not been for your aid; and, though I do not fear death,—yet to die by inches—a prey to those horrible animals—was dreadful.”

“Let me support you,” returned Cholmondeley, taking his arm, “and while you have strength left, convey you to a more wholesome part of the dungeon, where you will be free from these frightful assailants, till I can procure you further assistance.”

The poor prisoner gratefully accepted his offer, and lending him all the assistance in his power, Cholmondeley slowly retraced his course. Having reached the flight of stone steps, leading to the trap-door, the esquire dragged his companion up them, and finding it in vain to carry him further, and fearing he should be disappointed in the main object of his search, he looked around for a cell in which he could place him for a short time.

Perceiving a door standing ajar on the left, he pushed it open, and, entering a small cell, found the floor covered with straw, and, what was still more satisfactory to him, discovered a loaf on a shelf, and a large jug of water. Placing the prisoner on the straw, he spread the provisions before him, and having seen him partake of them, promised to return as soon as possible.

“Bestow no further thought on me,” said the man. “I shall die content now.”

Cholmondeley then departed, and proceeding along the passage he had just traversed, came to a wide arched opening on the left, which he entered, and pursuing the path before him, after many turnings, arrived at another low circular vault, about nineteen feet in diameter, which, from the peculiar form of its groined arches, he supposed (and correctly) must be situated beneath Devereux Tower.

Of a style of architecture of earlier date than the Beauchamp Tower, the Devilin, or, as it is now termed, the Devereux Tower, from the circumstance of Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex, the favourite of Queen Elizabeth, having been confined within it in 1601, has undergone less alteration than most of the other fortifications, and except in the modernising of the windows, retains much of its original character. In the dungeon into which Cholmondeley had penetrated, several curious spear-heads of great antiquity, and a gigantic thigh-bone, have been recently found.

At the further end of the vault Cholmondeley discovered a short flight of steps, and mounting them unlocked a door, which admitted him to another narrow winding stone staircase. Ascending it, he presently came to a door on the left, shaped like the arched entrance in which it was placed. It was of strong oak, studded with nails, and secured by a couple of bolts.

Drawing back the fastenings, he unsheathed his sword, and pushing aside the door with the blade, raised his torch, and beheld a spectacle that Idled him with horror. At one side of the cell, which was about six feet long and three wide, and contrived in the thickness of the wall, upon a stone seat rested the dead body of a woman, reduced almost to a skeleton. The face was turned from the door, but rushing forward he instantly recognised its rigid features. On the wall close to where she lay, and evidently carved by her own hand, was traced her name—ALEXIA.

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XII.—-HOW EDWARD UNDERHILL, THE “HOT-GOSPELLER,” ATTEMPTED TO ASSASSINATE QUEEN MARY; AND HOW SHE WAS PRESERVED BY SIR HENRY BEDINGFELD.

Among those who viewed Mary’s accession to the throne with the greatest dissatisfaction, was the Hot-Gospeller. Foreseeing the danger with which the Protestant church was menaced, he regarded the change of sovereigns as one of the most direful calamities that could have befallen his country. The open expression of these sentiments more than once brought him into trouble, and he was for some time placed in durance. On his liberation, he observed more caution; and though his opinions were by no means altered, but rather strengthened, he no longer gave utterance to them.

During his imprisonment, he had pondered deeply upon the critical state of his religion; and having come to the conclusion that there was no means but one of averting the threatened storm, he determined to resort to that desperate expedient. Underhill’s temporal interests had been as much affected as his spiritual, by the new government. He was dismissed from the post he had hitherto held of gentleman-pensioner; and this circumstance, though he was, perhaps, scarcely conscious of it, contributed in no slight degree to heighten his animosity against the queen. Ever brooding upon the atrocious action he was about to commit, he succeeded in persuading himself, by that pernicious process of reasoning by which religious enthusiasts so often delude themselves into the commission of crime, that it was not only justifiable, but meritorious.

Though no longer a prisoner, or employed in any office, the Hot-Gospeller still continued to linger within the Tower, judging it the fittest place for the execution of his purpose. He took up his abode in a small stone cell, once tenanted by a recluse, and situated at the back of Saint Peter’s chapel, on the Green; devoting his days to prayer, and his nights to wandering, like a ghost, about the gloomiest and least-frequented parts of the fortress. He was often challenged by the sentinels,—often stopped, and conveyed to the guard-room by the patrol; but in time they became accustomed to him, and he was allowed to pursue his ramblings unmolested. By most persons he was considered deranged, and his wasted figure—for he almost denied himself the necessaries of life, confining his daily meal to a crust of bread, and a draught of water,—together with his miserable attire, confirmed the supposition.

Upon one occasion, Mary herself, who was making the rounds of the fortress, happened to notice him, and ordered him to be brought before her. A blaze of fierce delight passed over the enthusiast’s face when the mandate was conveyed to him. But his countenance fell the next moment, on recollecting that he was unarmed. Bitterly reproaching himself for his want of caution, he searched his clothes. He had not even a knife about him. He then besought the halberdiers who came for him to lend him a cloak and a sword, or even a partizan, to make a decent appearance before the queen. But laughing at the request, they struck him with the poles of their weapons, and commanded him to follow them without delay.

Brought into the royal presence, he with difficulty controlled himself. And nothing but the conviction that such a step would effectually defeat his design, prevented him from pouring forth the most violent threats against the queen. As it was, he loudly lamented her adherence to the faith of Rome, entreating her to abjure it, and embrace the new and wholesome doctrines,—a course, which he predicted, would ensure her a long and prosperous reign, whereas, a continuance in her present idolatrous creed would plunge her kingdom in discord, endanger her crown, and, perhaps, end in her own destruction.

Regarding him as a half-crazed, but harmless enthusiast, Mary paid little attention to his address, which was sufficiently wild and incoherent to warrant the conclusion that his intellects were disordered. Pitying his miserable appearance, and inquiring into his mode of life, she ordered him better apparel, and directed that he should be lodged within the palace.

Underhill would have refused her bounty, but, at a gesture from Mary, he was removed from her presence.

This interview troubled him exceedingly. He could not reconcile the queen’s destruction to his conscience so easily as he had heretofore done. Despite all his reasoning to the contrary, her generosity affected him powerfully. He could not divest himself of the idea that she might yet be converted; and persuading himself that the glorious task was reserved for him, he resolved to make the attempt, before resorting to a darker mode of redress. Managing to throw himself, one day, in her way, as she was proceeding along the grand gallery, he immediately commenced a furious exhortation. But his discourse was speedily interrupted by the queen, who ordered her attendants to remove him into the court yard, and cudgel him soundly; directing that any repetition of the offence should be followed by severer chastisement. This sentence was immediately carried into effect. The Hot-Gospeller bore it without a murmur. But he internally resolved to defer no longer his meditated design.

His next consideration was how to execute it. He could not effect his purpose by poison; and any attempt at open violence would, in all probability, (as the queen was constantly guarded,) be attended by failure. He therefore determined, as the surest means, to have recourse to fire-arms. And, being an unerring marksman, he felt certain of success in this way.

Having secretly procured an arquebuss and ammunition, he now only awaited a favourable moment for the enterprise. This soon occurred. It being rumoured one night in the Tower, that the queen was about to proceed by water to Whitehall on the following morning, he determined to station himself at some point on the line of road, whence he could take deliberate aim at her. On inquiring further, he ascertained that the royal train would cross the drawbridge leading from the south of the Byward Tower to the wharf, and embark at the stairs. Being personally known to several officers of the guard, he thought he should have no difficulty in obtaining admittance to Saint Thomas’s Tower, which, while it commanded the drawbridge, and was within shot, was yet sufficiently distant not to excite suspicion. Accordingly, at an early hour, on the next day, he repaired thither, wrapped in a cloak, beneath which he carried the implement of his treasonable intent.

