The Tower of London: A Historical Romance, Illustrated

by William Harrison Ainsworth

XXIX.—THE SIEGE OF THE TOWER.

On Wyat’s return, it was resolved that, under cover of darkness, the Duke of Suffolk and Lord Guilford Dudley should march with two detachments of men to Deptford, where a squadron of seven sail commanded by Admiral Winter, together with a number of lesser craft, awaited them. Dudley and his party were then to cross the river in Winter’s boats, and proceed to East Smithfield; while Suffolk was to embark his men in the larger vessels, and to sail up the river with the tide. Wyat determined to attempt a passage across London Bridge, and if this could not be accomplished, to abide the arrival of Winter’s squadron.

It was then arranged that the attack should take place two hours before dawn. The fortress was to be assailed simultaneously at three different points, so as to distract the attention of its defenders. To Lord Guilford Dudley was assigned the Brass Mount, and the north-east angle of the ramparts; to the Duke of Suffolk Traitor’s Tower, and the southern fortifications; and to Wyat the Middle Tower, and the By-ward Tower,—two of the strongest defences of the fortress. If the attack proved successful, the three leaders were to concentrate their forces before the gateway of the Bloody Tower.

When it was sufficiently dark, Suffolk and Dudley placed themselves at the head of their detachments and set out. Though they moved along with the utmost caution, they were heard by the soldiers on the ramparts, who reported their suspicions to Bedingfeld, and precautions were taken accordingly, though it was the opinion of many that the rebels had beat a retreat.

At midnight, Wyat prepared to cross London Bridge. Aware that the drawbridges were cut away—that it was barricaded, and strongly defended—he provided himself with planks and ropes, and issuing instructions to his men, set forward. They were allowed to proceed without molestation to the first drawbridge, but here a sharp fire was opened upon them. In spite of this, Wyat succeeded in laying down a plank, and, at the head of a dozen men, crossed it. Dislodging their opponents, several other planks were laid down, and the passage being rendered secure, the whole party crossed, and carried over their ammunition in safety.

The report of the attack soon reached the city-guard. Drums were beaten, trumpets sounded, and shouts heard in every direction. While this was passing, a well-contested fight took place at the barricades in the centre of the bridge, between their defenders and the insurgents. Having broken down these obstacles, Wyat drove all before him. Still, another and wider chasm lay between him and the Middlesex shore. In front of it, the assailed party made a desperate stand; but their resistance was unavailing. Many were precipitated into the yawning gulf, and drowned; while others threw down their arms, and besought mercy.

On the further side of the chasm, a formidable array of soldiery opposed the progress of the rebel-army, and a piece of ordnance did terrible execution amongst them. Two planks were hewn asunder as soon as they were thrust across the abyss; but the moment the third was laid down, Wyat dashed across it, and drove back two men with hatchets in their hands who were about to sever it. He was followed by half-a-dozen soldiers. In this instance, his fiery courage had well nigh proved fatal to him for no sooner had the small band crossed it, than the plank was hurled into the chasm, and Wyat left, with his trifling party, to contend against the whole host of his foes. His destruction appeared inevitable, but his self-possession stood him in good stead.

“Fellow-countrymen,” he shouted, “I am your friend, not your enemy. I would deliver you from thraldom and oppression. You ought rather to aid than oppose me. You are upholding Spain—and the inquisition—while I am fighting for England and liberty.”

These few words, vociferated while he made a desperate stand against his opponents, turned the tide of affairs. In vain the royalist leaders shouted “Down with the rebels! the queen!—the queen!” They were answered by deafening cries of “A Wyat! a Wyat! No Philip of Spain—no Popish supremacy—no inquisition!”

Amid this tumult, the insurgents, who had witnessed with dismay the perilous position of their leader, redoubled their exertions; and placing several planks across the gulf, crossed them, and flew to his assistance. Following up the advantage he had gained, Wyat, without difficulty, routed his opponents. He then paused to cover the passage of the remainder of his troops and artillery across the chasm, which was safely accomplished.

At the foot of Fish-street-hill, they were checked by a company of horse under the command of the Earl of Pembroke, and a skirmish took place, in which the royalists were worsted with severe loss, and many prisoners taken, as well as arms and horses. Pembroke however, escaped and retreated to the Tower, bringing the news of his own defeat and of the successes of the rebels.

The citizens showed little disposition to take part in the struggle. All they were uneasy about was the security of their property; but Wyat, having prohibited his men from plunder or riot, and Captain Bret proclaiming that no mischief should be done, they remained tranquil. In this way, the insurgents marched, without further interruption, to Cornhill, where Wyat marshalled his forces, distributed rations of meat and liquors among them, and awaited the appointed time for his attack upon the Tower.

Within the fortress all was consternation. The extraordinary success which had hitherto attended Wyat, well nigh paralysed the queen’s party. The council again urged Mary to escape privately, but she peremptorily refused, and forbade the subject to be mentioned again, on pain of her severest displeasure. Some of the more timid then ventured to advise that she should assent to Wyat’s terms—that Renard should be given up, and the match with the Prince of Spain abandoned. “I will sooner abandon my crown,” rejoined Mary. Her courage never for one instant forsook her, and her spirit and resolution sustained the wavering minds of her adherents.

Long before this, Suffolk and Dudley had reached Dartford. As agreed, the duke and his detachment embarked on board Winter’s squadron, while the others were transported across the river in smaller boats. At Poplar, Dudley ordered his men to nail together a number of stout boards, to serve as rafts. These were fastened with ropes to such horses as they could procure, and on reaching East Smithfield were unharnessed and held in readiness, until the signal of attack should be given. Besides the rafts, two or three wherries had been brought up from the river, and several long scaling-ladders provided.

Dudley’s detachment consisted of about a thousand men, archers and arquebussiers, all of whom were well armed and eager for the attack. As yet, all was involved in profound darkness, and so far as they could judge, no suspicion of their presence was entertained by those within the fortress.

Scouts were despatched towards the postern gate,—a fortification terminating the city wall, and situated, as has before been stated, at the north side of the moat,—and from one of them, who had contrived to scramble along the edge of the fosse, it was ascertained that a detachment of Sir Thomas Wyat’s party was creeping stealthily along, with the intention of surprising the postern gate.

It had been Cholmondeley’s intention to search for the entrance to the secret communication through which he had passed beneath the moat, but the almost certainty that it would be stopped, induced him to abandon the idea.

All at once, a blaze of light was seen at the south of the fortress, in the direction of the river. It was followed bv the roar of artillery, and the sharper discharge of fire-arms, accompanied by the beating of drums, the loud braying of trumpets, the clashing of swords, and other martial sounds.

On hearing this, Dudley gave the signal of assault. Dashing down the sides of the moat, his men launched their rafts on the water, and pushed them across with long poles. The noise they made betrayed them to the sentinels. The alarm was instantly given, and a tremendous fire opened upon them from the batteries and casemate of the Brass Mount, as well as from the eastern and western line of ramparts.

The Brass Mount has already been described as the largest bastion of the Tower, standing at the north-east angle of the fortress, and its walls were, and still are, of such immense thickness, and it was so well fortified, that it was regarded as impregnable. Notwithstanding this impression, it formed the main object of the present attack. Amid a slaughterous fire from the besieged, Dudley embarked with Cholmondeloy, who carried his standard, in a small skiff, and waving his sword above his head, pointed to the Brass Mount, and urged his men to the assault. They wanted no encouragement; but in some degree protected by the showers of arrows discharged by the archers stationed on the sides of the moat, and the constant fire of the arquebussiers, succeeded in placing two ladders against that part of the eastern ramparts immediately adjoining the bastion.

These were instantly covered with men, who mounted sword in hand, but were attacked and hurled backwards by the besieged. Another ladder was soon planted against the Brass Mount, while two more were reared against the northern ramparts opposite the postern gate, which had been stormed and taken by Wyat’s party, several of whom were descending the banks of the moat, and firing upon the fortress, assisted by three culverins placed in a temporary battery composed of large baskets filled with sand.

All this had not been executed without severe loss on the part of the insurgents. Several of the rafts were swamped, and their occupants, embarrassed by the weight of their arms, drowned. One of the ladders planted against the northern battlements was hurled backwards with its living load; and such was the vigour and determination of the besieged, that none of the assailants could set a foot on the ramparts.

Considerable execution, however, was done by the showers of arrows from archers, as well as by the discharges of the arquebussiers. But success did not, as yet, declare itself for either side. Constantly repulsed, the insurgents still resolutely returned to the charge; and though numbers fell from the ladders, others were instantly found to take their place.

Seeing how matters stood, and aware that some desperate effort must be made, Dudley, who had hitherto watched the progress of the fight from the moat, exposing himself to the full fire of the batteries, resolved to ascend the ladder placed against the Brass Mount. Cholmondeley agreed to follow him; and amid the cheers of the assailants and the unrelaxing fire of the besieged, the boat was run in to the side of the bastion.

At this juncture, a loud explosion, succeeded by a tremendous shout, was heard at the south side of the fortress. For a brief space, both royalists and insurgents ceased fighting; and taking advantage of the pause, Dudley swiftly mounted the ladder, and reaching the summit, shouted “God save Queen Jane!”

“God save Queen Jane!” echoed Cholmondeley, who was close behind him. “God save Queen Jane!” he repeated, waving the banner.

The cry was reiterated from below, and the firing recommenced more furiously than ever.

It was rumoured among Dudley’s men, and the report stimulated their ardour, that the Duke of Suffolk had taken Saint Thomas’s Tower. This, however, was not the case. After the embarkation of the troops as before related, the squadron under the command of Admiral Winter, accompanied by a number of galleys, and wherries, made its way slowly to the Tower. Owing to the necessary delay, the tide had turned, and the larger vessels had to be towed up the river by the smaller craft.

On their arrival they were immediately perceived by the sentinels, who opened a fire upon them, which was instantly returned. This was the commencement of the siege, and served as the signal to Dudley, and likewise to Wyat, of whose movements it will be necessary to speak hereafter.

Before the squadron came up, the Duke of Suffolk embarked in a small galley, and accompanied by several wherries filled with soldiers, contrived, by keeping close under the wall of the wharf, to effect a landing, unperceived, at the stairs. Taken by surprise, the guard fell an easy prey to their assailants, who seizing the cannon placed there, turned them against the fortress.

While this was passing, several boats landed their crews at the eastern end of the wharf, and many others speeded towards it from all quarters. In a short time, it was crowded by the insurgents; and notwithstanding the tremendous fire kept up against them from the whole line of battlements—from Traitor’s Tower—and from all the fortifications within shot, they resolutely maintained their ground.

Directing the attack in person, and exposing himself to every danger, the Duke of Suffolk displayed the utmost coolness and courage. The fight raged furiously on both sides. Several boats, and one of the larger vessels, were sunk by the guns of the batteries, and the ranks of the insurgents were greatly thinned. Still there was no symptom of irresolution exhibited; nor did they relax for a moment in their efforts.

Scaling-ladders were placed against the walls of Traitor’s Tower, and crowded with climbers, while a gun-boat entered the dark arch beneath it, and its crew commenced battering with axes, halberds, and poles, against the portcullis and water-gate. Another party had taken possession of the buildings opposite the By-ward Tower, and were trying to reach the drawbridge, which, it is almost needless to say, was raised. Added to these, a strong body of Essex men, having congregated at Limehouse, approached the fortress by Saint Catherine’s, and the lane leading to the Flemish church, and were striving to force the Iron Gate and the eastern outlet of the wharf.

At this juncture, an occurrence took place, which, while it disheartened the besieged, tended greatly to animate the assailing party. At the south-west corner of the wharf stood a row of small habitations separating it from Petty Wales. One of these was presently observed to be on fire, and the flames rapidly spread to the others. Shortly afterwards, a tremendous explosion took place. A building was blown up, and the fiery fragments tossed into the river and moat; while across the blazing ruins, with loud shouts, rushed a party of men from the troops under Sir Thomas Wyat.

This was the explosion that reached the ears of Dudley and his band. Rushing to the assistance of their friends, the new-comers seemed determined to carry all before them, and such was the effect of their sudden appearance, that the besieged for a moment gave way, and a small body of the insurgents gained a footing on the roof of Traitor’s Tower. But the next moment, the royalists rallied, drove off their assailants, and the fight continued as obstinately as before.

It was a sublime but terrific spectacle, and one not easily effaced from the remembrance of those who beheld it. The ruddy light cast upon the water by the burning houses, and serving to reveal the tall vessels—the armed boats—the sinking craft and struggling figures with which it was covered—the towers and battlements of the fortress pouring forth fire and smoke—the massive pile of the ancient citadel, which added its thunder to the general din,—the throng of warlike figures engaged in active strife on the wharf, or against Traitor’s Tower—constituted a scene of intense, though fearful interest—nor did the roar of the cannon, the clash of arms, the shouts and cheers of the combatants and the groans of the wounded, detract from its effect.

There was yet another scene, which though unwitnessed, except by those actually concerned in it equalled, if not surpassed it, in gloomy power. This was a conflict under Saint Thomas’s Tower. It has been already mentioned that a party, manning a gun-boat, had penetrated beneath the arch leading to Traitor’s Tower, where they endeavoured, with such weapons as they possessed, to effect an entrance. While they were thus employed, the portcullis was suddenly raised, and the Watergate opened; and the men supposing their own party had gained possession of the fortification above them, dashed forward.

They were speedily undeceived. Before they reached the steps, a number of armed figures, some of whom bore torches, appeared, while a thundering splash behind told that the portcullis had been let down, so as to cutoff their retreat. Nothing remained but to sell their lives as dearly as they could. Quarter was neither asked nor granted. Some leaped overboard, and tried, sword in hand, to force a way up the steps; others prepared to follow them; and the gunner discharged a falconet planted at the prow of the boat, occasioning fearful havoc among their opponents.

But this availed nothing. They were driven back, and their assailants pursuing them into the recesses of the arch, put them to death. The light of the few torches that illumined the scene, fell upon figures fearfully struggling, while the arches rang with the reports of musquetry, groans, and curses. In a short time, all was still and dark as heretofore. But when the watersgate was afterwards opened, fourteen mangled corpses floated out to the Thames.

While the siege was thus vigorously carried on, on the north and south, the western side of the fortress was not neglected. Remaining at Cornhill for some hours, Wyat divided his forces into two detachments, and committed one to Captain Bret, whom he directed to proceed to the upper part of Tower Hill, along Lombard-street, Fenchurch-street, and Tower-street, and to place his men within the churchyard of All-Hallows Barking, and at the rear of the scaffold on Tower Hill; while with the other he himself marched down Gracechurch-street, along Thames-street, taking up a position before the Bulwark Gate.

As soon as he had reached this point, and arranged his men, he rode off to Bret, and ordered a party, commanded by Captain Cobliam, to attack the postern-gate, as before related. Bret was to hold himself in readiness to march down to the Bulwark Gate, or to attack the Leg Mount, a bastion at the north-west angle of the fortress, corresponding (though of somewhat smaller size,) with the Brass Mount, as he should receive instructions.

Having issued these directions, Wyat rode back to his troops—he was now mounted, as were several of his officers, on the steeds captured in the recent skirmish with the Earl of Pembroke—and commanded them to remain perfectly quiet till Admiral Winter’s squadron should arrive off the Tower. His injunctions were strictly obeyed, and such perfect silence was observed, that though his men were drawn up within a few yards of the fortress, they were not discovered by the sentinels.

On the arrival of the squadron, Wyat immediately commenced an attack upon the Bulwark Gate—one of the weakest outworks of the fortress,—and while directing his engines against it, some half-dozen wooden houses adjoining it on the side of the moat, were fired by his men; and the flames quickly extending to the buildings immediately contiguous to the Bulwark Gate, that defence was at once surrendered.

The first point gained, Wyat despatched a messenger to Bret ordering him to join him instantly; and while a handful of his men, rushing round the semicircular wall, heretofore described as protecting the lesser moat, attacked the embattled gateway fronting the Lion’s Tower, with the intention of joining Suffolk’s party on the wharf, he directed his main force against the Lion’s Gate. This fortification was stoutly defended, and the insurgents were twice repulsed before they could bring their engines to bear against it.

Bret and his party having arrived, such an irresistible attack was made upon the gate, that in a short time it was carried. With loud shouts, the insurgents drove the royalists before them along the narrow bridge facing the Lion’s Tower, and leading to the Middle Tower, putting some to the sword, and throwing others over the walls into the moat.