As he anticipated, he readily procured admission, and, under pretence of viewing the passage of the royal train, was allowed a place at a narrow loophole in the upper story of one of the western turrets. Most of the guard being required on the summit of the fortification, Underhill was left alone in the small chamber. Loud shouts, and the discharge of artillery from the ramparts of the fortress, as well as from the roofs of the different towers, proclaimed that Mary had set forth. A few embers were burning on the hearth in the chamber occupied by the enthusiast. With these he lighted his tow-match, and offering up a prayer for the success of his project, held himself in readiness for its execution.

Unconscious of the impending danger, Mary took her way towards the By-ward Tower. She was attended by a numerous retinue of nobles and gentlemen. Near her walked one of her councillors, Sir Henry Bedingfeld, in whom she placed the utmost trust, and whose attachment to her had been often approved in the reigns of her father and brother, as well as during the late usurpation of Lady Jane Grey. Sir Henry was a grave-looking, dignified personage, somewhat stricken in years. He was attired in a robe of black velvet, of the fashion of Henry the Eighth’s time, and his beard was trimmed in the same bygone mode. The venerable knight walked bare-headed, and carried a long staff, tipped with gold.

By this time, Mary had reached the gateway opening upon the scene of her intended assassination. The greater part of her train had already passed over the drawbridge, and the deafening shouts of the beholders, as well as the renewed discharges of artillery, told that the queen was preparing to follow. This latter circumstance created a difficulty, which Underhill had not foreseen. Confined by the ramparts and the external walls of the moat, the smoke from the ordnance completely obscured the view of the drawbridge. Just, however, as Mary set foot upon it, and Underhill had abandoned the attempt in despair, a gust of wind suddenly dispersed the vapour. Conceiving this a special interposition of Providence in his favour, who had thus placed his royal victim in his hands, the Hot-Gospeller applied the match to the arquebuss, and the discharge instantly followed.

The queen’s life, however, was miraculously preserved. Sir Henry Bedingfeld, who was walking a few paces behind her, happening to cast his eye in the direction of Traitor’s Tower, perceived the barrel of an arquebuss thrust from a loop-hole in one of the turrets, and pointed towards her. Struck with the idea that some injury might be intended her, he sprung forward, and interposing his own person between the queen and the discharge, drew her forcibly backwards. The movement saved her. The ball passed through the knight’s mantle, but without harming him further than ruffling the skin of his shoulder; proving by the course it took, that, but for his presence of mind, its fatal effect must have been certain.

All this was the work of an instant. Undismayed by the occurrence, Mary, who inherited all her father’s intrepidity, looked calmly round, and pressing Bedingfeld’s arm in grateful acknowledgment of the service he had rendered her, issued her commands that the assassin should be secured, strictly examined, and, if need be, questioned on the rack. She then proceeded to the place of embarkation as deliberately as if nothing had happened. Pausing before she entered the barge, she thus addressed her preserver:—

“Sir Henry Bedingfeld, you have ever been my loyal servant. You were the first, during the late usurpation, to draw the sword in my defence—the first to raise troops for me—to join me at Framlingham—to proclaim me at Norwich. But you have thrown all these services into the shade by your last act of devotion. I owe my life to you. What can I do to evince my gratitude?”

“You have already done more than enough in thus acknowledging it, gracious madam,” replied Sir Henry; “nor can I claim any merit for the action. Placed in my situation, I am assured there is not one of your subjects, except the miscreant who assailed you, who would not have acted in the same manner. I have done nothing, and deserve nothing.”

“Not so, sir,” returned Mary. “Most of my subjects, I believe, share your loyalty. But this does not lessen your desert. I should be wanting in all gratitude were I to let the service you have rendered me pass unrequited. And since you refuse to tell me how I can best reward you, I must take upon myself to judge for you. The custody of our person and of our fortress shall be entrusted to your care. Neither can be confided to worthier hands. Sir John Gage shall receive another appointment. Henceforth, you are Lieutenant of the Tower.”

This gracious act was followed by the acclamations of the bystanders; and the air resounded with cries of “God save Queen Mary!—a Bedingfeld!—a Bedingfeld!”

“Your majesty has laid an onerous duty upon me, but I will endeavour to discharge it to your satisfaction,” replied Sir Henry, bending the knee, and pressing her hand devotedly to his lips. And amid the increased acclamations of the multitude, Mary entered her barge.

Edward Underhill, meanwhile, whose atrocious purpose had been thus providentially defeated, on perceiving that his royal victim had escaped, uttered an ejaculation of rage and disappointment, flung down the arquebuss, and folding his arms upon his bosom, awaited the result. Fortunately, an officer accompanied the soldiers who seized him, or they would have hewn him in pieces.

The wretched man made no attempt to fly, or to defend himself, but when the soldiers rushed into the room, cried, “Go no further. I am he you seek.”

“We know it, accursed villain,” rejoined the foremost of their number, brandishing a sword over his head. “You have slain the queen.”

“Would I had!” rejoined Underhill. “But it is not the truth. The Lord was not willing I should be the instrument of his vengeance.”

“Hear the blasphemer!” roared another soldier, dealing him a blow in the mouth with the pummel of his dagger, that made the blood gush from his lips. “He boasts of the villany he has committed.”

“If my arm had not been stayed, I had delivered the land from idolatry and oppression,” returned Underhill. “A season of terrible persecution is at hand, when you will lament as much as I do, that my design has been frustrated. The blood of the righteous would have been spared; the fagots at the stake un-lighted; the groans of the martyrs unheard. But it is the Lord’s will that this should be. Blessed be the name of the Lord!”

“Silence, hell-dog!” vociferated a third soldier, placing the point of his halbert at his breast. “Host think Heaven would approve the foul deed thou meditatedst? Silence! I say, or I will drive my pike to thy heart.”

“I will not be silent,” rejoined Underhill, firmly. “So long as breath is left me, I will denounce the idolatrous queen by whom this unhappy land is governed, and pray that the crown may be removed from her head.”

“Rather than thou shalt do so in my hearing, I will pluck out thy traitorous tongue by the roots,” returned the soldier who had last spoken.

“Peace,” interposed the officer. “Secure him, but harm him not. He may have confederates. It is important that all concerned in this atrocious attempt should be discovered.”

“I have no accomplice,” replied Underhill. “My own heart dictated what my hand essayed.”

“May that hand perish in everlasting fire for the deed!” rejoined the officer. “But if there be power in torture to make you confess who set you on, it shall not be left untried.”

“I have already spoken the truth,” replied the enthusiast; “and the sharpest engine ever devised by ruthless man shall not make me gainsay it, or accuse the innocent. I would not have shared the glory of the action with any one. And since it has failed, my life alone shall pay the penalty.”

“Gag him,” cried the officer. “If I listen longer, I shall be tempted to anticipate the course of justice, and I would not one pang should be spared him.”

The command was obeyed. On searching him, they found a small powder-flask, a few bullets, notched, to make the wound they inflicted more dangerous, a clasp-knife, and a bible, in the first leaf of which was written a prayer for the deliverance and restoration of Queen Jane,—a circumstance afterwards extremely prejudicial to that unfortunate lady.

After Underhill had been detained for some hours in the chamber where he was seized, an order arrived to carry him before the council. Brought before them, he answered all their interrogations firmly, confessed his design, related how he had planned it, and denied as before, with the strongest asseverations, that he had any accomplice. When questioned as to the prayer for Lady Jane Grey, whom he treasonably designated “Queen Jane,” he answered that he should ever regard her as the rightful sovereign, and should pray with his latest breath for her restoration to the throne—a reply, which awakened a suspicion that some conspiracy was in agitation in Jane’s favour. Nothing further, however, could be elicited, and he was ordered to be put to the rack.

Delivered by the guard to Lawrence Nightgall and his assistants, he was conveyed to the torture-chamber. The sight of the dreadful instruments there collected, though enough to appal the stoutest breast, appeared to have no terror for him. Scrutinizing the various engines with a look of curiosity, he remarked that none of them seemed to have been recently used; and added, that they would soon be more frequently employed. He had not been there many minutes, when Mauger, the headsman, Wolfytt, the sworn tormentor, and Sorrocold the chirurgeon, arrived, and preparations were made for administering the torture.