The movement was so expeditious, and the rout so unexpected, that the portcullis of the Middle Tower, which was kept up to allow the flying men to pass through it, could not be lowered, and hastily directing those around him to prop it up with a piece of timber, Wyat continued the pursuit to the By-ward. Tower.

Hitherto, complete success had attended his efforts; and if he had passed the fortification he was approaching, in all probability he would have been master of the Tower. Nothing doubting this, he urged his men onwards. On his left rode Bret, and behind them, at a short distance, came Captain Knevet, and two other leaders, likewise on horseback.

As they arrived within a few paces of the By-ward Tower, three tremendous personages issued from it, and opposed their further progress. They were equipped in corslets of polished steel and morions; and two of them were armed with bucklers and enormous maces, while the third wielded a partizan of equal size. These, it is almost needless to state, were the three giants. The bearer of the partizan was Gog. Behind them came their diminutive attendant, who, it appeared, had been released from his thraldom, particulars of which, and of his adventures subsequent to his meeting with Cicely in the cell beneath the Salt Tower, will be related at a more convenient opportunity.

Like his gigantic companions, Xit was fully armed, in a steel corslet, cuisses, and gauntlets. His head was sheltered by a helmet, shaded by an immense plume of feathers, which, being considerably too large for him, almost eclipsed his features. He was furthermore provided with a sword almost as long as himself, and a buckler.

Taking care to keep under the shelter of the giants, Xit strutted about, and brandishing his sword in a valiant manner, shouted, or rather screamed,—

“Upon them Og!—attack them Gog!—why do you stand still, Magog? Let me pass, and I will show you how you should demean yourselves in the fight!”

At the sight of the giants, the flying royalists rallied, and a fierce but ineffectual struggle took place. During it, Bret was dismounted and thrown into the moat. Urged by their leader, the insurgents pressed furiously forward. But the giants presented an impassable barrier. Og plied his mace with as much zeal as he did the clubs when he enacted the part of the Tower at Courtenay’s masque, and with far more terrible effect. All avoided the sweep of his arm.

Not content with dealing blows, he dashed among the retreating foe, and hurled some dozen of them into the moat. His prowess excited universal terror and astonishment. Nor was Gog much behind him. Wherever his partizan descended, a foe fell beneath its weight; and as he was incessantly whirling it over his head, and bringing it down, a space was speedily cleared before him.

Seeing the havoc occasioned by the gigantic brethren, and finding that they completely checked his further advance, Wyat struck spurs into his charger, and dashing upon Magog, tried to hew him down. If the married giant had not caught the blow aimed at him upon his shield, Dame Placida had been made a widow for the second time. Again plunging the spurs rowel-deep into his horse’s flanks, Wyat would have ridden over his gigantic antagonist, if the latter, perceiving his intention, had not raised his mace, and with one tremendous blow smashed the skull of the noble animal.

“Yield you, Sir Thomas Wyat,” cried Magog, rushing up to the knight, who was borne to the ground with his slaughtered charger—“you are my prisoner.”

“Back, caitiff!” cried Wyat, disengaging himself and attacking the giant; “I will never yield with life.”

Wyat, however, would have been speedily captured by the giant, if Knevet, seeing his perilous situation, had not pressed forward with several others to his assistance, and rescued him. This accident, however, enabled the retreating party to pass beneath the archway of the By-ward Tower, the portcullis of which was instantly lowered.

Meanwhile, a body of the insurgents having taken possession of the Middle Tower, had planted themselves at the various loop-holes, and on the roof, and kept up a constant fire on the soldiers stationed on the summit of the By-Ward Tower.

Among those who contrived to distinguish themselves in the action was Xit. Finding his position one of more danger than he had anticipated, he scrambled upon the wall on the right of the By-ward Tower, where, being out of the rush, he could defy at his ease those who were swimming in the moat.

While he was in this situation, Bret, who, it has been mentioned, was thrown into the moat, swam to the wall, and endeavoured to ascend it. Xit immediately attacked him, and adopting the language of Magog to Wyat, threatened to throw him back again if he did not yield.

“I do yield,’” replied Bret.

“Your name and rank?” demanded the dwarf, in an authoritative tone.

“Alexander Bret, captain of the London Trained Bands, second in command to Sir Thomas Wyat,” replied the other.

“Here, Magog—Gog—Og—help!” shouted Xit—“I have taken a prisoner. It is Captain Bret, one of the rebel leaders—help him out of the moat, and let us carry him before the queen! I am certain to be knighted for my valour. Mind, I have taken him. He has yielded to me. No one else has had a hand in his capture.”

Thus exhorted, Magog pulled Bret out of the moat. As soon as he ascertained who he was, he bore him in his arms towards the By-Ward Tower—Xit keeping near them all the time, screaming, “he is my prisoner. You have nothing to do with it. I shall certainly be knighted.”

At Magog’s command, the portcullis was partially raised, and Xit and Bret thrust under it, while the two other giants repelled the assailants.

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XXX.—HOW QUEEN MARY COMPORTED HERSELF DURING THE SIEGE; HOW LORD GUILFORD DUDLEY WAS CAPTURED; AND HOW SIR THOMAS WYAT AND THE DUKE OF SUFFOLK WERE ROUTED.

Throughout the whole of the siege, the queen maintained her accustomed firmness; and to her indomitable courage, and the effect produced by it upon her followers, the successful issue of the conflict to the royalist party is mainly to be attributed. Startled from her slumbers by the roar of the artillery, Mary arose, and hastily arraying herself, quitted the palace with Gardiner, Renard, and a few other attendants, who had flown to her on the first rumour of the attack, and repaired to the lieutenant’s lodgings, where she found Sir Henry Bedingfeld in the entrance hall, surrounded by armed men, busied in giving them instructions, and despatching messages to the officers in command of the different fortifications.

At the queen’s appearance, the old knight would have flung himself at her feet, but she motioned him not to heed her, and contented herself with saying, as each messenger departed:—“Tell my soldiers, that I will share their danger. I will visit every fortification in turn, and I doubt not I shall find its defenders at their posts. No courageous action shall pass unrequited: and as I will severely punish these rebels, so I will reward those who signalise themselves in their defeat. Bid them fight for their queen—for the daughter of the Eighth Henry, whose august spirit is abroad to watch over and direct them. He who brings me Wyat’s head, shall receive knighthood at my hands, together with the traitor’s forfeited estates. Let this be proclaimed. And now fight—and valiantly—for you fight for the truth.”

Charged with animating addresses like these, the soldiers hurried to their various leaders. The consequence may be easily imagined. Aware that they were under the immediate eye of their sovereign, and anticipating her coming each moment, the men, eager to distinguish themselves, fought with the utmost ardour; and such was the loyalty awakened by Mary’s energy and spirit, that even those secretly inclined towards the opposite party, of whom there were not a few, did not dare to avow their real sentiments.

While Mary remained in the lieutenant’s lodgings, word was brought that the fortress was attacked on all sides, and the thunder of the ordnance now resounding from the whole line of ramparts, and answered by the guns of the besiegers, confirmed the statement. As she heard these tidings, and listened to the fearful tumult without, her whole countenance underwent a change; and those who remembered her kingly sire, recognised his most terrible expression, and felt the same awe they had formerly experienced in his presence.

“Oh! that I had been born a man!” she cried, “that with my own hand I might punish these traitors. But they shall find though they have a woman to deal with, they have no feeble and faint-hearted antagonist. I cannot wield a sword; but I will stand by those who can. Sir Henry Bedingfeld, take these orders from me, and they are final. Let the siege go how it may, I will make no terms with the rebels, nor hold further parley with them. Show them no quarter—exterminate them utterly. I no longer regard them as subjects—children; but as aliens—foes. Deal with them as such. And look you yield not this fortress—for by God’s grace! I never will yield it. Where is your own post, Sir Henry?”

“At the By-ward Tower, your highness,” replied Bedingfeld. “The traitor Wyat directs the attack in that quarter; and he is most to be feared of all our opponents. I will not quit the fortification with my life. But who shall succeed me, if I fall?”

“The queen,” replied Mary. “But you will not fall, good Bedingfeld. You are appointed by Heaven to be my preserver. Go to your post; and keep it, in my name. Go, and fight for your royal mistress, and for the holy Catholic faith which we both of us profess, and which these rebels—these heretics, would overthrow. Go, and the Virgin prosper you, and strengthen your arm.”.

“I obey your majesty,” replied Bedingfeld; “and yet I cannot but feel that my place is by your side.”

“Ah! do you loiter, sir?” cried Mary fiercely. “You have tarried here too long already. Do you not hear yon loud-voiced cannon summon you hence? Are you deaf to those cries? To your post, sir—and quit it not for your head. Stay!” she added, as the knight was about to obey her. “I meant not this. I have been over-hasty. But you will bear with me. Go. I have no fears—and have much to do. Success be with you. We meet again as victors, or we meet no more.”

“We shall meet ere day-break,” replied the knight. And quitting the presence, he hurried to the By-ward Tower.

“In case fate declares itself against your highness, and the insurgents win the fortress,” observed Renard, “I can convey you beyond their reach. I am acquainted with a subterranean passage communicating with the further side of the moat, and have stationed a trusty guard at its entrance.”

“In the event your excellency anticipates,” returned Mary, sternly, “but which I am assured will never occur, I will not fly. While one stone of that citadel stands upon another it shall never be surrendered: and while life remains to her, Mary of England will never desert it. In your next despatch to the prince your master, tell him his proposed consort proved herself worthy—in resolution, at least—of the alliance.”

“I will report your intrepid conduct to the prince,” replied Renard. “But I would, for his sake, if not for your own, gracious madam, that you would not further expose yourself.”

“To the ramparts!” cried Mary, disregarding him. “Let those follow me, who are not afraid to face these traitors.”

Quitting the entrance-hall, she mounted a broad staircase of carved oak, and traversing a long gallery, entered a passage leading to the Bell Tower—a fortification already described as standing on the west of the lieutenant’s lodgings, and connected with them. The room to which the passage brought her, situated on the upper story, and now used as part of the domestic offices of the governor, was crowded with soldiers, busily employed in active defensive preparations. Some were discharging their calivers through the loopholes at the besiegers, while others were carrying ammunition to the roof of the building..

Addressing a few words of encouragement to them, and, crossing the room, Mary commanded an officer to conduct her to the walls. Seeing from her manner that remonstrance would be useless, the officer obeyed. As she emerged from the low arched doorway opening upon the ballimn wall, the range of wooden houses on the opposite side of the moat burst into flames, and the light of the conflagration, while it revealed the number of her enemies and their plan of attack, rendered her situation infinitely more perilous, inasmuch as it betrayed her to general observation. Directed by the shouts, the besiegers speedily discovered the occasion of the clamour; and though Sir Thomas Wyat, who was engaged at the moment in personally directing the assault on the Bulwark Gate, commanded his men to cease firing in that quarter, his injunctions were wholly disregarded, and several shots struck the battlements close to the queen. Seriously alarmed, Gardiner earnestly entreated her to retire, but she peremptorily refused, and continued her course as slowly as if no danger beset her—ever and anon pausing to watch the movements of the besiegers, or to encourage and direct her own-men. Before she reached the Beauchamp Tower, the Bulwark Gate was carried, and the triumphant shouts of the insurgents drew from her an exclamation of bitter anger.

“It is but a small advantage gained, your highness,” remarked the officer; “they will be speedily repulsed.”

“Small as it is, sir,” rejoined the queen, “I would rather have-lost the richest jewel from my crown than they had gained so much. Look! they are gathering together before the Lion’s Gate. They are thundering against it with sledge-hammers, battering-rams, and other engines. I can hear the din of their blows above all this tumult. And see! other troops are advancing to their aid. By their banners and white coats, I know they are the London trained-bands, headed by Bret. Heaven confound the traitor! He who will bring him to me dead or alive, shall have whatever he asks. Ah, God’s death! they have forced the Lion’s Gate—they drive all before them. Recreants! why do you not dispute it inch by inch, and you may regain what you have lost? Confusion! Wyat and his rebel band press onward, and the others fly. They pass through the Middle Tower. Ah! that shout, those fearful cries! They put my faithful subjects to the sword. They are in possession of the Middle Tower, and direct its guns on the By-ward Tower. Wyat and his band are on the bridge. They press forward, the others retreat. Retreat! ah, caitiffs, cowards that you are, you must fight now, if you have a spark of loyalty left. They fly. They have neither loyalty nor valour. Where is Bedingfeld?—where is my lieutenant? why does he not sally forth upon them? If I were there, I would myself lead the attack.”

“Your majesty’s desires are fulfilled,” remarked the officer; “a sally is made by a party from the gate—the rebels are checked.”

“I see it!” exclaimed the queen, joyfully—“but what valiant men are they who thus turn the tide? Ah! I know them now, they are my famous giants—my loyal warders. Look how the rebel ranks are cleared by the sweep of their mighty arms. Brave yeomen! you have fought as no belted knights have hitherto fought, and have proved the truth of your royal descent. Ah! Wyat is down. Slay him! spare him not, brave giant! his lands, his title are yours. Heaven’s curse upon him, the traitor has escaped! I can bear this no longer.” she added, turning to her conductor. “Lead on: I would see what they are doing elsewhere.” The command was obeyed, but the officer had not proceeded many yards when a shot struck him, and he fell mortally wounded at the queen’s feet.

“I fear you are hurt, sir,” said Mary, anxiously.

“To death, madam,” gasped the officer. “I should not care to die, had I lived to see you victorious. When all others were clamouring for the usurper Jane, my voice was raised for you, my rightful queen; and now my last shout shall be for you.”

“Your name?” demanded Mary, bending over him.

“Gilbert,” replied the officer—“I am the grandson of Gunora Braose.”

“Live, Gilbert,” rejoined Mary—“live for my sake!”

Raising himself upon one arm, with a dying effort, Gilbert waved his sword over his head, and cried, “God save Queen Mary, and confusion to her enemies!” And with these words, he fell backwards, and instantly expired. The queen gazed for a moment wistfully at the body.

“How is it,” she mused, as she suffered herself to be led onward by Renard, “that, when hundreds of my subjects are perishing around me, this man’s death should affect me so strongly?—I know not. Yet, so it is.”

Her attention, however, was speedily attracted to other matters. Passing through the Beauchamp Tower, she proceeded to the next fortification.

The main attacks of the besiegers, as has been previously stated, were directed against the Brass Mount, Saint Thomas’s Tower, and the By-ward Tower;—the western and north-western ramparts, including the Leg Mount, a large bastion corresponding with the Brass Mount, being comparatively unmolested, faking up a position on the roof of the Devilin Tower, which flanked the north-west angle of the ballium wall, Mary commanded two sides of the fortress, and the view on either hand was terrific and sublime. On the left, the blazing habitations, which being of highly-combustible material were now, in a great measure, consumed, cast a red and lurid glare on the moat, lighting up the ramparts, the fortifications behind them, and those on the bridge,—two of which, she was aware, were in the possession of the besiegers. In this quarter the firing had ceased; and it seemed that both parties had by mutual consent suspended hostilities, to renew them in a short time with greater animosity than ever. On the right, however, the assault continued with unabated fury. A constant fire was kept up from the temporary batteries placed before the postern gate; clouds of arrows whizzed through the air, shot by the archers stationed on the banks of the moat; and another ladder having been placed against the ramparts, several of the scaling party had obtained a footing, and were engaged hand to hand with the besieged. Ever and anon, amid this tumultuous roar was heard a loud splash, proclaiming that some miserable wretch had been hurled into the moat.

After contemplating the spectacle for some time in silence, Mary proceeded to the Flint Tower—a fortification about ninety feet nearer the scene of strife. Here the alarming intelligence was brought her that Lord Guilford Dudley was in possession of the Brass Mount, and that other advantages had been gained by the insurgents in that quarter. The fight raged so fiercely, it was added, that it would be tempting Providence in her majesty to proceed further. Yielding, at length, to the solicitations of her attendants, Mary descended from the walls, and shaped her course towards the White Tower; while Renard, by her command, hastened to the Martin Tower (now the Jewel Tower) to ascertain how matters stood. His first step was to ascend the roof of this structure, which, standing immediately behind the Brass Mount, completely overlooked it.

It must be borne in mind that the Tower is surrounded by a double line of defences, and that the ballium wall and its fortifications are much loftier than the outer ramparts. Renard found the roof of the Martin Tower thronged with soldiers, who were bringing their guns to bear upon the present possessors of the Brass Mount. They were assisted in their efforts to dislodge them by the occupants of the Brick Tower and the Constable Tower; and notwithstanding the advantage gained by the insurgents, they sustained severe loss from the constant fire directed against them. Bernard’s glance sought out Lord Guilford Dudley; and after a few moments’ search, guided by the shouts, he perceived him with Cholmondeley driving a party of royalists before him down the steps leading to the eastern ramparts. Here he was concealed from view, and protected by the roofs of a range of habitations from the guns on the ballium wall.

A few moments afterwards, intelligence was conveyed by the soldiers on the Broad Arrow Tower to those on the Constable Tower, and thence from fortification to fortification, that Dudley having broken into one of the houses covering the ramparts, was descending with his forces into the eastern ward.

Renard saw that not a moment was to be lost. Ordering the soldiers not to relax their fire for an instant, he put himself at the head of a body of men, and hurrying down a spiral stone-staircase, which brought him to a subterranean chamber, unlocked a door in it, and traversing with lightning swiftness a long narrow passage, speedily reached another vaulted room. At first no outlet was perceptible; but snatching a torch from one of his band, Renard touched a knob of iron in the wall, and a stone dropping from its place discovered a flight of steps, up which they mounted. These brought them to a wider passage, terminated by a strong door clamped with iron, and forming a small sally-port opening upon the eastern ward, a little lower down than Lord Guilford Dudley and his party had gained admittance to it. Commanding his men to obey his injunctions implicitly, Renard flung open the sally-port, and dashed through it at their head.

Dudley was pressing forward in the direction of the Iron Gate when Renard appeared. Both parties were pretty equally matched in point of number, though neither leader could boast more than twenty followers. Still, multitudes were hastening to them from every quarter. A detachment of royalists were issuing from a portal near the Salt Tower; while a host of insurgents were breaking through the house lately forced by Lord Guilford Dudley, and hurrying to his assistance. In a few seconds, the opposing parties met. By the light of the torches, Dudley recognized Renard; and, uttering a shout of exultation, advanced to the attack.

As soon as it was known to the insurgents that the abhorred Spanish ambassador was before them, with one accord they turned their weapons against him, and if their leader had not interposed, would have inevitably slain him.

“Leave him to me,” cried Dudley, “and I will deliver my country from this detested traitor. Fellow soldiers,” he added, addressing Renard’s companions, “will you fight for Spain, for the Inquisition, for the idolatries of Rome, when swords are drawn for your country—and for the Reformed religion? We are come to free you from the yoke under which you labour. Join us, and fight for your liberties, your laws,—for the gospel, and for Queen Jane.”

“Ay, fight for Jane, and the gospel!” shouted Cholmondeley. “Down with Renard and the See of Rome. No Spanish match! no Inquisition!”

“Who are you fighting for? Who is your leader?” continued Dudley;—“a base Spanish traitor. Who are you fighting against?—Englishmen, your friends, your countrymen, your brothers—members of the same faith, of the same family.”

This last appeal proved effectual. Most of the royalists went over to the insurgents, shouting, “No Spanish match! no Inquisition! Down with Renard!”

“Ay, down with Renard!” cried Dudley. “I will no longer oppose your just vengeance. Slay him, and we will fix his head upon a spear. It will serve to strike terror into our enemies.”

Even in this extremity, Renard’s constitutional bravery did not desert him; and, quickly retreating, he placed his back against the wall. The few faithful followers who stood by him, endeavoured to defend him, but they were soon slain, and he could only oppose his single sword against the array of partizans and pikes raised against him. His destruction appeared inevitable, and he had already given himself up for lost, when a rescue arrived.

The detachment of soldiers, headed by Sir Thomas Brydges, already described as issuing from the gate near the Salt Tower, seeing a skirmish taking place, hurried forward, and reached the scene of strife just in time to save the ambassador, whose assailants were compelled to quit him to wield their weapons in their own defence. Thus set free, Renard sprang like a tiger upon his foes, and, aided by the new-comers, occasioned fearful havoc among them. But his deadliest fury was directed against those who had deserted him, and he spared none of them whom he could reach with his sword.

Lord Guilford Dudley and his esquire performed prodigies of valour. The former made many efforts to reach Renard, but, such was the confusion around him, that he was constantly foiled in his purpose. At length, seeing it was in vain to contend against such superior force, and that his men would be speedily cut in pieces, and himself captured, he gave the word to retreat, and fled towards the north-east angle of the ward. The royalists started after them; but such was the speed at which the fugitives ran, that they could not overtake them. A few stragglers ineffectually attempted to check their progress, and the soldiers on the walls above did not dare to fire upon them, for fear of injuring their own party. In this way, they passed the Martin Tower, and were approaching the Brick Tower, when a large detachment of soldiers were seen advancing towards them.

“Long live Queen Jane!” shouted Dudley and his companions, vainly hoping they were friends.

“Long live Queen Mary, and death to the rebels!” responded the others.

At the cry, Dudley and his little band halted. They were hemmed in on all sides, without the possibility of escape; and the royalists on the fortifications above being now able to mark them, opened a devastating fire upon them. By this time, Renard and his party had turned the angle of the wall, and the voice of the ambassador was heard crying—“Cut them in pieces! Spare no one but their leader. Take him alive.”

Hearing the shout, Dudley observed to Cholmondeley—“You have ever been my faithful esquire, and I claim one last service from you. If I am in danger of being taken, slay me. I will not survive defeat.”

“Nay, my lord, live,” cried Cholmondeley. “Wyat or the Duke of Suffolk may be victorious, and deliver you.”

“No,” replied Dudley, “I will not run the risk of being placed again in Mary’s power. Obey my last injunctions. Should you escape, fly to Jane. You know where to find her. Bid her embark instantly for France, and say her husband with his last breath blessed her.”

At this moment, he was interrupted by Cholmondeley, who pointed out an open door in the ramparts opposite them. Eagerly availing himself of the chance, Dudley called to his men to follow him, and dashed through it, uncertain whither it led, but determined to sell his life dearly. The doorway admitted them into a low vaulted chamber, in which were two or three soldiers and a stand of arms and ammunition. The men fled at their approach along a dark, narrow passage, and endeavoured to fasten an inner door, but the others were too close upon them to permit it. As Dudley and his band advanced, they found themselves at the foot of a short flight of steps, and rushing up them, entered a semi-circular passage, about six feet wide, with a vaulted roof, and deep embrazures in the walls, in which cannon were planted. It was, in fact, the casemate of the Brass Mount. By the side of the cannon stood the gunners, and the passage was filled with smoke. Alarmed by the cries of their companions, and the shouts of Dudley and his band, these men, who were in utter ignorance of what had passed, except that they had been made aware that the summit of the bastion was carried, threw down their arms, and sued for quarter.

“You shall have it, friends,” cried Dudley, “provided you will fight for Queen Jane.”

“Agreed!” replied the gunners. “Long live Queen Jane.”

“Stand by me,” returned Dudley, “and these stout walls shall either prove our safeguard, or our tomb.”

The gunners then saw how matters stood, but they could not retract; and they awaited a favourable opportunity to turn against their new masters.

Perceiving the course taken by Dudley and his companions, Henard felt certain of their capture, and repeated his injunctions to the soldiers to take him alive if possible, but on no account to suffer him to escape.

Dudley, meanwhile, endeavoured with Cholmondeley to drag one of the large pieces of ordnance out of the embrasure in which it was placed, with the view of pointing it against their foes. But before this could be accomplished, the attack commenced. Darting to the head of the steps, Dudley valiantly defended the pass for some time; and the royalist soldiers, obedient to the injunctions of Renard, forbore to strike him, and sought only his capture. The arched roof rang with the clash of weapons, with the reports of shot, and with the groans of the wounded and dying. The floor beneath them soon became slippery with blood. Still, Dudley kept his ground. All at once, he staggered, and fell. A blow had been dealt him from behind by one of the gunners, who had contrived to approach him unawares.

“It is over,” he groaned to his esquire, “finish me, and fly, if you can, to Jane.”

Cholmondeley raised his sword to comply with his lord’s injunctions, but the blow was arrested by the strong arm of Renard, who bestriding his prey, cried, in a voice of exultation, “He is mine! Bear him to the Queen before he expires.”

Cholmondelcy heard no more, but darting backwards, sprang into the embrazure whence he had endeavoured to drag the cannon, and forcing himself through the aperture, dropped from the dizzy height into the moat.

While this was passing, Mary proceeded to Saint John’s-Chapel in the White Tower. It was brilliantly illuminated, and high mass was being performed by Bonner and the whole of the priesthood assembled within the fortress. The transition from the roar and tumult without to this calm and sacred scene was singularly striking, and calculated to produce a strong effect on the feelings. There, all was strife and clamour; the air filled with smoke was almost stifling; and such places as were not lighted up by the blaze of the conflagration or the flashing of the ordnance and musquetry, were buried in profound gloom. Here, all was light, odour, serenity, sanctity. Without, fierce bands were engaged in deathly fight—nothing was heard but the clash of arms, the thunder of cannon, the shouts of the victorious, the groans of the dying. Within, holy men were celebrating their religious rites, undisturbed by the terrible struggle around them, and apparently unconscious of it; tapers shone from every pillar; the atmosphere was heavy with incense; and the choral, hymn mingled with the scarce-heard roar of cannon. Mary was so affected by the scene, that for the first time she appeared moved. Her bosom heaved, and a tear started to her eye.

“How peaceful is the holy place,” she observed to Gardiner, “and what a contrast it presents to the scene we have just quitted! I could almost wish that Heaven had destined me to the cloister instead of the throne, that I might pass my days in the exercise of my religion.”

“Heaven has destined you to be the restorer and defender of our religion, madam,” replied Gardiner. “Had you not been called to the high station you occupy, the Catholic worship, so long discontinued in these holy walls, would not now be celebrated. To you we owe its restoration;—to you we must owe its continuance.”

As Mary advanced to the altar, the anthem ceased, and silence prevailed throughout the sacred structure. Prostrating herself, she prayed for a few moments fervently, and in an audible voice. She then arose, and observed to Gardiner, “I feel so much comforted, that I am assured Heaven will support me and our holy religion.”

As she spoke, solemn music resounded through the chapel, the anthem was again chanted, and the priests resumed their holy rites. With a heart strengthened and elated, Mary ascended the staircase behind the altar, and passing through the gallery proceeded to the council-chamber, where she was informed that Xit, having captured a prisoner of importance, waited without to ascertain her pleasure concerning him. Mary ordered the dwarf to be brought into her presence with his captive, and in a few moments he was introduced with Bret, who was guarded by a couple of halberdiers.

On no previous occasion had Xit exhibited so much consequence as the present, and his accoutrements and fantastically-plumed casque added to his ludicrous appearance. He advanced slowly and majestically towards the chair of state in which Mary was seated, ever and anon turning his head to see that Bret was close behind him, and when within a short distance of the royal person, he made a profound salutation. Unluckily, in doing so, his helmet fell from his head, and rolled to the queen’s feet. Slightly discomposed by the accident, and still more by Mary’s frowns, he picked up his helmet, and stammered forth,—

“I am come to inform your highness that I have taken a prisoner—taken him with my own hands——”

“Who is it?” interrupted Mary, glancing sternly at the captive, who remained with his arms folded upon his breast, and his eyes cast upon the floor. “Who is it?” she asked, in an imperious tone.

“The arch-traitor Bret,” answered Xit,—“the captain of the London Trained Bands, who revolted from the Duke of Norfolk, and joined the rebels at Rochester.”

“Bret!” ejaculated Mary, in a tone that made Xit recoil several steps with fright, while the prisoner himself looked up. “Aha! is the traitor then within our power? Take him without, and let the headsman deal with him.”

“Your highness!” cried Bret, prostrating himself.

“Away with him!” interrupted Mary. “Do you, my lord,” she added, to Gardiner, “see that my commands are obeyed.” The prisoner was accordingly removed, and Xit, who was completely awed by the queen’s furious looks, was about to slink off, when she commanded him to remain.

“Stay!” she cried. “I have promised on my queenly word, that whoso brought this traitor Bret to me, should have whatever he demanded. Art thou in good truth his captor? Take heed thou triflest not with me. I am in no mood for jesting.”

“So I perceive, gracious madam,” replied Xit. “But I swear to you, I took him with my own hand, in fair and open combat. My companion Magog, if he survives the fray, will vouch for the truth of my statement—nay, Bret himself will not gainsay it.

“Bret will gainsay little more,” rejoined Mary sternly; “his brain will contrive no further treason against us, nor his tongue give utterance to it. But I believe thee—the rather that I am persuaded thou darest not deceive me. Make thy request—it is granted.”.

“If I dared to raise my hopes so high,” said Xit, bashfully “What means the knave?” cried Mary. “I have said the request shall be granted.”

“Whatever I ask?” inquired Xit.

“Whatever thou mayest ask in reason, sirrah!” returned Mary, somewhat perplexed.

“Well, then,” replied Xit, “I should have claimed a dukedom. But as your highness might possibly think the demand unreasonable, I will limit myself to knighthood.”

In spite of herself, Mary could not repress a smile at the dwarf’s extravagant request, and the terms in which it was couched.

“I have made many efforts to obtain this distinction,” pursued Xit,—“and for a while unsuccessfully. But fortune, or rather my bravery, has at length favoured me. I desire knighthood at your Majesty’s hands.”

“Thou shalt have it,” replied Mary; “and it will be a lesson to me to make no rash promises in future. Hereafter, when affairs are settled, thou wilt not fail to remind me of my promise.”

“Your highness may depend upon it, I will not fail to do so,” replied Xit, bowing and retiring. “Huzza!” he cried, as soon as he gained the antechamber. “Huzza!” he repeated, skipping in the air, and cutting as many capers as his armour would allow him, “at length, I have reached the height of my ambition. I shall be knighted. The queen has promised it. Aha! my three noble giants, I am now a taller man than any of you. My lofty title will make up for my want of stature. Sir Xit!—that does not sound well. I must change my name for one more euphonious, or at least find out my surname. Who am I? It is strange I never thought of tracing out my history before. I feel I am of illustrious origin. I must clear up this point before I am knighted. Stand aside, base grooms,” he continued to the grinning and jeering attendants, “and let me pass.”

While pushing through them, a sudden bustle was heard behind, and he was very unceremoniously thrust back by Simon Renard, who was conducting Dudley to the queen’s presence.

“Another prisoner!” exclaimed Xit. “I wonder what Renard will get for his pains. If I could but take Wyat, my fortune were indeed made. First, I will go and see what has become of Bret; and then, if I can do so without much risk, I will venture outside the portcullis of the By-ward Tower. Who knows but I may come in for another good thing!”

Thus communing with himself, Xit went in search of the unfortunate captain of the Trained Bands, while Renard entered the council-chamber with Dudley. The latter, though faint from loss of blood, on finding himself in the queen’s presence, exerted all his strength, and stood erect and unsupported.

“So far your highness is victorious,” said Renard; “one of the rebel-leaders is in your power, and ere long all will be so: Will it please you to question him—or shall I bid Mauger take off his head at once?”

“Let me reflect a moment,” replied Mary, thoughtfully, “He shall die,” she added, after a pause; “but not yet.”

“It were better to behead him now,” rejoined Renard.

“I do not think so,” replied Mary. “Let him be removed to some place of safe confinement—the dungeon beneath Saint John’s Chapel.”

“The only grace I ask from your highness is speedy death,” said Dudley.

“Therefore I will not grant it,” replied Mary. “No, traitor! you shall perish with your wife.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Dudley, “I have destroyed her.”

And as the words were pronounced, he reeled backwards, and would have fallen, if the attendants had not caught him.

“Your Majesty has spared Mauger a labour,” observed Renard, sarcastically.

“He is not dead,” replied Mary; “and if he were so, it would not grieve me. Remove him; and do with him as I have commanded.”

Her injunctions were obeyed, and the inanimate body of Dudley was carried away.

Renard was proceeding to inform the queen that the insurgents had been driven from the Brass Mount, when a messenger arrived, with tidings that another success had been gained—Sir Henry Jerningham having encountered the detachment under the Duke of Suffolk, and driven them back to their vessels, was about to assist the Earl of Pembroke and Sir Henry Bedingfeld in a sally upon Sir Thomas Wyat’s party. This news so enchanted Mary, that she took a valuable ring from her finger and presented it to the messenger, saying—“I will double thy fee, good fellow, if thou wilt bring me word that Wyat is slain, and his traitorous band utterly routed.”

Scarcely had the messenger departed, when another appeared. He brought word that several vessels had arrived off the Tower, and attacked the squadron under the command of Admiral Winter; that all the vessels, with the exception of one, on board which the Duke of Suffolk had taken refuge, had struck; and that her majesty might now feel assured of a speedy conquest. At this news, Mary immediately fell on her knees, and cried—“I thank thee, O Lord! not that thou hast vouchsafed me a victory over my enemies, but that thou hast enabled me to triumph over thine.”