The rack has already been described as a large oaken frame, raised about three feet from the ground, having a roller at each end, moved by a lever. Stripped, and placed on his back on the ground, the prisoner was attached by strong cords to the rollers. Stationing themselves at either extremity of the frame, Mauger and Wolfytt each seized a lever, while Nightgall took up his position at the small table opposite, to propose the interrogations, and write down the answers. The chirurgeon remained near the prisoner, and placed his hand upon his wrist. Those preparations made, Nightgall demanded, in a stern tone, whether the prisoner would confess who had instigated him to the crime he had committed.

“I have already said I have no accomplices,” replied Underhill.

Nightgall made a sign to the assistants, and the rollers were turned with a creaking sound, extending the prisoners limbs in opposite directions, and giving him exquisite pain. But he did not even groan.

After the lapse of a few moments, Nightgall said, “Edward Underhill, I again ask you who were your accomplices?”

No answer being returned, the jailor waved his hand, and the levers were again turned. The sharpness of the torture forced an involuntary cry from the prisoner. But beyond this expression of suffering, he continued silent.

The interrogation was a third time repeated; and after some effort on the part of the assistants, the levers were again turned. Nightgall and the chirurgcon both watched this part of the application with some curiosity. The strain upon the limbs was almost intolerable. The joints started from their sockets, and the sinews were drawn out to their utmost capability of tension.

After the wretched man had endured this for a few minutes, Sorrocold informed Nightgall, in a low tone, that nature was failing. The cords were then gradually relaxed, and he was unbound. His temples being bathed with vinegar, he soon afterwards revived.

But he was only recovered from one torture to undergo another. The next step taken by his tormentors was to place him in a suit of irons, called the Scavenger’s Daughter—a hideous engine devised by Sir William Skevington, lieutenant of the Tower, in Henry the Eighth’s reign, and afterwards corrupted into the name above mentioned. By this horrible machine, which was shaped like a hoop, his limbs were compressed so closely together that he resembled a ball; and being conveyed to an adjoining dungeon, he was left in this state without light or food for further examination.

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XIII.—HOW MAGOG NEARLY LOST HIS SUPPER; HOW HIS BEARD WAS BURNT; HOW XIT WAS PLACED IN A BASKET; AND HOW HE WAS KICKED UPON THE RAMPARTS.

Congratulations, rejoicings, and public thanksgivings followed the queen’s preservation from the hand of the assassin. Courtenay, who had long planned a masque to be exhibited for her amusement within the Tower, thought this a fitting occasion to produce it. And the utmost expedition being used, on the day but one after Underhill’s attempt, all was in readiness.

Great mystery having been observed in the preparations for the pageant, that it might come upon the spectators as a surprise, none, except those actually concerned in it, knew what was intended to be represented. Even the actors, themselves, were kept in darkness concerning it, and it was only on the night before, when their dresses were given them, that they had any precise notion of the characters they were to assume. A sort of rehearsal then took place in one of the lower chambers of the palace; at which the Earl of Devonshire assisted in person, and instructed them in their parts. A few trials soon made all perfect, and when the rehearsal was over, Courtenay felt satisfied that the pageant would go off with tolerable eclat.

As may be supposed, the three gigantic warders and their diminutive follower were among the mummers. Indeed, the principal parts wore assigned them; and on no previous occasion had Xit’s characteristic coxcombry been more strongly called forth than during the rehearsal. No consequential actor of modern times could give himself more airs. Perceiving he was indispensable, he would only do exactly what pleased him, and, when reprimanded for his impertinence, refused to perform at all, and was about to walk off with an air of offended dignity. A few conciliatory words, however, from the Earl of Devonshire induced him to return; and when all was arranged to his satisfaction, he began to exhibit a fun and humour that bid fair to outshine all his competitors.

The rehearsal over, a substantial repast was provided by the earl for his troop. And here, as usual, the giants acquitted themselves to admiration. Unfortunately, however, for Magog, his spouse was present, and his dull apprehension of his part at the rehearsal, having excited her displeasure, she now visited it upon his devoted head. Whenever he helped himself to a piece of meat, or a capon, she snatched it from his plate, and transferred it to those of his brethren.

Supper was nearly over, and the hen-pecked giant, who as yet had tasted nothing, was casting wistful glances at the fast-vanishing dishes, when Dame Placida arose, and saying she was greatly fatigued, expressed her determination to return home immediately. In vain Magog remonstrated. She was firm, and her hapless spouse was arising with a most rueful countenance to accompany her, when Ribald very obligingly offered to take his place and escort her. Dame Placida appeared nothing loth, and Magog, having eagerly embraced the proposal, the pair departed.

“And now brother,” said Gog, “you can do as you please. Make up for lost time.”

“Doubt it not,” replied Magog, “and by way of commencing, I will trouble you for that sirloin of beef. Send me the dish and the carving-knife, I pray you, for with this puny bit of steel I can make no progress at all.”

His request was immediately complied with, and it was pleasant to behold with what inconceivable rapidity slice after slice disappeared. In a brief space, a few bare bones were all that remained of the once-lordly joint. Magog’s brethren watched his progress with truly fraternal interest. Their own appetites being satisfied, they had full leisure to minister to his wants; and most sedulously did they attend to them. A brisket of veal, steeped in verjuice, supplied the place of the sirloin, and a hare-pie, in due season, that of the veal.

Magog acknowledged these attentions with grateful murmurings.

He was too busy to speak. When the hare-pie, which was of a somewhat savoury character, was entirely consumed, he paused for a moment, and pointed significantly to a large measure of wine at some little distance from him. Og immediately stretched out his arm, and handed it to him. Nodding to his brother, the married giant drained its contents at a draught, and then applied himself with new ardour to the various dishes with which his plate was successively laden.

“What would your wife say, if she could see you now?” observed Peter Trusbut, who sat opposite to him, and witnessed his proceedings with singular satisfaction.

“Don’t mention her,” rejoined Magog, bolting a couple of cheesecakes which he had crammed, at the same time, into his capacious mouth; “don’t mention her, or you will take away my appetite.”

“No fear of that,” laughed the pantler; “but what say you to a glass of distilled waters? It will be a good wind-up to your meal, and aid digestion.”

“With all my heart,” rejoined the giant.

The pantler then handed him a stone bottle, holding perhaps a quart, and knowing his propensities, thought it needful to caution him as to the strength of the liquid. Disregarding the hint, Magog emptied the greater part of the spirit into a flagon, and tossed it off, as if it had been water. Peter Trusbut held up his hands in amazement, and expected to see the giant drop senseless under the table. But no such event followed. The only consequence of the potent draught being that it brought the water into his eyes, and made him gasp a little to recover his breath.

“How do you feel after it, brother?” inquired Og, slapping him on the shoulder.

“So valiant,” hiccupped Magog, “that I think when I get home, I shall assert my proper position as a lord of the creation.”

“Act up to that resolution, Master Magog,” observed the pantler, laughing, “and I shall not think my liquor thrown away.”

“If such be its effect,” said Xit, who; it has before been remarked, had an unconquerable tendency to imitate, and, if possible, exceed the extravagancies of his companions, “I will e’en try a drop of it myself.”

And before he could be prevented, the mannikin applied the stone bottle to his lips, and drained it to the last drop. If Magog’s brain was sufficiently stolid to resist the effect of the fiery liquid, Xit’s was not. Intoxication speedily displayed itself in the additional brilliancy of his keen sparkling little orbs, and in all his gestures. At first, his antics created much diversion, and he was allowed to indulge them freely; but before long he became so outrageous and mischievous, that it was found necessary to restrain him. Springing upon the table, he cut the most extraordinary capers among the dishes, breaking several of them, upsetting the flagons and pots of wine, tweaking the noses of the male guests, kissing the females, and committing a hundred other monkey tricks.

On being called to order, he snapped his fingers in the face of the reprover, and conceiving himself especially affronted by Gog, he threw a goblet at his head. Luckily, the missile was caught before it reached its mark. He next seized a torch, and perceiving that Magog had fallen asleep, set fire to his beard, to arouse him. Starting to his feet, the giant clapped his hand to his chin—too late however, to save a particle of his hirsute honours. His rage was terrific. Roaring like a wild bull, he vowed he would be the death of the offender; and would have kept his word, if it had not been for his brethren, who, seizing each an arm, restrained him by main strength, and forced him into his seat, where, after a few minutes, his anger gave way to laughter.

This was mainly attributable to an accident that befel Xit in his hurry to escape. Not being particular where he set his feet, the dwarf plumped into an open plum tart, the syrup of which was so thick and glutinous that it detained him as effectually as birdlime. In his terror, he dragged the dish after him to a considerable distance, and his grimaces were so irresistibly ludicrous that they convulsed the beholders with laughter. No one attempted to assist him, and it was only by the loss of both shoes that he could extricate himself from his unpleasant situation. Peter Trusbut then seized him, and thrusting him into a basket, fastened down the lid to prevent further mischief.

This occurrence served as the signal for separation. Og and Gog took their way to the By-ward Tower, the latter carrying the basket containing Xit under his arm, while Magog, bemoaning the loss of his beard, and afraid of presenting himself to his wife under such untoward circumstances, accompanied them as far as the gateway of the Bloody Tower. Here he paused to say good night.

“Would I could anticipate a good night, myself!” he groaned “But I can neither eat, drink, nor sleep in comfort now. Ah! brothers, if I had but listened to your advice! But repentance comes too late.”

“It does—it does,” replied Gog; “But let us hope your dame will amend.”

“That she never will,” screamed Xit from the basket. “What a lucky escape I had—ha! ha!”

“Peace! thou stinging gadfly,” roared Magog. “Am I ever to be tormented by thee!”

But as Xit, who imagined himself secure, only laughed the louder, he grew at last so enraged, that snatching the basket from Og, he placed it on the ground, and gave it such a kick, that it flew to the top of the ramparts beyond Traitor’s Tower, where it was picked up by a sentinel, and the dwarf taken out more dead than alive.

On reaching his habitation—which was the same Dame Placida had formerly occupied during her state of widowhood, at the right of the road leading from the Bloody Tower to the Green,—Magog found she had not retired to rest as he expected, but was engaged in conversation with Ribald, who had been prevailed upon to remain for a few minutes to taste the ale for which she was so much, and so justly, celebrated. One cup had led to another, and the jovial warder seemed ‘in no hurry to depart. The giant was delighted to see him, and, forgetting his misfortune, was about to shake him heartily by the hand, when his wife screamed out—“Why Magog, what is the matter with your chin? You have lost your beard!”

Humbly deprecating her resentment, the giant endeavoured to explain. But as nothing would satisfy her, he was fain to leave her with Ribald, and betake himself to his couch, where he speedily fell asleep, and forgot his troubles.

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XIV.—OF THE MASQUE GIVEN BY COURTENAY IN HONOUR OF QUEEN MARY; AND HOW XIT WAS SWALLOWED BY A SEA-MONSTER.

During the early part of the next day, the majority of the inmates of the Tower were on the tiptoe of expectation for the coming pageant, which was fixed to take place in the evening in the large court lying eastward of that wing of the palace, denominated the Queen’s Lodgings. The great hall, used on the previous night for the rehearsal, was allotted as a dressing-room to those engaged in the performance, and thither they repaired a few hours before the entertainment commenced.

As the day declined, multitudes flocked to the court, and stationed themselves within the barriers, which had been erected to keep off the crowd. In addition to these defences, a warder was stationed at every ten paces, and a large band of halberdiers was likewise in attendance to maintain order. Banners were suspended from the battlements of the four towers flanking the corners of the court,—namely, the Salt Tower, the Lanthorn Tower, the Wardrobe Tower, and the Broad Arrow Tower. The summits of these fortifications were covered with spectators, as were the eastern ramparts, and the White Tower. Such windows of the palace as overlooked the scene, were likewise thronged.

At the southern extremity of the court, stretching from the Lanthorn Tower to the Salt Tower, stood a terrace, raised a few feet above the level of the inclosure, and protected by a low-arched balustrade of stone. This was set apart for the Queen, and beneath a mulberry-tree, amid the branches of which a canopy of crimson velvet was disposed, her chair was placed.

About six o’clock, when every inch of standing-room was occupied, and expectation raised to its highest pitch, a door in the palace leading to the terrace was thrown open, and the Queen issued from it. Stunning vociferations welcomed her, and these were followed, or rather accompanied, by a prolonged flourish of trumpets. It was a moment of great excitement, and many a heart beat high at the joyous sounds. Every eye was directed towards Mary, who bowing repeatedly in acknowledgment of her enthusiastic reception, was saluted with—“God save your highness! Confusion to your enemies! Death to all traitors!” and other exclamations referring to her late providential deliverance.

The Queen was attired in a rich gown of raised cloth of gold. A partlet, decorated with precious stones, surrounded her throat, and her stomacher literally blazed with diamonds. Upon her head she wore a caul of gold, and over it, at the back, a round cap, embroidered with orient pearls. In front, she wore a cornet of black velvet, likewise embroidered with pearls. A couple of beautiful Italian greyhounds, confined by a silken leash, accompanied her. She was in excellent spirits, and, whether excited by the promised spectacle, or by some secret cause, appeared unusually animated. Many of the beholders, dazzled by her gorgeous attire, and struck by her sprightly air, thought her positively beautiful. Smilingly acknowledging the greetings of her subjects, she gave her hand to the Earl of Devonshire, and was conducted by him to the seat beneath the mulberry-tree.

They were followed by a numerous train of dames and nobles, foremost among whom came Sir Henry Bedingfeld,—who as lieutenant of the Tower, claimed the right of standing behind the royal chair. Next to the knight stood the Princess Elizabeth, who viewed with the bitterest jealousy the devoted attention paid by Courtenay to her sister; and, next to the princess, stood Jane the Fool. Simon Renard also was among the crowd. But he kept aloof, resolved not to show himself, unless occasion required it.

As soon as the Queen was seated, another flourish of trumpets was blown, and from the great gates at the further end of the court issued a crowd of persons clothed in the skins of wild animals, dragging an immense machine, painted to resemble a rocky island. On reaching the centre of the inclosure, the topmost rock burst open, and discovered a beautiful female seated upon a throne, with a crown on her head, and a sceptre in her hand. While the spectators expressed their admiration of her beauty by loud plaudits, another rock opened, and discovered a fiendish-looking figure, armed with a strangely-formed musket, which he levelled at the mimic sovereign. A cry of horror pervaded the assemblage, but at that moment another rock burst asunder, and a fairy arose, who placed a silver shield between the Queen and the assassin; while a gauze drapery, wafted from beneath, enveloped them in its folds.

At the appearance of the fairy, the musket fell from the assassin’s grasp. Uttering a loud cry, a troop of demons issued from below, and seizing him with their talons bore him out of eight. The benignant fairy then waved her sword; the gauzy drapery dropped to her feet; and four other female figures arose, representing Peace, Plenty, Justice, and Clemency. These figures ranged themselves round the Queen, and the fairy addressed her in a speech, telling her that these were her attributes;—that she had already won her people’s hearts, and ended by promising her a long and prosperous reign. Each word, that applied to Mary, was followed by a cheer from the bystanders, and when it was ended, the applauses were deafening. The mimic queen then arose, and taking off her crown, tendered it to the real sovereign. The four attributes likewise extended their arms towards her, and told her they belonged to her. And while the group was in this position, the machine was borne away.

Fresh flourishes of trumpets succeeded; and several lively airs were played by bands of minstrels stationed at different points of the court-yard.