“The next tidings your highness receives will be that the siege is raised,” observed Renard, as the queen arose; “and, with your permission, I will be the messenger to bring it.”

“Be it so,” replied Mary. “I would now gladly be alone.”

As Renard issued from the principal entrance of the White

Tower, and was about to cross the Green, he perceived a small group collected before Saint Peter’s Chapel, and at once guessing its meaning, he hastened towards it. It was just beginning to grow light, and objects could be imperfectly distinguished. As Renard drew nigh, he perceived a circle formed round a soldier whose breast-plate, doublet, and ruff had been removed, and who was kneeling with his arms crossed upon his breast beside a billet of wood. Near him, on the left, stood Manger, with his axe upon his shoulder, and on the right, Gardiner holding a crucifix towards him, and earnestly entreating him to die in the faith of Rome; promising him, in case of compliance, a complete remission of his sins. Bret, for he it was, made no answer, but appeared, from the convulsive movement of his lips, to be muttering a prayer. Out of patience, at length Gardiner gave the signal to Mauger, and the latter motioned the rebel captain to lay his head upon the piece of timber. The practised executioner performed his task with so much celerity that a minute had not elapsed before the head was stricken from the body, and placed on the point of a spear. While the apparatus of death and the blood-streaming trunk were removed, Xit, who was one of the spectators, seized the spear with its grisly burden, and, bending beneath the load, bore it towards the By-ward Tower. A man-at-arms preceded him, shouting in a loud voice, “Thus perish all traitors.”

Having seen this punishment inflicted, Renard hastened towards the By-ward Tower, and avoiding the concourse that flocked round Xit and his sanguinary trophy, took a shorter cut, and arrived there before them. He found Pembroke and Bedingfeld, as the messenger had stated, prepared with a large force to make a sally upon the insurgents. The signal was given by renewed firing from the roof and loopholes of the Middle Tower. Wyat, who had retired under the gateway of that fortification, and had drawn up his men in the open space behind it, now advanced at their head to the attack. At this moment, the portcullis of the By-ward Tower was again raised, and the royalists issued from it. Foremost among them were the giants. The meeting of the two hosts took place in the centre of the bridge, and the shock was tremendous. For a short time, the result appeared doubtful. But the superior numbers, better arms, and discipline, of the queen’s party, soon made it evident on which side victory would incline.

If conquest could have been obtained by personal bravery, Wyat would have been triumphant. Wherever the battle raged most fiercely he was to be found. He sought out Bedingfeld, and failing in reaching him, cut his way to the Earl of Pembroke, whom he engaged and would have slain, if Og had not driven him off with his exterminating mace. The tremendous prowess of the gigantic brethren, indeed, contributed in no slight degree to the speedy termination of the fight. Their blows were resistless, and struck such terror into their opponents, that a retreat was soon begun, which Wyat found it impossible to check. Gnashing his teeth with anger, and uttering ejaculations of rage, he was compelled to follow his flying forces. His anger was vented against Gog. He aimed a terrible blow at him, and cut through his partizan, but his sword shivered against his morion. A momentary rally was attempted in the court between the Lion’s Gate and the Bulwark Gate; but the insurgents were speedily, driven out. On reaching Tower Hill, Wyat succeeded in checking them; and though he could not compel them to maintain their ground; he endeavoured, with a faithful band, to cover the retreat of the main body to London Bridge. Perceiving his aim, Pembroke sent off a detachment under Bedingfeld, by Tower-street, to intercept the front ranks while he attacked the rear. But Wyat beat off his assailants, made a rapid retreat down Thames-street, and after a skirmish with Bedingfeld at the entrance of the bridge, in which he gained a decided advantage, contrived to get his troops safely across it, with much less loss than might have been anticipated. Nor was this all. He destroyed the planks which had afforded him passage, and took his measures so well and so expeditiously on the Southwark side, that Pembroke hesitated to cross the bridge and attack him. >

The Tower, however, was delivered from its assailants. The three giants pursued the flying foe to the Bulwark Gate, and then returned to the Middle Tower, which was yet occupied by a number of Wyat’s party, and summoned them to surrender! The command was refused, unless accompanied by a pardon. The giants said nothing more, but glanced significantly at each other. Magog seized a ram, which had been left by the assailants, and dashed it against the door on the left of the gateway. A few tremendous blows sufficed to burst it open. Finding no one within the lower chamber, they ascended the winding stone staircase, their progress up which was opposed, but ineffectually, by the insurgents. Magog pushed forward like a huge bull, driving his foes from step to step till they reached the roof, where a short but furious encounter took place. The gigantic brethren fought back to back, and committed such devastation among their foes, that those who were left alive threw down their arms, and begged for quarter. Disregarding their entreaties, the giants hurled them over the battlements. Some were drowned in the moat, while others wore dashed to pieces in the court below. “It is thus,” observed Magog with a grim smile to his brethren, as the work of destruction was ended, “that the sons of the Tower avenge the insults offered to their parent.”

On descending, they found Xit stationed in the centre of the bridge, carrying the spear with Bret’s head upon it. The dwarf eagerly inquired whether they had taken Wyat; and being answered in the negative, expressed his satisfaction.

“The achievement is reserved for me,” he cried; “no more laughter, my masters,—no more familiarity. I am about to receive knighthood from the queen.” This announcement, however, so far from checking the merriment of the giants, increased it to such a degree, that the irascible mannikin dashed the gory head in their faces, and would have attacked them with the spear, if they had not disarmed him.

By this time, Sir Henry Bedingfeld had returned from the pursuit of the rebels. Many prisoners had been taken, and conveyed, by his directions, to a secure part of the fortress. Exerting-himself to the utmost, and employing a large body of men in the work, the damages done to the different defences of the fortress were speedily repaired, the bodies of the slain thrown into the river, and all rendered as secure as before. The crews on board Winter’s squadron had surrendered; but their commander, together with the Duke of Suffolk, had escaped, having been put ashore in a small boat. Conceiving all lost, and completely panic-stricken, the Duke obtained horses for himself and a few companions, and riding to Shene, where he had appointed a meeting with his brother, Lord Thomas Grey, set off with him, at full speed, for Coventry, the inhabitants of which city he imagined were devoted to him. But he soon found out his error. Abandoned by his adherents, and betrayed into the hands of the Earl of Huntingdon, who had been sent after him, he was shortly afterwards brought a prisoner to the Tower.

Not to anticipate events, such was the expedition used, that in less than an hour, Bedingfeld conveyed to the queen the intelligence that all damage done by the besiegers was repaired, and that her loss had been trifling compared with that of her enemies. He found her surrounded by her nobles; and on his appearance she arose, and advanced a few steps to meet him.

“You have discharged your office right well, Sir Henry,” she said; “and if we deprive you of it for a while, it is because we mean to intrust you with a post of yet greater importance.”

“Whatever office your majesty may intrust me with, I will gladly accept it,” replied Bedingfeld.

“It is our pleasure, then, that you set out instantly with the Earl of Sussex to Ashbridge,” returned Mary, “and attach the person of the Princess Elizabeth. Here is your warrant. Bring her alive or dead.” #

“Alas!” exclaimed Bedingfeld, “is this the task your highness has reserved for me?”

“It is,” replied Mary; and she added in a lower tone, “you are the only man to whom I could confide it.”

“I must perforce obey, since your majesty wills it—but—”

“You must set out at once,” interrupted Mary—“Sir Thomas Brydges shall be lieutenant of the Tower in your stead. We reserve you for greater dignities.”

Bedingfeld would have remonstrated, but seeing the queen was immoveable, he signified his compliance, and having received further instructions, quitted the presence to make preparations for his departure.

The last efforts of the insurgents must be briefly told. After allowing his men a few hours’ rest, Wyat made a forced march to Kingston, and hastily repairing the bridge, which had been broken down, with planks, ladders, and beams tied together, passed over it with his ordnance and troops in safety, and proceeded towards London. In consequence of a delay that occurred on the road, his plan was discovered, and the Earl of Pembroke, having by this time collected a considerable army, drew up his forces in Saint James’s fields to give him battle.

A desperate skirmish took place, in which the insurgents, disheartened by their previous defeat, were speedily worsted. Another detachment, under the command of Knevet, were met and dispersed at Charing Cross, by Sir Henry Jerningham, and would have been utterly destroyed, but that they could not be distinguished from the royalists, except by their muddy apparel, which occasioned the cry among the victors of “Down with the draggle-tails.”

Wyat himself, who was bent upon entering the city, where he expected to meet with great aid from Throckmorton, dashed through all opposition, and rode as far as the Belle Sauvage (even then a noted hostel), near Ludgate. Finding the gate shut, and strongly defended, he rode back as quickly as he came to Temple Bar, where he was encountered by Sir Maurice Berkeley, who summoned him to surrender, and seeing it was useless to struggle further, for all his companions had deserted him, he complied. His captor carried him to the Earl of Pembroke; and as soon as it was known that the rebel-leader was taken, the army was disbanded, and every man ordered to return to his home. Proclamation was next made that no one, on pain of death, should harbour any of Wyat’s faction, but should instantly deliver them up to the authorities.

That same night Wyat, together with Knevet, Cobham, and ethers of his captains, were taken to the Tower by water. As Wyat, who was the last to disembark, ascended the steps of Traitor’s Gate, Sir Henry Brydges, the new lieutenant, seized him by the collar, crying, “Oh! thou base and unhappy traitor! how could’st thou find in thy heart to work such detestable treason against the queen’s majesty? Were it not that the law must pass upon thee, I would stab thee with my dagger.”

Holding his arms to his side, and looking at him, as the old chroniclers report, “grievously, with a grim look,” Wyat answered, “It is no mastery now.” Upon which, he was conveyed with the others to the Beauchamp Tower.

---

XXXI.—HOW JANE SURRENDERED HERSELF A PRISONER; AND HOW SHE BESOUGHT QUEEN MARY TO SPARE HER HUSBAND.

Towards the close of the day following that on which the rebels were defeated, a boat, rowed by a single waterman, shot London Bridge, and swiftly approached the Tower wharf. It contained two persons, one of whom, apparently a female, was so closely muffled in a cloak that her features could not be discerned; while her companion, a youthful soldier, equipped in his full accoutrements, whose noble features were clouded with sorrow, made no attempt at concealment. As they drew near the stairs, evidently intending to disembark, the sentinels presented their arquebusses at them, and ordered them to keep off; but the young man immediately arose, and said that having been concerned in the late insurrection, they were come to submit themselves to the queen’s mercy. This declaration excited some surprise among the soldiers, who were inclined to discredit it, and would not have suffered them to land, if an officer of the guard, attracted by what was passing, had not interfered, and granted the request. By his command, they were taken across the draw-bridge opposite the stairs, and placed within the guard-room near the By-ward Tower. Here the officer who had accompanied them demanded their names and condition, in order to report them to the lieutenant.

“I am called Cuthbert Cholmondeley,” replied the young man, “somewhile esquire to Lord Guilford Dudley.”

“You bore that rebel lord’s standard in the attack on the Brass Mount—did you not?” demanded the officer, sternly.

“I did,” replied Cholmondeley.

“Then you have delivered yourself to certain death, young man,” rejoined the officer. “What madness has brought you hither? The queen will show you no mercy, and blood enough will-flow upon the scaffold without yours being added to the stream.”

“I desire only to die with my master,” replied Cholmondeley.

“Where is Lord Guilford Dudley?” demanded the muffled’ female, in a tone of the deepest emotion.

“Confined in one of the secret dungeons—but I may not answer you further, madam,” replied the officer.

“Are his wounds dangerous?” she continued, in a tone of the deepest anxiety.

“They are not mortal, madam,” he answered. “He will live long enough to expiate his offences on the scaffold.”

“Ah!” she exclaimed with difficulty, repressing a scream.

“No more of this—if you are a man,” cried Cholmondeley, fiercely. “You know not whom you address.” *

“I partly guess.” replied the officer, with a compassionate look. “I respect your sorrows, noble lady—but oh! why—why are you here? I would willingly serve you—nay, save you—but it is out of my power.”

“My presence here must show you, sir, that I have no wish to avoid the punishment I have incurred,” she replied. “I am come to submit myself to the queen. But if you would serve me—serve me without danger to yourself, or departure from your duty—you will convey this letter without delay to her highness’s own hand.”

“It may be matter of difficulty,” rejoined the officer, “for her majesty is at this moment engaged in a secret conference in the Hall Tower, with the chancellor and the Spanish ambassador. Nay, though I would not further wound your feelings, madam, she is about to sign the death-warrants of the rebels.”

“The more reason, then,” she replied, in accents of supplicating eagerness, “that it should be delivered instantly. Will you take it?”

The officer replied in the affirmative.

“Heaven’s blessing upon you!” she fervently ejaculated. Committing the captives to the guard, and desiring that every attention, consistent with their situation, should be shown them, the officer departed. Half an hour elapsed before his return, and during the interval but few words were exchanged between Cholmondeley and his companion. When the officer reappeared, she rushed towards him, and inquired what answer he brought.

“Your request is granted, madam,” he replied. “I am commanded to bring you to the queen’s presence; and may your suit to her highness prove as successful as your letter! You are to be delivered to the chief jailor, sir,” he added to Chol-mondeley, “and placed in close custody.”

As he spoke, Nightgall entered the guard-room. At the sight of his hated rival, an angry flush rose to the esquire’s countenance—nor was his wrath diminished by the other’s exulting looks.

“You will not have much further power over me,” he observed, in answer to the jailor’s taunts. “Cicely, like Alexia, is out of the reach of your malice. And I shall speedily join them.”

“You are mistaken,” retorted Nightgall, bitterly. “Cicely yet lives; and I will wed her on the day of your execution. Bring him away,” he added, to his assistants. “I shall take him, in the first place, to the torture-chamber, and thence to the subterranean dungeons. I have an order to rack him.”

“Farewell, madam,” said the esquire, turning from him, and prostrating himself before his companion, who appeared in the deepest anguish; “we shall meet no more on earth.”

“I have destroyed you,” she cried. “But for your devotion to me, you might be now in safety.”

“Think not of me, madam—I have nothing to live for,” replied the esquire, pressing her hand to his lips. “Heaven support you in this your last, and greatest, and—as I can bear witness—most unmerited trial. Farewell, for ever!”

“Ay, for ever!” repeated the lady. And she followed the officer; while Cholmondeley was conveyed by Nightgall and his assistants to the secret entrance of the subterranean dungeons near the Devilin Tower.

Accompanied by his charge, who was guarded by two halberdiers, the officer proceeded along the southern ward, in the direction of the Hall Tower—a vast circular structure, standing on the east of Bloody Tower.

This fabric, (sometimes called the Wakefield Tower from the prisoners confined within it, after the battle of that name in 1460, and more recently the Record Tower, from the use to which it has been put,) is one of the oldest in the fortress, and though not coeval with the White Tower, dates back as far as the reign of William Rufus, by whom it was erected. It contains two large octagonal chambers,—that on the upper story being extremely lofty, with eight deep and high embrazures, surmounted by pointed arches, and separated by thin columns, springing from the groined arches formerly supporting the ceiling, which though unfortunately destroyed, corresponded, no doubt, with the massive and majestic character of the apartment. In this room tradition asserts that

—the aspiring blood of Lancaster

Sank in the ground:—

—it being the supposed scene of the murder of Henry the Sixth by the ruthless Gloster. And whatever doubts may be entertained as to the truth of that dark legend, it cannot be denied that the chamber itself seems stamped with the gloomy character of the occurrence. In recent times, it has been devoted to a more peaceful purpose, and is now fitted up with presses containing the most ancient records of the kingdom. The room on the basement floor is of smaller dimensions, and much less lofty. The recesses, however, are equally deep, though not so high, and are headed by semicircular arches. At high tides it is flooded, and a contrivance for the escape of the water has been made in the floor.

Passing through an arched doorway on the east of this structure, where the entrance to the Record Office now stands, the officer conducted his prisoner up a spiral stone staircase, and left her in a small antechamber, while he announced her arrival. The unhappy lady still kept herself closely muffled. But though her features and figure were hidden, it was evident she trembled violently. In another moment, the officer reappeared, and motioning her to follow him, led the way along a narrow passage, at the end of which hangings were drawn aside by two ushers, and she found herself in the presence of the queen.

Mary was seated at a table, near which stood Gardiner and Renard, and at the new-comer’s appearance she instantly arose.