A wild and tumultuous din was now heard; and the gates being again thrown open, forth rushed a legion of the most grotesque and fantastic figures ever beheld. Some were habited as huge, open-jawed sea-monsters; others as dragons, gorgons, and hydras; others, as satyrs and harpies; others, as gnomes and salamanders. Some had large hideous masks, making them look all head,—some monstrous wings,—some long coiled tails, like serpents many were mounted on hobby-horses,—and all whose garbs would permit them, were armed with staves, flails, or other indescribable weapons.

When this multitudinous and confused assemblage had nearly filled the inclosure, loud roarings were heard, and from the gateway marched Gog and Magog, arrayed like their gigantic namesakes of Guildhall. A long artificial beard, of a blue tint, supplied the loss which Magog’s singed chin had sustained. His head was bound with a wreath of laurel leaves. Gog’s helmet precisely resembled that worn by his namesake, and he carried a curiously-formed shield, charged with the device of a black eagle, like that with which the wooden statue is furnished. Magog was armed with a long staff, to which a pudding-net, stuffed with wool, was attached; while Gog bore a long lathen spear. The appearance of the giants was hailed with a general roar of delight. But the laughter and applauses were increased by what followed.

Once more opened to their widest extent, the great gates admitted what, at first, appeared to be a moving fortification. From its sides projected two enormous arms, each sustaining a formidable club. At the summit stood a smaller turret, within which, encircled by a wreath of roses and other flowers, decorated with silken pennoncels, sat Xit, his pigmy person clothed in tight silk fleshings. Glittering wings fluttered on his shoulders, and he was armed with the weapons of the Paphian God. The tower, which, with its decorations, was more than twenty feet high, was composed of basket-work, covered with canvass, painted to resemble a round embattled structure. It was tenanted by Og, who moved about in it with the greatest case. A loophole in front enabled him to see what was going forward, and he marched slowly towards the centre of the inclosure. An edging of loose canvass, painted like a rocky foundation, concealed his feet. The effect of this moving fortress was highly diverting, and elicited shouts of laughter and applause from the beholders.

“That device,” observed Courtenay to the queen, “represents a tower of strength—or rather, I should say, the Tower of London. It is about to be attacked by the rabble rout of rebellion, and, I trust, will be able to make good its defence against them.”

“I hope so,” replied Mary, smiling. “I should be grieved to think that my good Tower yielded to such assailants. But who is that I perceive? Surely, it is Cupid?”

“Love is at present an inhabitant of the Tower,” replied Courtenay, with a passionate look.

Raising his eyes, the next moment, he perceived Elizabeth behind Sir Henry Bedingfeld. She turned from him with a look of reproach.

A seasonable interruption to his thoughts was offered by the tumultuous cry arising from the mummers. Gog and Magog having placed themselves on either side of the Tower as its defenders, the assault commenced. The object of the assailants was to overthrow the fortress. With this view, they advanced against it from all quarters, thrusting one another forward, and hurling their weapons against it. This furious attack was repelled by the two giants, who drove them back as fast as they advanced, hurling some head over heels, trampling others under foot, and exhibiting extraordinary feats of strength and activity. The Tower, itself, was not behind-hand in resistance. Its two arms moved about like the sails of a windmill, dealing tremendous blows.

The conflict afforded the greatest amusement to the beholders; but while the fortress and its defenders maintained their ground against all the assailants, there was one person who began to find his position somewhat uncomfortable. This was Xit. So long as Og contented himself with keeping off his enemies, the dwarf was delighted with his elevated situation, and looked round with a smile of delight. But when the giant, animated by the sport, began to attack in his turn, the fabric in which he was encased swayed to and fro so violently, that Xit expected every moment to be precipitated to the ground. In vain he attempted to communicate his fears to Og. The giant was unconscious of his danger, and the din and confusion around them was so great, that neither Gog nor Magog could hear his outcries. As a last resource, he tried to creep into the turret, but this he found impracticable.

“The god of love appears in a perilous position, my lord,” observed the queen, joining in the laughter of the spectators.

“He does, indeed,” replied Courtenay; “and though the Tower may defend itself, I fear its chief treasure will be lost in the struggle.”

“You speak the truth, my lord,” remarked the deep voice of Simon lienard, from behind.

If Courtenay intended any reply to this observation of his mortal foe, it was prevented by an incident which at that moment occurred. Combining their forces, the rabble rout of dragons, gorgons, imps, and demons had made a desperate assault upon the Tower. Og whirled around his clubs with increased rapidity, and dozens were prostrated by their sweep. Gog and Magog likewise plied their weapons vigorously, and the assailants were driven back completely discomfited.

But, unluckily, at this moment, Og made a rush forward to complete his conquest, and in so doing pitched Xit out of the turret. Falling head-foremost into the yawning jaws of an enormous goggle-eyed sea-monster, whose mouth seemed purposely opened to receive him, and being moved by springs, immediately closed, the dwarf entirely disappeared. A scream of delight arose from the spectators, who looked upon the occurrence as part of the pageant.

The queen laughed heartily at Xit’s mischance, and even Courtenay, though discomposed by the accident, could not help joining in the universal merriment.

“I might take it as an evil omen,” he remarked in an under tone to Mary, “that love should be destroyed by your majesty’s enemies.”

“See! he re-appears,” cried the queen, calling the earl’s attention to the monster, whose jaws opened and discovered the dwarf. “He has sustained no injury.”

Xit’s disaster, meanwhile, had occasioned a sudden suspension of hostilities among the combatants. All the mummers set up a shout of laughter, and the echoing of sound produced by their masks was almost unearthly. Gog and Magog, grinning from ear to ear, now approached the dwarf, and offered to restore him to his turret. But he positively refused to stir, and commanded the monster, in whose jaws he was seated, to carry him to the queen. After a little parley, the order was obeyed; and the huge pasteboard monster, which was guided within-side by a couple of men, wheeled round, and dragged its scaly length towards the terrace.

Arrived opposite the royal seat, the mimic Cupid sprang out of the monster’s jaws, and fluttering his gauzy wings (which were a little the worse for his recent descent) to give himself the appearance of flying, ran nimbly up the side of the terrace, and vaulted upon the balustrade in front of her majesty. He had still possession of his bow and arrows, and poising himself with considerable grace on the point of his left foot, fitted a silver shaft to the string, and aimed it at the queen.

“Your highness is again threatened,” observed Sir Henry Bedingfeld, advancing and receiving the arrow, which, winged with but little force, dropped harmlessly from his robe.

“You are ever faithful, Sir Henry,” observed Mary, to the knight, whose zeal in this instance occasioned a smile among the attendants; “but we have little fear from the darts of Cupid.”

Xit, meanwhile, had fitted another arrow, and drawing it with greater force, struck Courtenay on the breast. Not content with this, the mischievous urchin let fly a third shaft at the Princess Elizabeth, who had advanced somewhat nearer the queen, and the arrow chancing to stick to some of the ornaments on her stomacher, appeared to have actually pierced her bosom. Elizabeth coloured deeply as she plucked the dart from her side, and threw it angrily to the ground. A cloud gathered on the queen’s brow, and Courtenay was visibly disconcerted.

Xit, however, either unconscious of the trouble he had occasioned, or utterly heedless of it, took a fourth arrow from his quiver, and affecting to sharpen its point upon the stone balustrade, shot it against Jane the Fool. This last shaft likewise hit its mark, though Jane endeavoured to ward it off with her marotte; and Xit Completed the absurdity of the scene by fluttering towards her, and seizing her hand, pressed it to his lips,—a piece of gallantry for which he was rewarded by a sound cuff on the ears.

“Nay, mistress,” cried Xit, “that is scarcely fair. Love and Folly were well matched.”

“If Love mate with Folly, he must expect to be thus treated,” replied Jane.

“Nay, then, I will bestow my favours on the wisest woman I can find,” replied Xit.

“There thou wilt fail again,” cried Jane; “for every wise woman will shun thee.”

“A truce to thy rejoinders, sweetheart,” returned Xit. “Thy wit is as keen as my arrows, and as sure to hit the mark.”

“My wit resembles thy godship’s arrows in one particular only,” retorted Jane. “It strikes deepest where it is most carelessly aimed. But, hie away! Thou wilt find Love no match for Folly.”

“So I perceive,” replied Xit, “and shall therefore proceed to Beauty. I must have been blinder than poets feign, to have come near thee at all. In my pursuit of Folly, I have forgot the real business of Love. But thus it is ever with me and my minions!”

With this, he fluttered towards the queen, and prostrating himself before her, said—“Your majesty will not banish Love from your court?”

“Assuredly not,” replied Mary; “or if we did banish thee, thou wouldst be sure to find some secret entrance.”

“Your majesty is in the right,” replied the mimic deity, “I should. And disdain not this caution from Cupid. As long as you keep my two companions, Jealousy and Malice, at a distance, Love will appear in his own rosy hues. But the moment you admit them, he will change his colours, and become a tormentor.”

“But if thou distributest thy shafts at random, so that lovers dote on more than one object, how am I to exclude Jealousy?” asked the queen.

“By cultivating self-esteem,” replied Cupid. “The heart I have wounded for your highness can never feel disloyalty.”

“That is true, thou imp,” observed Courtenay; “and for that speech, I forgive thee the mischief thou hast done.”

“And so thou assurest me against infidelity?” said Mary.

“Your highness may be as inconstant as you please,” replied Cupid, “since the dart I aimed at you has been turned aside by Sir Henry Bedingfeld. But rest easy. He who loves you can love no other.”

“I am well satisfied,” replied Mary, with a gratified look.

“And since I have thy permission to love whom I please, I shall avail myself largely of it, and give all my heart to my subjects.”

“Not all your heart, my gracious mistress,” said Courtenay, in a tender whisper.

At this juncture, Xit, watching his opportunity, drew an arrow from his quiver, and touched the queen with it near the heart.

“I have hit your majesty at last, as well as the Earl of Devonshire,” he cried gleefully. “Shall I summon my brother Hymen to your assistance? He is among the crowd below.”

A half-suppressed smile among the royal attendants followed this daring remark.

“That knave’s audacity encourages me to hope, gracious madam,” whispered Courtenay, “that this moment may be the proudest—the happiest of my life.”

“No more of this—at least not now, my lord,” replied Mary, whose notions of decorum were somewhat scandalised at this public declaration. “Dismiss this imp. He draws too many eyes upon us.”

“I have a set of verses to recite to your majesty,” interposed Xit, whose quick ears caught the remark, and who was in no hurry to leave the royal presence.

“Not now,” rejoined Mary, rising. “Fear nothing, thou merry urchin. We will take care Love meets its desert. We thank you, my lord,” she added, turning to Courtenay, “for the pleasant pastime you have afforded us.”

As the queen arose, loud and reiterated shouts resounded from the spectators, in which all the mummers joined. Amid these acclamations she returned to the palace. Courtenay again tendered her his hand, and the slight pressure which he hazarded was sensibly returned.

Just as she was about to enter the window, Mary turned round to bow for the last time to the assemblage, when there arose a universal cry—“Long live Queen Mary!—Long live the Earl of Devonshire!”

Mary smiled. Her bosom palpitated with pleasure, and she observed to her lover—“You are the people’s favourite, my lord. I should not deserve to be their queen if I did not share in their affection.”

“May I then hope?” asked the Earl, eagerly.

“You may,” replied Mary, softly.

The brilliant vision which these words raised before Courtenay’s eyes, was dispersed by a look which he at that moment received from Elizabeth.

The festivities in the court did not terminate with the departure of the royal train. Xit was replaced in the turret, whence he aimed his darts at the prettiest damsels he could perceive, creating infinite merriment among the crowd. An immense ring was then formed by all the mummers, who danced round the three giants, the minstrels accompanying the measure with appropriate strains. Nothing more grotesque can be imagined than the figures of Gog and Magog, as engaged in the dance, in their uncouth garbs. As to Og, he flourished his clubs, and twirled himself round with great rapidity in the opposite direction to the round of dancers, until at last, becoming giddy, he lost his balance, and fell with a tremendous crash, upsetting Xit for the second time.

Ever destined to accidents, the dwarf, from his diminutive stature, seldom sustained any injury, and upon this occasion, though a good deal terrified, he escaped unhurt. Og was speedily uncased, and, glad to be set at liberty, joined the ring of dancers, and footed it with as much glee as the merriest of them.

As the evening advanced, fire-works were discharged, and a daring rope-dancer, called Peter the Dutchman, ascended the cupola of the south-east turret of the White Tower, and got upon the vane, where he lighted a couple of torches. After standing for some time, now upon one foot—now on the other, he kindled a firework placed in a sort of helmet on his head, and descended amid a shower of sparks by a rope, one end of which was fastened in the court where the masquers were assembled. A substantial supper, of which the mummers and their friends partook, concluded the diversions of the evening, and all departed well satisfied with their entertainment.

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XV.—BY WHOSE INSTRUMENTALITY QUEEN MARY BECAME CONVINCED OF COURTENAY’S INCONSTANCY; AND HOW SHE AFFIANCED HERSELF TO PHILIP OF SPAIN.

While the festivities above described occurred without the palace, within, all was confusion and alarm. The look, which Elizabeth had given Courtenay, sank into his very soul. All his future greatness appeared valueless in his eyes, and his only desire was to break off the alliance with Mary, and reinstate himself in the affections of her sister. For the queen, it is almost needless to say, he felt no real love. But he was passionately enamoured of Elizabeth, whose charms had completely captivated him.

As soon as she could consistently do so, after her return to the palace, the princess retired to her own apartments, and though her departure afforded some relief to the earl, he still continued in a state of great perturbation. Noticing his altered manner, the queen inquired the cause with great solicitude. Courtenay answered her evasively. And putting her own construction upon it, she said in a tone of encouragement—“It was a strange remark made by the little urchin who enacted Cupid. Was he tutored in his speech?”

“Not by me, gracious madam,” replied Courtenay, distractedly.

“Then the knave hath a ready wit,” returned the queen. “He has put thoughts into my head which I cannot banish thence.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed the earl. “I trust his boldness has not offended you.”

“Do I look so?” rejoined Mary, smiling. “If I do, my countenance belies my feelings. No, Courtenay, I have been thinking that no woman can govern a great kingdom, like mine, unaided. She must have some one, to whom she can ever apply for guidance and protection,—some one to whom she can open her whole heart,—to whom she can look for counsel, consolation, love. In whom could she find all this?”

“In no one but a husband, gracious madam,” replied Courtenay, who felt he could no longer affect to misunderstand her.

“You are right, my lord,” she replied playfully. “Can you not assist our choice?”

“If I dared,”—said Courtenay, who felt he was standing upon the verge of a precipice.

“Pshaw!” exclaimed Mary. “A queen must ever play the wooer. It is part of her prerogative. Our choice is already made—so we need not consult you on the subject.”

“May I not ask whom your majesty has so far distinguished?” demanded the earl, trembling.

“You shall learn anon, my lord,” replied the queen. “We choose to keep you a short time in suspense, for here comes Simon Renard, and we do not intend to admit him to our confidence.”

“That man is ever in my path,” muttered the earl, returning the ambassador s stern glance with one equally menacing. “I am half reconciled to this hateful alliance by the thought of the mortification it will inflict upon him.”

It would almost seem from Renard’s looks, that he could read what was passing in the other’s breast; for his brow grew each instant more lowering.

“I must quit your majesty for a moment,” observed Courtenay, “to see to the masquers. Besides, my presence might be a restraint to your councillor. He shall not want an opportunity to utter his calumnies behind my back.”

Renard smiled bitterly.