The interview about to be related took place in the large octangular chamber previously described. It was sumptuously furnished: the walls were hung with arras from the looms of Flanders, and the deep recesses occupied with couches, or sideboards loaded with costly cups and vessels.

Hastily advancing towards the queen, the lady prostrated herself at her feet, and, throwing aside her disguise, revealed the features of Jane. She extended her hands supplicatingly towards Mary, and fixed her streaming eyes upon her, but was for some moments unable to speak.

“I am come to submit myself to your highness’s mercy,” she said, as soon as she could find utterance.

“Mercy!” exclaimed Mary, scornfully. “You shall receive justice, but no mercy.”

“I neither deserve, nor desire it,” replied Jane. “I have deeply, but not wilfully—Heaven is my witness!—offended your majesty, and I will willingly pay the penalty of my fault.”

“What would you with me?” demanded Mary. “I have acceded to this interview in consideration of your voluntary submission. But be brief. I have important business before me, and my heart is steeled to tears and supplications.”

“Say not so, gracious madam,” rejoined Jane. “A woman’s heart can never be closed to the pleadings of the unfortunate of her own sex, still less the heart of one so compassionate as your highness. I do not sue for myself.”

“For whom, then?” demanded the queen.

“For my husband,” replied Jane.

“I am about to sign his death-warrant,1’ replied Mary, in a freezing tone.

“I will not attempt to exculpate him, madam,” returned Jane, restraining her emotion by a powerful effort, “for his offence cannot be extenuated. Nay, I deplore his rashness as much as your highness can condemn it. But I am well assured that vindictiveness is no part of your royal nature—that you disdain to crush a fallen foe—and that, when the purposes of justice are answered, no sentiments but those of clemency will sway your bosom. I myself, contrary to my own wishes, have been the pretext for the late insurrection, and it is right I should suffer, because while my life remains, your highness may not feel secure. But my husband has no claims, pretended or otherwise, to the throne, and when I am removed, all fear of him will be at an end. Let what I have done speak my sincerity. I could have escaped to France, if I had chosen. But I did not choose to accept safety on such terms. Well knowing with whom I had to deal—knowing also that my life is of more importance than my husband’s, I have come to offer myself for him. If your highness has any pity for me, extend it to him, and heap his faults on my head.”

“Jane,” said Mary, much moved—“you love your husband devotedly.”

“I need not say I love him better than my life, madam,” replied Jane, “for my present conduct will prove that I do so. But I love him so well, that even his treason to your highness, to whom he already owes his life, cannot shake it. Oh, madam! as you hope to be happy in your union with the Prince of Spain—as you trust to be blessed with a progeny which shall continue on the throne of this kingdom—spare my husband—spare him for my sake.”

“For your sake, Jane, I would spare him,” replied Mary, in a tone of great emotion, “but I cannot.”

“Cannot, madam!” cried Jane—“you are an absolute queen, and who shall say you nay? Not your council—not your nobles—not your people—not your own heart. Your majesty can and will pardon him. Nay, I read your gracious purpose in your looks. You will pardon him, and your clemency shall do more to strengthen your authority than the utmost severity could do.”

“By Saint Paul!” whispered Renard to Gardiner, who had listened with great interest to the conference, and now saw with apprehension the effect produced on Mary, “she will gain her point, if we do not interfere.”

“Leave it to me,” replied Gardiner. “Your majesty will do well to accede to the Lady Jane’s request,” he remarked aloud to the queen, “provided she will comply with your former proposition, and embrace the faith of Rome.”

“Ay,” replied Mary, her features suddenly lighting up, “on these terms I will spare him. But your reconciliation with our holy church,” she added to Jane, “must be public.”

“Your highness will not impose these fatal conditions upon me,” cried Jane, distractedly.

“On no other will I accede,” replied Mary, peremptorily. “Nay, I have gone too far already. But my strong sympathy for you as a wife, and my zeal for my religion, are my inducements. Embrace our faith, and I pardon your husband.”

“I cannot,” replied Jane, in accents of despair; “I will die for him, but I cannot destroy my soul alive.”

“Then you shall perish together,” replied Mary, fiercely. “What ho! guards. Let the Lady Grey be conveyed to the Brick Tower, and kept a close prisoner during our pleasure.” And, waving her hand, Jane was removed by the attendants, while Mary seated herself at the table, and took up some of the papers with which it was strewn, to conceal her agitation.

“You struck the right key, my lord,—bigotry,” observed Renard, in an under tone to Gardiner.

---

XXXII.—HOW THE PRINCESS ELIZABETH WAS BROUGHT A PRISONER TO THE TOWER.

Charged with the painful and highly-responsible commission imposed upon him by the queen, Sir Henry Bedingfeld, accompanied by the Earl of Sussex and three others of the council, Sir Richard Southwell, Sir Edward Hastings, and Sir Thomas Cornwallis, with a large retinue, and a troop of two hundred and fifty horse, set out for Ashbridge, where Elizabeth had shut herself up previously to the outbreak of Wyat’s insurrection. On their arrival, they found her confined to her room with real or feigned indisposition, and she refused to appear; but as their mission did not admit of delay, they were compelled to force their way to her chamber. The haughty princess, whose indignation was roused to the highest pitch by the freedom, received them in such manner as to leave no doubt how she would sway the reins of government, if they should ever come within her grasp.

“I am guiltless of all design against my sister,” she said, “and I shall easily convince her of my innocence. And then look well, sirs—you that have abused her authority—that I requite not your scandalous treatment.”

“I would have willingly declined the office,” replied Bedingfeld; “but the queen was peremptory. It will rejoice me to find you can clear yourself with her highness, and I am right well assured, when you think calmly of the matter, you will acquit me and my companions of blame.”

And he formed no erroneous estimate of Elizabeth’s character. With all her proneness to anger, she had the strongest sense of justice. Soon after her accession, she visited the old knight at his seat, Oxburgh Hall, in Norfolk;—still in the possession of his lineal descendant, the present Sir Henry Bedingfeld, and one of the noblest mansions in the county,—and, notwithstanding his adherence to the ancient faith, manifested the utmost regard for him, playfully terming him “her jailor.”

Early the next morning, Elizabeth was placed in a litter, with her female attendants; and whether from the violence of her passion, or that she had not exaggerated her condition, she swooned, and on her recovery appeared so weak that they were obliged to proceed slowly. During the whole of the journey, which occupied five days, though it might have been easily accomplished in one, she was strictly guarded;—the greatest apprehension being entertained of an attempt at rescue by some of her party. On the last day, she robed herself in white, in token of her innocence; and on her way to Whitehall, where the queen was staying, she drew aside the curtains of her litter, and displayed a countenance, described in Renard’s despatches to the Emperor, as “proud, lofty, and superbly disdainful,—an expression assumed to disguise her mortification.” On her arrival at the palace, she earnestly entreated an audience of her majesty, but the request was refused.

That night Elizabeth underwent a rigorous examination by Gardiner and nineteen of the council, touching her privity to the conspiracy of De Noailles, and her suspected correspondence with Wyat. She admitted having received letters from the French ambassador on behalf of Courtenay, for whom, notwithstanding his unworthy conduct, she still owned she entertained the warmest affection, but denied any participation in his treasonable practices, and expressed the utmost abhorrence of Wyat’s proceedings. Her assertions, though stoutly delivered, did not convince her interrogators, and Gardiner told her that Wyat had confessed on the rack that he had written to her, and received an answer.

“Ah! says the traitor so?” cried Elizabeth. “Confront me with him, and if he will affirm as much to my face, I will own myself guilty.”

“The Earl of Devonshire has likewise confessed, and has offered to resign all pretensions to your hand, and to go into exile, provided the queen will spare his life,” rejoined Gardiner.

“Courtenay faithless!” exclaimed the princess, all her haughtiness vanishing, and her head, declining upon her bosom, “then it is time I went to the Tower. You may spare yourselves the trouble of questioning me further, my lords, for by my faith I will not answer you another word—-no, not even if you employ the rack.”

Upon this, the council departed. Strict watch was kept over her during the night. Above a hundred of the guard were stationed within the palace-gardens, and a great fire was lighted in the hall, before which Sir Henry Bedingfeld and the Earl of Sussex, with a large band of armed men, remained till day-breaks At nine o’clock, word was brought to the princess that the tide suited for her conveyance to the Tower. It was raining heavily, and Elizabeth refused to stir forth on the score of her indisposition. But Bedingfeld told her the queen’s commands were peremptory, and besought her not to compel him to use force. Seeing resistance was in vain, she consented with an ill grace, and as she passed through the garden to the water-side, she cast her eyes towards the windows of the palace, in the hope of seeing Mary, but was disappointed.

The rain continued during the whole of her passage, and the appearance of every thing on the river was as dismal and depressing as her own thoughts. But Elizabeth was not of a nature to be easily subdued. Rousing all her latent energy, she bore up firmly against her distress. An accident had well nigh occurred as they shot London Bridge. She had delayed her departure so long that the fall was considerable, and the prow of the boat struck upon the ground with such force as almost to upset it, and it was some time before it righted. Elizabeth was wholly unmoved by their perilous situation, and only remarked that “She would that the torrent had sunk them.” Terrible as the stern old fortress appeared to those who approached it under similar circumstances, to Elizabeth it assumed its most appalling aspect. Gloomy at all times, it looked gloomier than usual now, with the rain driving against it in heavy scuds, and the wind, whistling round its ramparts and fortifications, making the flag-staff and the vanes on the White Tower creak, and chilling the sentinels exposed to its fury to the bone. The storm agitated the river, and the waves more than once washed over the sides of the boat.

“You are not making for Traitors Gate,” cried Elizabeth, seeing that the skiff was steered in that direction; “it is not fit that the daughter of Henry the Eighth should land at those steps.”

“Such are the queen’s commands,” replied Bedingfeld, sorrowfully. “I dare not for my head disobey.”

“I will leap overboard sooner,” rejoined Elizabeth.

“I pray your highness to have patience,” returned Bedingfeld, restraining her. “It would be unworthy of you—of your great father, to take so desperate a step.”

Elizabeth compressed her lips and looked sternly at the old knight, who made a sign to the rowers to use their utmost despatch; and, in another moment, they shot beneath the gloomy gateway. The awful effect of passing under this dreadful arch has already been described, and Elizabeth, though she concealed her emotion, experienced its full horrors. The Water-gate revolved on its massive hinges, and the boat struck against the foot of the steps. Sussex and Bedingfeld, and the rest of the guard and her attendants, then landed, while Sir Thomas Brydges, the new lieutenant, with several warders, advanced to the top of the steps to receive her. But she would not move, but continued obstinately in the boat, saying, “I am no traitor, and do not choose to land here.”

“You shall not choose, madam,’” replied Bedingfeld, authoritatively. “The queen’s orders must, and shall be obeyed. Disembark, I pray you, without more ado, or it will go hardly with you.”

“This from von, Bedingfeld,” rejoined Elizabeth, reproachfully, “and at such a time, too?”

“I have no alternative,’” replied the knight.

“Well then, I will not put you to further shame,” replied the princess, rising.

“Will it please you to take my cloak as a protection against the rain?” said Bedingfeld, offering it to her. But she pushed it aside “with a good dash,” as old Fox relates; and springing on the steps, cried in a loud voice, “Here lands as true a subject, being prisoner, as ever set foot on these stairs. And before thee, O God, I speak it, having no other friend but thee.” *

“Your highness is unjust,” replied Bedingfeld, who stood bare-headed beside her; “you have many friends, and amongst them none more zealous than myself. And if I counsel you to place some restraint upon your conduct, it is because I am afraid it may be disadvantageous reported to the queen.”

“Say what you please of me, sir,” replied Elizabeth; “I will not be told how I am to act by you, or any one.”

“At least move forward, madam,” implored Bedingfeld; “you will be drenched to the skin if you tarry here longer, and will fearfully increase your fever.”

“What matters it if I do?” replied Elizabeth, seating herself on the damp step, while the shower descended in torrents upon her. “I will move forward at my own pleasure—not at your bidding. And let us see whether you will dare to use force towards me.”

“Nay, madam, if you forget yourself, I will not forget what is due to your father’s daughter,” replied Bedingfeld, “you shall have ample time for reflection.”

The deeply-commiserating and almost paternal tone in which this reproof was delivered touched the princess sensibly; and glancing round, she was further moved by the mournful looks of her attendants, many of whom were deeply affected, and wept audibly. As soon as her better feelings conquered, she immediately yielded to them; and, presenting her hand to the old knight, said, “You are right, and I am wrong, Bedingfeld. Take me to my dungeon.”

---

XXXIII.—HOW NIGHTGALL WAS BRIBED BY DE NOAILLES TO ASSASSINATE SIMON RENARD; AND HOW JANE’S DEATH-WARRANT WAS SIGNED.

The Tower was now thronged with illustrious prisoners. All the principal personages concerned in the late rebellion, with the exception of Sir Peter Carew, who had escaped to France, were confined within its walls; and the queen and her council wore unremittingly employed in their examinations. The Duke of Suffolk had written and subscribed his confession, throwing himself upon the royal mercy; Lord Guilford Dudley, who was slowly recovering from his wound, refused to answer any interrogatories; while Sir Thomas Wyat, whose constancy was shaken by the severity of the torture to which he was exposed, admitted his treasonable correspondence with Elizabeth and Courtenay, and charged De Noailles with being the originator of the plot. The latter was likewise a prisoner. But as it was not the policy of England, at that period, to engage in a war with France, he was merely placed under personal restraint until an answer could be received from Henry the Second, to whom letters had been sent by Mary.

Well instructed as to the purport of these despatches, and confident of his sovereigns protection, De Noailles felt little uneasiness as to his situation, and did not even despair of righting himself by some master-stroke. His grand object was to remove Renard; and as he could not now accomplish this by fair means, he determined to have recourse to foul; and to procure his assassination. Confined, with certain of his suite, within the Flint Tower, he was allowed, at stated times, to take exercise on the Green, and in other parts of the fortress, care being taken to prevent him from holding communication with the other prisoners, or, indeed, with any one except his attendants. De Noailles, however, had a ready and unsuspected instrument at hand. This was his jailor, Lawrence Nightgall, with whom he had frequent opportunities of conversing, and whom he had already sounded on the subject. Thus, while every dungeon in the fortress was filled with the victims of his disastrous intrigues; while its subterranean chambers echoed with the groans of the tortured; while some expired upon the rack, others were secretly executed, and the public scaffold was prepared for sufferers of the highest rank; while the axe and the block were destined to frequent and fearful employment, and the ensanguined ground thirsted for the best and purest blood in England; while such was the number of captives that all the prisons in London were insufficient to contain them, and they were bestowed within the churches; while twenty pairs of gallows were erected in the public places of the city, and the offenders with whom they were loaded left to rot upon them as a terrible example to the disaffected; while universal dread and lamentation prevailed,—the known author of all this calamity remained, from prudential reasons, unpunished, and pursued his dark and dangerous machinations as before.

One night, when he was alone, Nightgall entered his chamber, and, closing the door, observed, with a mysterious look,—“Your excellency has thrown out certain dark hints to me of late. You can speak safely now, and I pray you do so plainly. What do you desire me to do?”

Do Noailles looked scrutinizingly at him, as if he feared some treachery. But at length, appearing satisfied, he said abruptly, “I desire Renards assassination. His destruction is of the utmost importance to my king.”

“It is a great crime,” observed Nightgall, musingly.

“The reward will be proportionate,” rejoined De Noailles.. “What does your excellency offer?” asked Nightgall.

“A thousand angels of gold,” replied the ambassador, “and a post at the court of France, if you will fly thither when the deed is done.”

“By my troth, a tempting offer,” rejoined Nightgall. “But I am under great obligations to M. Simon Renard. He appointed me to my present place. It would appear ungrateful to kill him.”

“Pshaw!” exclaimed De Noailles, contemptuously. “You are not the man to let such idle scruples stand in the way of your fortune. Renard only promoted you because you were useful to him. And he would sacrifice you as readily, if it suited his purpose. He will serve you better dead than living.”

“It is a bargain,” replied Nightgall. “I have the keys of the subterranean passages, and can easily get out of the Tower when I have despatched him. Your excellency can fly with me if you think proper.”

“On no account,” rejoined De Noailles. “I must not appear in the matter. Come to me when the deed is done, and I will furnish you with means for your flight, and with a letter to the king of France, which shall ensure you your reward when you reach Paris. But it must be done quickly.”

“It shall be done to-morrow night,” replied Nightgall. “Fortunately, M. Renard has chosen for his lodgings the chamber in the Bloody Tower in which the two princes were murdered.”

“A fitting spot for his own slaughter,” remarked De Noailles, drily. “It is so, in more ways than one,” replied Nightgall; “for I can approach him unawares by a secret passage, through which, when all is over, escape will be easy.”

“Good!” exclaimed De Noailles, rubbing his hands gleefully. “I should like to be with you at the time. Mortdieu! how I hate that man. He has thwarted all my schemes. But I shall now have my revenge. Take this ring and this purse in earnest of what is to follow, and mind you strike home.”

“Fear nothing,” replied Nightgall, smiling grimly, and playing his dagger; “the blow shall not need to be repeated. Your excellency’s plan chimes well with a project of my own. There is a maiden whom I have long sought, but vainly, to make my bride. I will carry her off with me to France.”

“She will impede your flight,” observed De Noailles, hastily. “On all difficult occasions, women are sadly in the way.”

“I cannot leave her,” rejoined Nightgall.

“Take her, then, in the devil’s name,” rejoined De Noailles, peevishly; “and if she brings you to the gallows, do not forget my warning.”

“My next visit shall be to tell you your enemy is no more,” returned Nightgall. “Before midnight to-morrow, you may expect me.” And he quitted the chamber.

While his destruction was planned in the manner above-related, Simon Renard was employing all his art to crush by one fell stroke all the heads of the Protestant party. But he met with opposition from quarters where he did not anticipate it. Though the queen was convinced of Elizabeth’s participation in the plot, as well from Wyat’s confession, who owned that he had written to her during his march to London, offering to proclaim her queen, and had received favourable answers from her,—as from the declaration of a son of Lord Russell, to the effect, that he had delivered the despatches into her own hand, and brought back her replies;—notwithstanding this, Mary refused to pass sentence upon her, and affected to believe her innocent. Neither would she deal harshly with Courtenay, though equally satisfied of his guilt; and Renard, unable to penetrate her motives, began to apprehend that she still nourished a secret attachment to him. The truth was, the princess and her lover had a secret friend in Gardiner, who counteracted the sanguinary designs of the ambassador. Baffled in this manner, Renard determined to lose no time with the others. Already, by his agency, the Duke of Suffolk, Lord Thomas Grey, and Wyat, were condemned—Dudley and Jane alone were wanting to the list.

Touched, by a strong feeling of compassion for their youth, and yet more by the devotion Jane had exhibited to her husband, Mary hesitated to sign their death-warrant. She listened to all Renard’s arguments with attention, but they failed to move her. She could not bring herself to put a period to the existence of one whom she knew to be so pure, so lovely, so loving, so blameless, as Jane. But Renard was determined to carry his point.

“I will destroy them all,” he said; “but I will begin with Dudley and Jane, and end with Courtenay and Elizabeth.”

During the examination of the conspirators, the queen, though she had moved her court to Whitehall, passed much of her time at the Tower, occupied in reading the depositions of the prisoners, or in framing interrogatories to put to them. She also wrote frequent despatches to the emperor, whose counsel she asked in her present difficulties; and while thus occupied, she was often closeted for hours with Renard.

Whether by accident, or that the gloomy legend connected with it, harmonising with his own sombre thoughts, gave it an interest in his eyes, Renard had selected for his present lodging in the Tower, as intimated by Nightgall, the chamber in which the two youthful princes were destroyed. It might be that its contiguity to the Hall Tower, where Mary now for the most part held her conferences with her council, and with which it was connected by a secret passage, occasioned this selection—or he might have been influenced by other motives—suffice it to say he there took up his abode; and was frequently visited within it by Mary. Occupying the upper story of the Bloody Tower, this mysterious chamber looks on the north upon the ascent leading to the Green, and on the south upon Saint Thomas’s Tower. It is now divided into two rooms by a screen—that to the south being occupied as a bed-chamber; and tradition asserts, that in this part of the room the “piece of ruthless butchery,” which stamps it with such fearful interest, was perpetrated. On the same side, between the outer wall and the chamber, runs a narrow passage, communicating on the west with the ballium wall, and thence with the lieutenant’s lodgings, by which the murderers are said to have approached; and in the inner partition is a window, through which they gazed upon their sleeping victims. On the east, the passage communicates with a circular staircase, descending to a small vaulted chamber at the right of the gateway, where the bodies were interred. In later times, this mysterious room has been used as a prison-lodging. It was occupied by Lord Ferrers during his confinement in the Tower, and more recently by the conspirators Watson and Thistlewood.

On the evening appointed by Nightgall for the assassination of Renard, the proposed victim and the queen were alone within this chamber. The former had renewed all his arguments, and with greater force than ever, and seeing he had produced the desired impression, he placed before her the warrant for the execution of Jane and her husband.

“Your majesty will never wear your crown easily till you sign that paper,” he said.

“I shall never wear it easily afterwards,” sighed Mary. “Do you not remember Jane’s words? She told me, I should be fortunate in my union, and my race should continue upon the throne, if I spared her husband. They seem to me prophetic. If I sign this warrant, I may destroy my own happiness.”

“Your highness will be not turned from your purpose by such idle fears,” rejoined Renard, in as sarcastic a tone as he dared assume. “Not only your throne may be endangered, if you suffer them to live, but the Catholic religion.”

“True,” replied Mary, “I will no longer hesitate.”

And she attached her signature to the warrant.

Renard watched her with a look of such fiendish exultation, that an unseen person who gazed at the moment into the room, seeing a tall dark figure, dilated by the gloom, for it was deepening twilight, and a countenance from which everything human was banished, thought he beheld a demon, and, fascinated by terror, could not withdraw his eyes. At the same moment, too, the queen’s favourite dog, which was couched at her feet, and for a short time previously had been uttering a low growl, now broke into a fierce bark, and sprang towards the passage-window. Mary turned to ascertain the cause of the animal’s disquietude, and perceived that it had stiffened in every joint, while its barking changed to a dismal howl. Not without misgiving, she glanced towards the window—and there, at the very place whence she had often heard that the murderers had gazed upon the slumbering innocents before the bloody deed was done—there, between those bars, she beheld a hideous black mask, through the holes of which glared a pair of flashing orbs.

Repressing a cry of alarm, she called Renard’s attention to the object, when she was equally startled by his appearance. He seemed transfixed with horror, with his right hand extended towards the mysterious object, and clenched, while the left grasped his sword. Suddenly, he regained his consciousness, and drawing his rapier, dashed to the door,—but ere he could open it, the mask had disappeared. He hurried along the passage in the direction of the lieutenant’s lodgings, when he encountered some one who appeared to be advancing towards him. Seizing this person by the throat and presenting his sword to his breast, he found from the voice that it was Nightgall.

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XXXIV.—HOW THE PRINCESS ELIZABETH WAS CONFRONTED WITH SIR THOMAS WYAT IN THE TORTURE-CHAMBER.

As Elizabeth passed beneath the portal of the Bloody Tower, on her way to the lieutenant’s lodgings, whither she was conducted after quitting Traitor’s Gate, by Bedingfeld and Sussex, she encountered the giants, who doffed their caps at her approach, and fell upon their knees. All three were greatly affected, especially Magog, whose soft and sensitive nature was completely overcome. Big tears rolled down his cheeks, and in attempting to utter a few words of consolation, his voice failed him. Touched by his distress, Elizabeth halted for a moment, and laying her hand on his broad shoulder, said in a tone, and with a look calculated to enforce her words, “Bear up, good fellow, and like a man. If I shed no tears for myself, those who love me need shed none. It is the duty of my friends to comfort—not to dishearten me. My ease is not so hopeless as you think. The queen will never condemn the innocent, and unheard. Get up, I say, and put a bold face on the matter, or you are not your father’s son.”

Roused by this address, Magog obeyed, and rearing his bulky frame to its full height, so that his head almost touched the spikes of the portcullis, cried in a voice of thunder, “Would your innocence might be proved by the combat, madam, as in our—” and he hesitated,—“I mean your royal father’s time! I would undertake to maintain your truth against any odds. Nay, I and my brethren would bid defiance to the whole host of your accusers.”

“Though I may not claim you as champions,” replied Elizabeth; “I will fight my own battle, as stoutly as you could fight it for me.”

“And your grace’s courage will prevail,” rejoined Og.

“My innocence will,” returned Elizabeth.

“Right,” cried Gog. “Your grace, I am assured, would no more harbour disloyalty against the queen than we should; seeing that—”

“Enough,” interrupted the princess, hastily. “Farewell, good friends,” she continued, extending her hand to them, which they eagerly pressed to their lips, “farewell! be of good cheer. No man shall have cause to weep for me.”

“This is a proud, though a sad day,” observed Og, who was the last honoured by the princess’s condescension, “and will never be obliterated from my memory. By my father’s beard!” he added, gazing rapturously at the long, taper fingers he was permitted to touch, “it is the most beautiful hand I ever beheld, and whiter than the driven snow.”

Pleased by the compliment—for she was by no means insensible to admiration,—Elizabeth forgave its unseasonableness for its evident sincerity, and smilingly departed. But she had scarcely ascended the steps leading to the Green, when she was chilled by the sight of Renard, who was standing at the northern entrance of the Bloody Tower, wrapped in his cloak, and apparently waiting to see her pass.

As she drew near, he stepped forward, and made her a profound, but sarcastic salutation. His insolence, however, failed in its effect upon Elizabeth. Eyeing him with the utmost disdain, she observed to Bedingfeld, “Put that Spanish knave out of my path. And he who will remove him from the queen’s councils will do both her and me a good turn.”

“Your grace has sufficient room to pass,” returned Renard, with bitter irony, and laying his hand upon the hilt of his sword, as if determined to resist any attempt to remove him. “Your prison within the Bell Tower is prepared, and if my counsels have any weight with her majesty, you will quit it only to take the same path, and ascend the same scaffold as your mother, Anne Boleyn.”

“Another such taunt,” cried Sussex, fiercely, “and neither the sacred character of your office, nor the protection of the queen, shall save you from my sword.”

And he thrust him forcibly backwards.

Elizabeth moved on at a slow and stately pace, while the guard closing round her and Sussex, opposed the points of their halberds to the infuriated ambassador.

“Your highness has increased Renard’s enmity,” observed Bedingfeld, with a troubled look.

“I fear him not,” replied Elizabeth, dauntlessly. “Let him do his worst. English honesty will ever prove more than a match for Spanish guile.”

Entering the lieutenant’s lodgings, and traversing the long gallery already described as running in a westerly direction, Elizabeth soon reached the upper chamber of the Bell Tower, which, she was informed by Sir Thomas Brydges, was appointed for her prison.

“It is a sorry lodging for a king’s daughter,” she observed, “and for one who may be queen of this realm. But since my sister will have it so, I must make shift with it. How many attendants are allowed me?”

“One female,” replied Brydges.

“Why not deprive me of all?” cried the princess, passionately. “This chamber will barely accommodate me. I will be alone.”

“As your grace pleases,’” replied Brydges, “but I cannot exceed my authority.”

“Can I write to the queen?” demanded Elizabeth.

“You will be furnished with writing-materials, if it is your purpose to prepare your confession,” returned the lieutenant. “But it must be delivered to the council, who will exercise their discretion as to transmitting it to her highness.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the princess, “am I at their mercy?”

“Alas! madam, you are so,” replied Bedingfeld; “but the chancellor is your friend.”

“I am not sure of it,” returned Elizabeth. “Oh! that I could see the queen, were it but for one minute. My mother perished because she could not obtain a hearing of my royal sire, whose noble nature was abused in respect to her; and the Duke of Somerset himself told me, that if his brother the Admiral had been allowed speech of him, he would never have consented to his death. But it is ever thus. The throne is surrounded by a baneful circle, whose business is to prevent the approach of truth. They keep me from my sister’s presence, well knowing that I could clear myself at once, while they fill her ears with false reports. Bedingfeld, you are her faithful servant, and, therefore, not my enemy. Tell her, if she will grant me an audience alone, or before her councillors, I will either approve my innocence, or consent to lose my head. Above all, implore her to let me be confronted with Wyat, that the truth may be extorted from him.”

“The interview would little benefit your grace,” remarked Brydges. “Wyat confesses your privity to the rebellion.”

“He lies,” replied Elizabeth, fiercely. “The words have been put into his mouth with the vain hope of pardon. But he will recant them if he sees me. He dare not—will not look me in the face, and aver that I am a partner in his foul practices. But I will not believe it of him. Despite his monstrous treason, he is too brave, too noble-minded, to act so recreant a part.”

“Wyat has undergone the question ordinary, and extraordinary, madam,” replied Brydges; “and though he endured the first with surprising constancy, his fortitude sank under the severity of the latter application.”

“I forgive him,” rejoined Elizabeth, in a tone of deep commiseration. “But it proves nothing. He avowed thus much to escape further torture.”

“It may be,” returned Brydges, “and for your grace’s sake I hope it is so. But his confession, signed with his own hand, has been laid before the queen.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Elizabeth, sinking into the only seat which the dungeon contained.

“I beseech your highness to compose yourself,” cried Bedingfeld, compassionately. “We will withdraw and leave you to the care of your attendant.”

“I want no assistance,” replied Elizabeth, recovering herself. “Will you entreat her majesty to grant me an audience on the terms I have named, and in the presence of Wyat?”

“It must be speedy, then,” remarked Brydges, “for he is adjudged to die to-morrow.”

“To-morrow!” echoed Elizabeth. “Nay, then, good Bedingfeld, seek the queen without delay. Implore her by the love she once bore me—by the love I am assured she bears me still—to interrogate me before this traitor. If he perishes with this confession uncontradicted, I am lost.”

“Your words shall be repeated to her highness,” replied Bedingfeld, “and I will not fail to add my entreaties to your own. But I cannot give a hope that your request will be granted.”

“It is fortunate for your highness that the queen visits the Tower to-day,” observed Brydges. “Her arrival is momently expected. As I live!” he exclaimed, as the bell was rung overhead, and answered by the beating of drums and the discharge of cannon from the batteries, “she is here!”

“It is Heaven’s interposition in my behalf,” cried Elizabeth, “Go to her at once, Bedingfeld. Let not the traitor, Renard, get the start of you. I may live to requite the service. Go—go.” #

The old knight obeyed, and the others immediately afterwards retired, closing the door upon the princess, and placing a guard outside.

Left alone, Elizabeth flew to the narrow, and strongly-grated loophole, commanding the southern ward, through which the queen must necessarily pass on her way to the palace, in the hope of catching a glimpse of her. She had not to wait long. Loud fanfares of trumpets resounded from the gate of the By-ward Tower. These martial flourishes were succeeded by the trampling of steeds, and fresh discharges of ordnance, and the next moment, a numerous retinue of horse and foot emerged from the gateway. Just as the royal litter appeared, it was stopped by Sir Henry Bedingfeld, and the curtains were drawn aside by Mary’s own hand. It was a moment of intense interest to Elizabeth, and she watched the countenance of the old knight, as if her life depended upon each word he uttered. At first, she could not see the queen’s face, but as Bedingfeld concluded, Mary leaned forward, and looked up at the Bell Tower. Uncertain whether she could be seen, Elizabeth determined to make her presence known, and thrusting her hand through the bars, waved her kerchief. Mary instantly drew back. The curtains of the litter were closed; Bedingfeld stepped aside; and the cavalcade moved on.

“She will not see me!” cried Elizabeth, sinking back in despair. “I shall perish like my mother.”

The princess’s agitation did not subside for some time. Expecting Bedingfeld to return with the tidings that Mary had refused her request, she listened anxiously to every sound, in the hope that it might announce his arrival. Hour after hour passed by and he came not, and concluding that he did not like to be the bearer of ill news, or what was yet more probable, that he was not allowed to visit her, she made up her mind to the worst. Elizabeth had not the same resources as Jane under similar circumstances. Though sincerely religious, she had not the strong piety that belonged to the other, nor could she, like her, divorce herself from the world, and devote herself wholly to God. Possessing the greatest fortitude, she had no resignation, and while capable of enduring any amount of physical suffering, could not controul her impatience. Her thoughts were bitter and mortifying enough, but she felt no humiliation; and the only regrets she indulged were at having acted so unwise a part. Scalding tears bedewed her cheeks—tears that would never have been shed, if any one had been present; and her mingled emotions of rage and despair were so powerful, that she had much ado to overcome them. Ungovernable fury against Mary took possession of her, and she pondered upon a thousand acts of revenge. Then came the dreadful sense of her present situation—of its hopelessness—its despair. She looked at the stone walls by which she was inclosed, and invoked them to fall upon her and crush her—and she rushed towards the massive and iron-girded door, as if she would dash herself against it with impotent fury. Her breast was ravaged by fierce and conflicting passions; and when she again returned to her seat, she grasped it convulsively to prevent herself from executing the desperate deeds that suggested themselves to her. In after years, when the crown was placed upon her head, and she grasped one of the most powerful sceptres ever swayed by female hand—when illustrious captives were placed in that very dungeon by her command, and one royal victim, near almost to her as a sister, lingered out her days in hopeless captivity, only to end them on the block—at such seasons, she often recalled her own imprisonment—often in imagination endured its agonies, but never once with a softened or relenting heart. The sole thought that now touched her, and subdued her violence, was that of Courtenay. Neither his unworthiness nor his inconstancy could shake her attachment. She loved him deeply and devotedly—with all the strength and fervour of her character; and though she had much difficulty in saving him from her contempt, this feeling did not abate the force of her regard. The idea that he would perish with her, in some degree reconciled her to her probable fate.