“Farewell, my lord,” said the queen, giving him her hand to kiss. “When you return, you shall have your answer.”

“It is the last time his lips shall touch that hand,” muttered Renard, as the earl departed.

On quitting the royal presence, Courtenay wandered in a state of the utmost disquietude to the terrace. He gazed vacantly at the masquers, and tried to divert his thoughts with their sports; but in vain. He could not free himself from the idea of Elizabeth. He had now reached the utmost height of his ambition. He was all but affianced to the queen, and he doubted not that a few hours—perhaps moments—would decide his fate. His bosom was torn with conflicting emotions. On one side stood power, with all its temptations—on the other passion, fierce, irrepressible passion. The struggle was almost intolerable.

After debating with himself for some time, he determined to seek one last interview with Elizabeth, before he finally committed himself to the queen, vainly imagining it would calm his agitation. But, like most men under the influence of desperate emotion, he acted from impulse, rather than reflection. The resolution was no sooner formed, than acted upon. Learning that the Princess was in her chamber, he proceeded thither, and found her alone.

Elizabeth was seated in a small room, partially hung with arras, and over the chair she occupied, were placed the portraits of her sire, Henry the Eighth, and two of his wives, Anne Boleyn and Catharine of Arragon. Greatly surprised by the earl’s visit, she immediately arose, and in an authoritative tone commanded him to withdraw.

“How is this?” she cried. “Are you not content with what you have already done, but must add insult to perfidy!”

“Hear me, Elizabeth,” said Courtenay, advancing towards her, and throwing himself on his knee. “I am come to implore your forgiveness.”

“You have my compassion, my lord,” rejoined Elizabeth; “but you shall not have my forgiveness. You have deeply deceived me.”

“I have deceived myself,” replied Courtenay.

“A paltry prevarication, and unworthy of you,” observed the Princess, scornfully. “But I have endured this long enough. Arise, and leave me.”

“I will not leave you, Elizabeth,” said Courtenay, “till I have explained the real motives of my conduct, and the real state of my feelings, which, when I have done, I am persuaded you will not judge me as harshly, as you do now.”

“I do not desire to hear them,” replied tho Princess. “But since you are determined to speak, be brief.”

“During my captivity in this fortress,” began Courtenay, “when I scarcely hoped for release, and when I was an utter stranger, except from description, to the beauties of your sex, I had certain vague and visionary notions of female loveliness, which I have never since found realized except in yourself.”

Elizabeth uttered an exclamation of impatience.

“Do not interrupt me,” proceeded Courtenay. “All I wish to show is, that long before I had seen you, my heart was predisposed to love you. On my release from imprisonment, it was made evident in many ways, that the Queen, your sister, regarded me with favourable eyes. Dazzled by the distinction—as who would not be?—I fancied I returned her passion. But I knew not then what love was—nor was it till I was bound in this thraldom that I became acquainted with its pangs.”

“This you have said before, my lord,” rejoined Elizabeth, struggling against her emotion. “And if you had not, it is too late to say it now.”

“Your pardon, dearest Elizabeth,” rejoined Courtenay, “for such you will ever be to me. I know I do not deserve your forgiveness. But I know, also, that I shall not the less on that account obtain it. Hear the truth from me, and judge me as you think proper. Since I knew that I had gained an interest in your eyes, I never could love your sister. Her throne had no longer any temptation for me—her attachment inspired me with disgust. You were, and still are, the sole possessor of my heart.”

“Still are! my lord,” exclaimed Elizabeth, indignantly. “And you are about to wed the Queen. Say no more, or my pity for you will be changed into contempt.”

“It is my fate,” replied the earl. “Oh! if you knew what the struggle has cost me, to sacrifice love at the shrine of ambition, you would indeed pity me.”

“My lord,” said Elizabeth, proudly, “if you have no respect for me, at least have some for yourself, and cease these unworthy lamentations.”

“Tell me you no longer love me—tell me you despise—hate me—anything to reconcile myself to my present lot,” cried Courtenay.

“Were I to say I no longer loved you, I should belie my heart,” rejoined Elizabeth; “for, unfortunately for my peace of mind, I have formed a passion which I cannot conquer. But were I also to say that your abject conduct does not inspire me with contempt—with scorn for you, I should speak falsely. Hear me, in my turn, my lord. To-morrow, I shall solicit permission from the Queen to retire from the court altogether, and I shall not return till my feelings towards yourself are wholly changed.” “Say not so,” cried Courtenay. “I will forego all the brilliant expectations held out to me by Mary. I cannot endure to part with you.”

“You have gone too far to retreat, my lord,” said Elizabeth. “You are affianced to my sister.”

“Not so,” replied Courtenay, “and I never will be. When I came hither, it was to implore your forgiveness, and to take leave of you for ever. But I find that wholly impossible. Let us fly from this fortress, and find either in a foreign land, or in some obscure corner of this kingdom, a happiness, which a crown could not confer.”

As he pronounced these words with all the ardour of genuine passion, he pressed her hand to his lips. Elizabeth did not withdraw it.

“Save me from this great crime,” he cried—“save me from wedding one whom I have never loved—save me from an union, which my soul abhors.”

“Are you sincere?” asked Elizabeth, much moved.

“On my soul I am,” replied Courtenay fervently. “Will you fly with me—this night—this hour,—now?”

“I will answer that question,” cried a voice, which struck them both as if a thunderbolt had fallen at their feet. “I will answer that question,” cried Mary, forcibly throwing aside the arras and gazing at them with eyes that literally seemed to flash fire,—“she will not.”

“Had I not heard this with my own ears,” she continued in a terrible tone, addressing her faithless lover, who still remained in a kneeling posture, regarding her with a look of mingled shame and defiance—“had I not heard this with my own ears, and seen it with my own eyes, I could not have believed it! Perfidious villain! you have deceived us both. . But you shall feel what it is to incur the resentment of a queen—and that queen the daughter of Henry the Eighth. Come in, sir,” she added to some one behind the arras, and Simon Renard immediately stepped forth. “As I owe the discovery of the Earl of Devonshire’s perfidy to you, the least I can do is to let you witness his disgrace.”

“I will not attempt to defend myself, gracious madam,” said Courtenay, rising.

“Defend yourself!” echoed the Queen, bitterly. “Not a word of your conversation to the Princess has escaped my ears. I was there—behind that curtain—almost as soon as you entered her chamber. I was acquainted with your treachery by this gentleman. I disbelieved him. But I soon found he spoke the truth. A masked staircase enabled me to approach you unobserved. I have heard all—all, traitor, all.”

“To play the eaves-dropper was worthy of Simon Renard,” returned Courtenay, with a look of deadly hatred at the ambassador, “but scarcely, I think, befitting the Queen of England.”

“Where the Queen of England has unworthy persons to deal with, she must resort to unworthy means to detect them,” returned Mary. “I am deeply indebted to M. Renard for his service—more deeply than I can express. An hour more, and it had been too late. Had I affianced myself to you, I should have considered the engagement binding. As it is, I can unscrupulously break it. I am greatly beholden to you, sir.”

“I am truly rejoiced to be the instrument of preventing your majesty from entering into this degrading alliance,” said Renard.—“Had it taken place, you would have unceasingly repented it.”

“For you, minion,” continued the Queen, turning to Elizabeth, who had looked silently on, “I have more pity than anger. You have been equally his dupe.”

“I do not desire your highness’s pity,” rejoined the Princess, haughtily. “Your own case is more deserving of compassion than mine.”

“Ah! God’s death! derided!” cried the Queen, stamping her foot with indignation. “Summon the guard, M. Renard. I will place them both in confinement. Why am I not obeyed?” she continued, seeing the ambassador hesitated.

“Do nothing at this moment, I implore you, gracious madam.” said Renard, in a low voice. “Disgrace were better than imprisonment. You punish the Earl sufficiently in casting him off.”