Thus meditating, alternately roused by the wildest resentment, and softened by thoughts of love, Elizabeth passed the remainder of the day without interruption. Worn out, at length, she was about to dispose herself to slumber, when the door was opened, and Sir Thomas Brydges, accompanied by two serving-men and a female attendant, entered the room. Provisions were placed before her by the men, who instantly withdrew, and Brydges was about to follow, leaving the female attendant behind, when Elizabeth stopped him, and inquired what answer Sir Henry Bedingfeld had brought from the queen.

“My orders are to hold no communication with your grace,” replied the lieutenant.

“At least, tell me when I am to be examined by the council?” rejoined Elizabeth. “The meanest criminal has a right to be so informed!”

But Brydges shook his head, and quitting the chamber, closed the door, and barred it outside.

Controlling her feelings, as she was now no longer alone, Elizabeth commanded her attendant to awaken her in an hour, and threw herself upon the couch. Her injunctions were strictly complied with, and she arose greatly refreshed. A lamp had been left her, and taking up a book of prayers, she addressed herself to her devotions, and while thus occupied her mind gradually resumed its composure. About midnight, the door was opened by the lieutenant, who entered the room attended by Nightgall, and two other officials in sable robes, while a guard of halberdiers, bearing torches, remained without.

“I must request your grace to follow me,” said Brydges.

“Whither?” demanded Elizabeth, rising. “To the queen’s presence?”

The lieutenant made no answer.

“To the council?” pursued the princess,—“or to execution? No matter. I am ready.” And she motioned the lieutenant to lead on.

Sir Thomas Brydges obeyed, and followed by the princess, traversed the gallery, descended the great staircase, and entered a spacious chamber on the ground floor. Here he paused for a moment, while a sliding panel in the wall was opened, through which he and his companion passed.

A short flight of stone steps brought them to a dark narrow passage, and they proceeded silently and slowly along it, until their progress was checked by a strong iron door, which was unfastened and closed behind them by Nightgall. The jarring of the heavy bolts, as they were shot into their sockets, resounded hollowly along the arched roof of the passage, and smote forcibly upon Elizabeth’s heart, and she required all her constitutional firmness to support her.

They were now in one of those subterranean galleries, often described before, on either side of which were cells, and the clangour called forth many a dismal response. Presently afterwards, they arrived at the head of a staircase, which Elizabeth descended, and found herself, in the torture-chamber. A dreadful spectacle met her gaze. At one side of the room, which was lighted by a dull lamp from the roof, and furnished as before with numberless hideous implements—each seeming to have been recently employed—sat, or rather was supported, a wretched man upon whom every refinement of torture had evidently been practised. A cloak was thrown over his lower limbs, but his ghastly and writhen features proved the extremity of suffering to which he had been subjected. Elizabeth could scarcely believe that in this miserable object, whom it would have been a mercy to despatch, she beheld the once bold and haughty Sir Thomas Wyat.

Placed on the corner of a leathern couch, and supported by Wolfytt and Sorrocold, the latter of whom bathed his temples with some restorative, Wyat fixed his heavy eyes upon the princess. But her attention was speedily diverted from him to another person, whose presence checked her feelings. This was the queen, who stood on one side, with Gardiner and Renard. Opposite them was Courtenay, with his arms folded upon his breast. The latter looked up as Elizabeth entered the chamber; and after gazing at her for a moment, turned his regards, with an irrepressible shudder, to Wyat. Knowing that her safety depended upon her firmness, though her heart bled for the tortured man, Elizabeth disguised all appearance of compassion, and throwing herself at the queen’s feet, cried, “Heaven bless your highness, for granting me this interview! I can now prove my innocence.”

“In what way?” demanded Mary coldly. “It would indeed rejoice me to find I have been deceived. But I cannot shut my ears to the truth. Yon traitor,” she continued, pointing to Wyat, “who dared to rise in arms against his sovereign, distinctly charges you with participation in his rebellious designs. I have his confession, taken from his own lips, and signed with his own hand, wherein he affirms, by his hopes of mercy from the Supreme Judge before whom he will shortly appear to answer for his offences, that you encouraged his plans for my dethronement, and sought to win the crown for yourself, in order to bestow it with your hand upon your lover, Courtenay.”

“It is false,” cried Elizabeth;—“false as the caitiff who invented it—false as the mischievous councillor who stands beside you, and who trusts to work my ruin,—but, by our father’s soul it shall go hard if I do not requite him! Your majesty has not a more loyal subject than myself, nor has any of your subjects a more loving sister. This wretched Wyat, whose condition would move my pity were he not so heinous a traitor, may have written to me, but, on my faith, I have never received his letters.”

“Lord Russell’s son declares that he delivered them into your own hands,” observed Mary.

“Another he, as false as the first,” replied Elizabeth. “It is a plot, your highness—a contrivance of my enemy, Simon Renard. Where is Lord Russell’s son? Why is he not here?”

“You shall see him anon, since you desire it,” replied Mary. “Like yourself, he is a prisoner in the Tower. But these assertions do not clear you.”

“Your highness says you have Wyat’s confession,” rejoined Elizabeth. “What faith is to be attached to it? It has been wrung from him by the severity of the torture to which he has been subjected. Look at his shattered frame, and say whether it is not likely he would purchase relief from such suffering as he must have endured at any cost. The sworn tormentors are here. Let them declare how often they have stretched him on the rack—how often applied the thumbscrew,—how often delivered him to the deadly embraces of the scavenger’s daughter, before this false charge was wrung from him. Speak, fellows! how often have you racked him?”

But the tormentors did not dare to reply. A stifled groan broke from Wyat, and a sharp convulsion passed over his frame.

“The question has only extorted the truth,” observed Mary.

“If the accusation so obtained be availing, the retraction must be equally so,” replied Elizabeth. “Sir Thomas Wyat,” she exclaimed, in aloud and authoritative tone, and stepping towards him, “if you would not render your name for ever infamous, you will declare my innocence.”

The sufferer gazed at her, as if he did not clearly comprehend what was said to him.

Elizabeth repeated the command, and in a more peremptory tone.

“What have I declared against you?” asked Wyat, faintly.

“You have accused me of countenancing your traitorous practices against the queen’s highness, who now stands before you,” rejoined Elizabeth. “You well know it is false. Do not die with such a stain upon your knighthood and your honour. The worst is over. Further application of the rack would be fatal, and it will not be resorted to, because you would thus escape the scaffold. You can have, therefore, no object in adhering to this vile fabrication of my enemies. Retract your words, I command you, and declare my innocence.”

“I do,” replied Wyat, in a firm tone. “I have falsely accused you, and was induced to do so in the hope of pardon. I unsay all I have said, and will die proclaiming your innocence.”

“It is well,” replied Elizabeth, with a triumphant glance at the queen.

“Place me at the feet of the princess,” said Wyat to his supporters. “Your pardon, madam,” he added, as the order was obeyed.

“You have it,” replied Elizabeth, scarcely able to repress her emotion. “May God forgive you, as I do.”

“Then your former declaration was false, thou perjured traitor?” cried Mary, in amazement.

“What I have said, I have said,” rejoined Wyat; “what I now say is the truth.” And he motioned the attendants to raise him, the pain of kneeling being too exquisite for endurance.

“And you will adhere to your declaration?” pursued Mary.

“To my last breath,” gasped Wyat.

“At whose instigation were you induced to charge the princess with conspiring with you?” demanded Renard, stepping forward.

“At yours,” returned Wyat, with a look of intense hatred. “You, who have deceived the queen—deceived me—and would deceive the devil your master, if you could—you urged me to it—you—ha! ha!” And with a convulsive attempt at laughter, which communicated a horrible expression to his features, he sank into the arms of Wolfytt, and was conveyed to a cell at the back of the chamber, the door of which was closed.

“My innocence is established,” said Elizabeth, turning to the queen.

“Not entirely,” answered Mary. “Wyat’s first charge was supported by Lord Russell’s son.”

“Take me to him, or send for him hither,” rejoined Elizabeth. “He has been suborned, like Wyat, by Renard. I will stake my life that he denies it.”

“I will not refute the idle charge brought against me,” observed Renard, who had been for a moment confounded by Wyat’s accusation. “Your majesty will at once discern its utter groundlessness.”

“I ask no clemency for myself,” interposed Courtenay, speaking for the first time; “but I beseech your highness not to let the words of that false and crafty Spaniard weigh against your sister. From his perfidious counsels all these disasters have originated.”

“You would screen the princess in the hope of obtaining her hand, my lord,” replied Mary. “I see through your purpose, and will defeat it.”

“So far from it,” replied the Earl, “I here solemnly renounce all pretensions to her.”

“Courtenay!” exclaimed Elizabeth, in a tone of anguish.

“Recent events have cured me of love and ambition,” pursued the Earl, without regarding her. “All I desire is freedom.”

“And is it for one so unworthy that I have entertained this regard?” cried Elizabeth. “But I am rightly punished.”

“You are so,” replied Mary, bitterly. “And you now taste some of the pangs you inflicted upon me.”

“Hear me, gracious madam,” cried Courtenay, prostrating himself before the queen. “I have avowed thus much, that you may attach due credit to what I am about to declare concerning Renard. My heart was yours, and yours only, till I allowed myself to be influenced by him. I knew not then his design, but it has since been fully revealed. It was to disgust you with me that he might accomplish the main object of his heart—the match with the prince of Spain. He succeeded too well. Utterly inexperienced, I readily yielded to the allurements he spread before me. My indiscretions were reported to you. But, failing in alienating me from your regard, he tried a deeper game, and chose out as his tool, the princess Elizabeth.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Mary.

“He it was,” pursued Courtenay, “who first attracted my attention towards her—who drew invidious comparisons between her youthful charms and your Majesty’s more advanced age. He it was, who hinted at the possibility of an alliance between us—who led me on step by step till I was completely enmeshed. I will own it, I became desperately enamoured of the princess. I thought no more of your highness—of the brilliant prospects lost to me; and, blinded by my passion, became reckless of the perilous position in which I placed myself. But now that I can look calmly behind me, I see where, and why I fell—and I fully comprehend the tempter’s motives.”

“What says your excellency to this?” demanded Mary, sternly.

“Much that the Earl of Devonshire has asserted is true,” replied Renard. “But in rescuing your majesty, at any cost, from so unworthy an alliance, I deserve your thanks, rather than your reprobation. And I shall ever rejoice that I have succeeded.”

“You have succeeded at my expense, and at the expense of many of my bravest and best subjects,” replied Mary, severely. “But the die is cast, and cannot be recalled.”

“True,” replied Renard, with a smile of malignant satisfaction.

“Will your highness pursue your investigations further tonight?” demanded Gardiner.

“No,” replied the queen, who appeared lost in thought. “Let the Princess Elizabeth be taken back to the Bell Tower, and Courtenay to his prison in the Bowyer Tower. I will consider upon their sentence. Wyat is respited for the present. I shall interrogate him further.”

With this, she quitted the torture-chamber with her train, and the prisoners were removed as she had directed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is it lost?” demanded Xit, eagerly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I fear they are lost,” observed Og.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Farewell, sweet Master Narcissus,” cried Og.

“Farewell, Leatherbarrow,” added Gog.

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

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

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

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

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

“How shall we name thee?” demanded Mary.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The three giants bowed their lofty heads.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nightgall heard this menace with savage exultation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You bid me live,” returned the esquire.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Give him a cup of wine,’” said an authoritative voice, which Cholmondeley fancied he recognised, from the further end of the cell. And glancing in the direction of the speaker, he beheld Renard.

“It may be dangerous, your excellency,” returned Sorrocold.

“Dangerous or not, he shall have it,” rejoined Renard.

And wine was accordingly poured out by one of the attendants, and presented to the esquire, who eagerly drained it.

“Now leave us,” said Renard; “and return to the torture-chamber. I will rejoin you there.”

Sorrocold and his companions bowed, and departed.

Renard then proceeded to interrogate Cholmondeley respecting his own share in the rebellion; and also concerning Dudley and Lady Jane. Failing in obtaining satisfactory answers, he turned his inquiries to Elizabeth’s participation in the plot; and he shaped them so artfully, that he contrived to elicit from the esquire, whose brain was a good deal confused by the potent draught he had swallowed, some important particulars relative to the princess’s correspondence with Wyat.

Satisfied with the result of the examination, the ambassador turned to depart, when he beheld, close behind him, a masked figure, which he immediately recognised as the same that had appeared at the window of his lodgings in the Bloody Tower, on the evening when Jane’s death-warrant was signed by the queen.

No sound had proclaimed the mask’s approach, and the door was shut. The sight revived all Renard’s superstitious fears.

“Who, and what art thou?” he demanded.

“Your executioner,” replied a hollow voice. And suddenly drawing a poniard, the mask aimed a terrible blow at Renard, which, if he had not avoided it, must have proved fatal.

Thus assaulted, Renard tried to draw his sword, but he was prevented by the mask, who grappled with him, and brought him to the ground. In the struggle, however, the assassin’s vizard fell off, and disclosed the features of Nightgall.

“Nightgall!” exclaimed Renard. “You, then, were the mysterious visitant to my chamber in the Bloody Tower. I might have guessed as much when I met you in the passage. But you persuaded me I had seen an apparition.”

“If your excellency took me for a ghost, I took you for something worse,” replied Nightgall, keeping his knee upon the ambassador’s chest, and searching for his dagger, which had dropped in the conflict.

“Release me, villain!” cried Renard. “Would you murder me?”

“I am paid to put your excellency to death,” rejoined Nightgall, with the utmost coolness.

“I will give you twice the sum to spare me,” rejoined Renard, who saw from Nightgall’s looks that he had no chance, unless he could work upon his avarice.

“Hum!” exclaimed the jailor; who, not being able to reach his dagger, which had rolled to some distance, had drawn his sword, and was now shortening it, with intent to plunge it in the other’s throat—“I would take your offer—but I have gone too far.”

“Fear nothing,” gasped Renard, giving himself up for lost. “I swear by my patron, Saint Paul, that I will not harm a hair of your head. Against your employer only will I direct my vengeance.”

“I will not trust you,” replied Nightgall, about to strike.

But just as he was about to deal the fatal blow—at the very moment that the point of the blade pierced the ambassador’s skin, he was plucked backwards by Cholmondeley, and hurled on the ground. Perceiving it was his rival, who was more hateful to him even than Renard, Cholmondeley, on the onset, had prepared to take some part in the struggle, and noticing the poniard, had first of all possessed himself of it, and then attacked Nightgall in the manner above related.

Throwing himself upon his foe, Cholmondeley tried to stab him; but it appeared that he wore a stout buff jerkin, for the weapon glanced aside, without doing him any injury. As Cholmondeley was about to repeat the thrust, and in a part less defended, he was himself pushed aside by Renard, who, by this time, had gained his feet, and was threatening vengeance upon his intended assassin. But the esquire was unwilling to abandon his prey; and in the struggle, Nightgall, exerting all his strength, broke from them, and wresting the dagger from Cholmondeley, succeeded in opening the door. Renard, foaming with rage, rushed after him, utterly forgetful of Cholmondeley, who listened with breathless anxiety, to their retreating footsteps. Scarcely knowing what to do, but resolved not to throw away the chance of escape, the esquire hastily attired himself, and taking up a lamp which Renard had left upon the floor, quitted the cell.

“I will seek out Cicely,” he cried, “and set her free; and then, perhaps, we may be able to escape together.”