“Obey me, sir,” vociferated Mary, furiously, “or I will fetch the guard myself. An outraged woman may tamely submit to her wrongs—an outraged Queen can revenge them. Heaven be thanked! I have the power to do so, as I have the will. Down on your knees, Edward Courtenay, whom I have made Earl of Devonshire, and would have made King of England—on your knees, I say. Now, my lord, your sword.”

“It is here,” replied the Earl, presenting it to her, “and I entreat your majesty to sheathe it in my bosom.”

“His crime does not amount to high treason,” whispered Renard, “nor can your highness do more than disgrace him.”

“The guard! the guard, sir!” cried Mary, authoritatively. “Our father, Henry the Eighth, whose lineaments frown upon us from that wall, had not authority for all he did. He was an absolute king, and we are absolute queen. Again, I say, the guard! and bid Sir Henry Bedingfeld attend us.”

“Your majesty shall be obeyed,” replied Renard, departing. “Do with me what you please, gracious madam,” said Courtenay, as soon as they were alone. “My life is at your disposal. But, I beseech you, do not visit my faults upon the Princess Elizabeth. If your majesty tracked me hither, you must be well aware that my presence was as displeasing to her as it could be to yourself.”

“I will not be sheltered under this plea,” replied Elizabeth, whose anger was roused by her sister’s imperious conduct. “That the interview was unsought on my part, your highness well knows. But that I lent a willing ear to the Earl of Devonshire’s suit is equally true. And if your highness rejects him, I see nothing to prevent my accepting him.”

“This to my face!” cried Mary, in extremity of indignation.

“And wherefore not?” returned Elizabeth, maliciously.

“Anger me no further,” cried Mary, “or by my father’s soul! I will not answer for your head.” Her manner was so authoritative, and her looks so terrible, that even Elizabeth was awed.

“Again,” interposed Courtenay, humbly, “let me, who am the sole cause of your majesty’s most just displeasure, bear the weight of it. The Princess Elizabeth, I repeat, is not to blame.”

“I am the best judge in my own cause, my lord,” replied the Queen. “I will not hear a word more.”

A deep silence then ensued, which was broken by the entrance of the Lieutenant of the Tower and the guard. Renard brought up the rear.

“Sir Henry Bedingfeld,” said Mary, “I commit the Princess Elizabeth and the Earl of Devonshire to your custody.”

“I can scarcely credit my senses, gracious Madam,” replied Bedingfeld, gazing at the offenders with much concern, “and would fain persuade myself it is only a part of the pastime I have so recently witnessed.”

“It is no pastime, Sir Henry,” replied the Queen, sternly. “I little thought, when I entrusted you with the government of this fortress, how soon, and how importantly, you would have to exercise your office. Let the prisoners be placed in close confinement.”

“This is the first time in my life,” replied the old knight, “that I have hesitated to obey your majesty. And if I do so now, I beseech you to impute it to the right motive.”

“How, sir!” cried the Queen fiercely. “Do you desire to make me regret that I have removed Sir John Gage? He would not have hesitated.”

“For your own sake, gracious madam,” said Sir Henry, falling on his knees before her, “I beseech you pause. I have been a faithful servant of your high and renowned father. Henry the Eighth—of your illustrious mother, Catherine of Arragon, who would almost seem,—from their pictures on that wall,—to be present now. In their names, I beseech you pause. I am well aware your feelings have been greatly outraged. But they may prompt you to do that which your calmer judgment may deplore.”

“Remonstrance is in vain,” rejoined the Queen. “I am inexorable. The Princess Elizabeth may remain a close prisoner in her own apartments. The Earl of Devonshire must be removed elsewhere. You will be answerable for their safe custody.”

“I will,” replied Bedingfeld, rising; “but I would that I had never lived to see this day!”

With this, he commanded his attendants to remove Courtenay, and when the order was obeyed, he lingered for a moment at the door, in the hope that the Queen would relent. But, as she continued immoveable, he departed with a sorrowful heart, and conveyed the Earl to his own lodgings.

Courtenay gone, Elizabeth’s proud heart gave way, and she burst into a hood of tears. As Mary saw this, a feeling of compassion crossed her, which Renard perceiving, touched her sleeve, and drew her away.

“It were better to leave her now,” he observed. Yielding to his advice, Mary was about to quit the room, when Elizabeth arose and threw herself at her feet.

“Spare him!” she cried.

“She thinks only of her lover,” thought the Queen; “those tears are for him. I will not pity her.”

And she departed without returning an answer.

Having seen two halberdiers placed at the door of the chamber, and two others at the foot of the masked staircase by which she and Renard had approached, Mary proceeded with the ambassador to her own apartments.

On thinking over the recent occurrences, her feelings were so exasperated, that she exclaimed aloud, “Oh! that I could avenge myself on the perjured traitor.”

“I will show you how to avenge yourself,” replied Renard.

“Do so, then,” returned the queen.

“Unite yourself to my master, Philip of Spain,” rejoined the ambassador. “Your cousin, the Emperor, highly desires the match. It will be an alliance worthy of you, and acceptable to your subjects. The Prince is a member of your own religion, and will enable you to restore its worship throughout your kingdom.”

“I will think of it,” replied Mary, musingly.

“Better act upon it,” rejoined Renard. “The prince, besides his royal birth, is in all respects more richly endowed by nature than the Earl of Devonshire.”

“So I have heard him accounted,” replied Mary.

“Your majesty shall judge for yourself,” rejoined Renard, producing a miniature. “Here is his portrait. The likeness is by no means flattering.”

“He must be very handsome,” observed Mary, gazing at the miniature.

“He is,” replied Renard; “and his highness is as eager for the alliance as his imperial father. I have ventured to send him your majesty’s portrait, and you shall hear in what rapturous terms he speaks of it.”

And taking several letters from his doublet, he selected one sealed with the royal arms of Spain, from which he read several highly complimentary remarks on Mary’s personal appearance.

“Enough, sir,” said Mary, checking him. “More unions are formed from pique than from affection, and mine will be one of them. I am resolved to affiance myself to the Prince of Spain, and that forthwith. I will not allow myself time to change my mind.”

“Your highness is in the right,” observed Renard, eagerly.

“Meet me at midnight in Saint John’s Chapel in the White Tower,” continued the queen, “where in your presence, and in the presence of Heaven, I will solemnly affiance myself to the prince.”

“Your majesty transports me by your determination,” replied the ambassador. And full of joy at his unlooked-for success, he took his departure.

At midnight, as appointed, Renard repaired to Saint John’s Chapel. He found the Queen, attended only by Feckenham, and kneeling before the altar, which blazed with numerous wax-lights. She had changed her dress for the ceremony, and was attired in, a loose robe of three-piled crimson velvet, trimmed with swansdown. Renard remained at a little distance, and looked on with a smile of Satanic triumph.

After she had received the sacrament, and pronounced the “Veni Creator,” Mary motioned the ambassador towards her, and placing her right hand on a parchment lying on the altar, to which were attached the broad seals of England, addressed him thus:—“I have signed and sealed this instrument, by which I contract and affiance myself in marriage to Philip, Prince of Spain, son of his imperial majesty, Charles the Fifth. And I further give you, Simon Renard, representative of the prince, my irrevocable promise, in the face of the living God and his saints, that I will wed him and no other.”

“May Heaven bless the union!” exclaimed Feckenham.

“There is the contract,” pursued Mary, giving the parchment to Renard, who reverentially received it. “On my part, it is a marriage concluded.”

“And equally so on the part of the prince, my master,” replied Renard. “In his name I beg to express to your highness the deep satisfaction which this union will afford him.”

“For the present this contract must be kept secret, even from our privy councillors,” said the queen.

“It shall never pass my lips,” rejoined Renard.

“And mine are closed by my sacred calling,” added the confessor.

“Your majesty, I am sure, has done wisely in this step,” observed Renard, “and, I trust, happily.”

“I trust so too, sir,” replied the Queen—“but time will show. These things are in the hands of the Great Disposer of events.”

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