But the hope that for a moment arose within his breast was checked by the danger and difficulty of making the search. Determined, however to hazard the attempt, he set out in a contrary direction to that taken by Nightgall and Renard, and proceeding at a rapid pace soon reached a flight of steps, up which he mounted. He was now within a second passage, similar to the first, with cells on either side; but though he was too well convinced, from the sounds issuing from them, that they were occupied, he did not dare to open any of them. Still pursuing his headlong course, he now took one turn—now another, until he was completely bewildered and exhausted. While leaning against the wall to recruit himself, he was startled by a light approaching at a distance and, fearing to encounter the person who bore it, was about to hurry away, when, to his inexpressible joy, he perceived it was Cicely. With a wild cry, he started towards her, calling to her by name; but the young damsel, mistaking him probably for her persecutor, let fall her lamp, uttered a piercing scream, and fled. In vain, her lover strove to overtake her—in vain, he shouted to her, and implored her to stop—his cries were drowned in her shrieks, and only added to her terror. Cholmondeley, however, though distanced, kept her for some time in view; when all at once she disappeared.

On gaining the spot where she had vanished, he found an open trap-door, and, certain she must have descended by it, took the same course. He found himself in a narrow, vaulted passage, but could discover no traces of her he sought. Hurrying forward, though almost ready to drop with fatigue, he came to a large octagonal chamber. At one side, he perceived a ladder, and at the head of it the arched entrance to a cell. In an agony of hope and fear he hastened towards the recess, and as he approached, his doubt was made certainty by a loud scream. Quick as thought, he sprang into the cell, and found, crouched in the further corner, the object of his search.

“Cicely,” he exclaimed. “It is I—your lover—Cholmondeley.”

“You!” she exclaimed, starting up, and gazing at him as if she could scarcely trust the evidence of her senses; “and I have been flying from you all this time, taking you for Nightgall.” And throwing herself into his arms, she was strained passionately to his bosom.

After the first rapturous emotions had subsided, Cicely hastily explained to her lover that after she had been borne away by Nightgall she had fainted, and on reviving, found herself in her accustomed prison. Filled with alarm by his dreadful threats, she had determined to put an end to her existence rather than expose herself to his violence; and had arisen with that resolution, when an impulse prompted her to try the door. To her surprise it was unfastened—the bolt having shot wide of the socket, and quitting the cell, she had wandered about along the passages, until they had so mysteriously encountered each other. This explanation given, and Cholmondeley having related what had befallen him, the youthful pair, almost blinded to their perilous situation by their joy at their unexpected reunion, set forth in the hope of discovering the subterranean passage to the further side of the moat.

Too much engrossed by each other to heed whither they were going, they wandered on;—Cicely detailing all the persecution she had experienced from Nightgall, and her lover breathing vengeance against him. The only person she had seen, she said, during her captivity was Xit. He had found his way to her dungeon, but was discovered while endeavouring to liberate her by Nightgall, who threatened to put him to death, if he did not take a solemn oath, which he proposed, not to reveal to the place of her captivity. And she concluded the dwarf had kept his vow, as she had seen nothing of him since; nor had any one been led to her retreat.

To these details, as well as to her professions of love for him, unshaken by time or circumstance, Cholmondeley listened with such absorbing attention, that, lost to everything else, he tracked passage after passage, unconscious where he was going. At last, he opened a door which admitted them to a gloomy hall, terminated by a broad flight of steps, down which several armed figures wore descending. Cholmondeley would have retreated, but it was impossible. He had been perceived by the soldiers, who rushed towards him, questioned him and Cicely, and not being satisfied with their answers, conveyed them up the stairs to the lower guard-room in the White Tower, which it appeared the wanderers had approached.

Here, amongst other soldiers and warders, were the three giants, and instantly addressing them, Cholmondeley delivered Cicely to their care. He would have had them convey her to the Stone Kitchen, but this an officer who was present would not permit, till inquiries had been made, and, meanwhile, the esquire was placed in arrest.

Shortly after this, an extraordinary bustle was heard at the door, and four soldiers entered carrying the body of a man upon a shutter. They set it down in the midst of the room. Amongst those, who flocked round to gaze upon it, was Cholmondeley. It was a frightful spectacle. But in the mutilated, though still breathing mass, the esquire recognized Nightgall. While he was gazing at the miserable wretch, and marvelling how he came in this condition, a tall personage strode into the room, and commanding the group to stand aside, approached the body. It was Renard. After regarding the dying man for a few moments with savage satisfaction, he turned to depart, when his eye fell upon Cholmondeley.

“I had forgotten you,” he said. “But it seems you have not neglected the opportunity offered you of escape.”

“We caught him trying to get out of the subterranean passages, your excellency,” remarked the officer.

“Let him remain here till further orders,” rejoined Renard. “You have saved my life, and shall find I am not ungrateful,” he added to Cholmondeley.

“If your excellency would indeed requite me,” replied the esquire, “you will give orders that this maiden, long and falsely, imprisoned by the wretch before us, may be allowed to return to her friends.”

“I know her,” rejoined Renard, looking at Cicely; “and I know that what you say is true. Release her,” he added to the officer. And giving a last terrible look at Nightgall, he quitted the room.

“Is Cicely here? groaned the dying man.

“She is,” replied Cholmondeley. “Have you aught to say to her!”

“Ay, and to you, too,” replied Nightgall. “Let her approach, and bid the others stand off; and I will confess all I have done. Give me a draught of wine, for it is a long story, and I must have strength to tell it.”

Before relating Nightgall’s confession, it will be necessary to see what dreadful accident had befallen him; and in order to do this, his course must be traced, subsequently to his flight from Cholmondeley’s dungeon.

Acquainted with all the intricacies of the passages, and running with great speed, Nightgall soon distanced his pursuer, who having lost trace of him, was obliged to give up the chase. Determined, however, not to be baulked of his prey, he retraced his steps to the torture-chamber, where he found Wolfytt, Sorro-cold, and three other officials, to whom he recounted the jailor’s atrocious attempt.

“I will engage to find him for your excellency,” said Wolfytt, who bore no very kindly feeling to Nightgall, “if he is anywhere below the Tower. I know every turn and hole in these passages better than the oldest rat that haunts them.”

“Deliver him to my vengeance,” rejoined Renard, “and you shall hold his place.”

“Says your excellency so!” cried Wolfytt; “then you may account him already in your hands.”

With this, he snatched up a halberd and a torch, and bidding two of the officials come with him, started off at a swift pace on the right. Neither he nor his companions relaxed their pace, but tracked passage after passage, and examined vault after vault—but still without success.

Renard’s impatience manifested itself in furious exclamations, and Wolfytt appeared perplexed and disappointed.

“I have it!” he exclaimed, rubbing his shaggy head. “He must have entered Saint John’s Chapel, in the White Tower, by the secret passage.”

The party were again in motion; and, taking the least circuitous road, Wolfytt soon brought them to a narrow passage, at the end of which he descried a dark crouching figure.

“We have him!” he cried, exultingly. “There he is!”

Creeping quickly along, for the roof was so low that he was compelled to stoop, Wolfytt prepared for an encounter with Nightgall. The latter grasped his dagger, and appeared ready to spring upon his assailant. Knowing the strength and ferocity of the jailor, Wolfytt hesitated a moment, but goaded on by Renard, who was close behind, and eager for vengeance, he was about to commence the attack, when Nightgall, taking advantage of the delay, touched a spring in the wall behind him, and a stone dropping from its place, he dashed through the aperture. With a yell of rage and disappointment, Wolfytt sprang after him, and was instantly struck down by a blow from his opponent’s dagger. Renard followed, and beheld the fugitive speeding across the nave of Saint John’s Chapel, and, without regarding Wolfytt, who was lying on the floor, bleeding profusely, he continued the pursuit.

Nightgall hurried up the steps behind the altar, and took his way along one of the arched stone galleries opening upon the council-chamber. But, swiftly as he fled, Renard, to whom fury had lent wings, rapidly gained upon him.

It was more than an hour after day-break, but no one was astir in this part of the citadel, and as the pursued and pursuer threaded the gallery, and crossed the council-chamber, they did not meet even a solitary attendant. Nightgall was now within the southern gallery of the White Tower, and Renard shouted to him to stop; but he heeded not the cry. In another moment, he reached a door, opening upon the north-east turret. It was bolted, and the time lost in unfastening it, brought Renard close upon him. Nightgall would have descended, but thinking he heard voices below, he ran up the winding stairs.

Renard now felt secure of him, and uttered a shout of savage delight. The fugitive would have gained the roof, if he had not been intercepted by a party of men, who at the very moment he reached the doorway communicating with the leads presented themselves at it. Hearing the clamour raised by Renard and his followers below, these men commanded Nightgall to surrender. Instead of complying, the miserable fugitive, now at his wits’ end, rushed backwards, with the determination of assailing Renard. He met the ambassador at a turn in the stairs a little below, and aimed a desperate blow at him with his dagger. But Renard easily warded it off, and pressing him backwards, drove him into one of the deep embrasures at the side.

Driven to desperation, Nightgall at first thought of springing through the loophole; but the involuntary glance that he cast below, made him recoil. On seeing his terror, Renard was filled with delight, and determined to prolong his enjoyment. In vain, Nightgall endeavoured to escape from the dreadful snare in which he was caught. He was driven remorselessly back. In vain, he implored mercy in the most abject terms. None was shown him. Getting within the embrasure, which was about twelve feet deep, Renard deliberately pricked the wretched man with the point of his sword, and forced him slowly backwards.

Nightgall struggled desperately against the horrible fate that awaited him, striking at Renard with his dagger, clutching convulsively against the wall, and disputing the ground inch by inch. But all was unavailing. Scarcely a foot’s space intervened between him and destruction, when Renard sprang forward, and pushed him by main force through the loophole. He uttered a fearful cry, and tried to grasp at the roughened surface of the wall. Renard watched his descent. It was from a height of near ninety feet.

He fell with a terrific smash upon the pavement of the court below. Three or four halberdiers, who were passing at a little distance, hearing the noise, ran towards him, but finding he was not dead, though almost dashed in pieces, and scarcely retaining a vestige of humanity, they brought a shutter, and conveyed him to the lower guard-room, as already related.

“I have no hope of mercy,” gasped the dying man, as his request was complied with, and Cicely, with averted eyes, stood beside him, “and I deserve none. But I will make what atonement I can for my evil deeds. Listen to me, Cicely, (or rather I should say Angela, for that is your rightful name,) you are the daughter of Sir Alberic Mountjoy, and were born while your parents were imprisoned in the Tower. Your mother, the Lady Grace, lost her reason on the day of her husband’s execution, as I have before stated. But she did not expire as I gave out. My motive for setting on foot this story, and for keeping her existence secret, was the hope of making her mine if she recovered her senses, as I had reason to believe would be the case.”

“Wretch!” exclaimed Cholmondeley.

“You cannot upbraid me more than I now upbraid myself,” groaned Nightgall; “but my purpose was thwarted. The ill-fated lady never recovered, and disappointment, acting upon my evil nature, made me treat her with such cruelty that her senses became more unsettled than ever.”

“Alas! alas!” cried Cicely, bursting into tears; “my poor mother! what a fate was yours!”

“When all hope of her recovery was extinguished,” continued Nightgall, “I thought, that if any change occurred in the sovereignty or religion of the country, I might, by producing her, and relating a feigned story, obtain a handsome reward for her preservation. But this expectation also passed by. And I must confess that, at length, my only motive for allowing her to exist was that she formed an object to exercise my cruelty upon.”

“Heaven’s curse upon you!” cried Cholmondeley.

“Spare your maledictions,” rejoined Nightgall; “or heap them on my lifeless clay. You will soon be sufficiently avenged. Give me another draught of wine, for my lips are so dry I can scarcely speak, and I would not willingly expire till I have made known the sum of my wickedness.”

The wine given him, he proceeded.

“I will not tell you all the devilish cruelties I practised upon the wretched Alexia, (for so, as you are aware, I called her, to conceal her real name,)—because from what you have seen you may guess the rest. But I kept her a solitary captive in those secret dungeons, for a term of nearly seventeen years—ever since your birth, in short,” he added, to Cicely. “Sometimes, she would elude my vigilance, and run shrieking along the passages. But when any of the jailors beheld her, they fled, supposing her a supernatural being.”

“Her shrieks were indeed dreadful,” remarked Cholmondeley. “I shall never forget their effect upon me. But you allowed her to perish from famine at last?”

“Her death was accidental,” replied Nightgall, in a hollow voice, “though it lies as heavy on my soul as if I had designed it. I had shut her up for security in the cell in the Devilin Tower, where you found her, meaning to visit her at night, as was my custom, with provisions. But I was sent on special business by the queen to the palace at Greenwich for three days; and on my return to the Tower, I found the wretched captive dead.”

“She had escaped you, then,” said Cholmondeley, bitterly. “But you have not spoken of her daughter?”

“First, let me tell you where I have hidden the body, that decent burial may be given it,” groaned Nightgall. “It lies in the vault beneath the Devilin Tower—in the centre of the chamber—not deep—not deep.”

“I shall not forget,” replied Cholmondeley, noticing with alarm that an awful change had taken place in his countenance. “What of her child?”

“I must be brief,” replied Nightgall, faintly; “for I feel that my end approaches. The little Angela was conveyed by me, to Dame Potentia Trusbut. I said she was the offspring of a lady of rank,—but revealed no name,—and what I told beside was a mere fable. The good dame, having no child of her own, readily adopted her, and named her Cicely. She grew up in years—in beauty; and as I beheld her dawning charms, the love I had entertained for the mother was transferred to the child—nay, it was ten times stronger. I endeavoured to gain her affections, and fancied I should succeed, till you”—looking at Cholmondeley—“appeared. Then I saw my suit was hopeless. Then evil feelings again took possession of me, and I began a fresh career of crime. You know the rest.”

“I do,” replied Cholmondeley. “Have you aught further to disclose?”

“Only this,” rejoined Nightgall, who was evidently on the verge of dissolution. “Cut open my doublet; and within its folds you will find proofs of Angela’s birth, together with other papers referring to her ill-fated parents. Lay them before the queen; and I make no doubt that the estates of her father, who was a firm adherent to the Catholic faith, and died for it, as well as a stanch supporter of Queen Catherine of Arragon, will be restored to her.”

Cholmondeley lost not a moment in obeying the injunction. He cut open the blood-stained jerkin of the dying man, and found, as he had stated, a packet.

“That is it,” cried Nightgall, fixing his glazing eyes on Angela,—“that will restore you to your wealth—your title. The priest by whom you were baptised was the queen’s confessor, Feckenham. He will remember the circumstance—he was the ghostly counsellor of both your parents. Take the packet to him and he will plead your cause with the queen. Forget— forgive me—”

His utterance was suddenly choked by a stream of blood that gushed from his mouth, and with a hideous expression of pain he expired.

“Horrible!” cried Angela, placing her hands before her eyes.

“Think not of him,” said Cholmondeley, supporting her, and removing her to a little distance,—“think of the misery you have escaped,—of the rank to which you will assuredly be restored. When I first beheld those proud and beautiful lineaments, I was certain they belonged to one of high birth. And I was not mistaken.”

“What matters my newly-discovered birth—my title—my estates, if I obtain them,—if you are lost to me!” cried Angela, despairingly. “I shall never know happiness without you.”

As she spoke, an usher, who had entered the guard-room, marched up to Cholmondeley, and said, “I am the bearer of the queen’s pardon to you. Your life is spared, at the instance of the Spanish ambassador. But you are to remain a prisoner on parole, within the fortress, during the royal pleasure.”

“It is now my turn to support you,” said Angela, observing her lover stagger, and turn deadly pale.

“So many events crowd upon my brain,” cried Cholmondeley, “that I begin to fear for my reason—Air!—air!”

Led into the open court, he speedily recovered, and in a transport of such joy as has seldom been experienced, he accompanied Angela to the Stone Kitchen, where they were greeted with mingled tears and rejoicings by Dame Potentia and her spouse.

In the course of the day, Cholmondeloy sought out Feckenham, and laid the papers before him. The confessor confirmed all that Nightgall had stated respecting the baptism of the infant daughter of Lady Mountjoy, and the other documents satisfied him that the so-called Cicely was that daughter. He undertook to lay the case at once before the queen, and was as good as his word. Mary heard his statement with the deepest interest, but made no remark; and at its conclusion desired that the damsel might be brought before her.

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XXXVII.—-HOW JANE WAS IMPRISONED IN THE MARTIN TOWER; HOW SHE WAS VISITED BY ROGER ASCHAM; HOW SHE RECEIVED FECKENHAM’S ANNOUNCEMENT THAT THE TIME OF HER EXECUTION WAS FIXED; AND HOW SHE WAS RESPITED FOR THREE DAYS.

The Martin Tower (or, as it is now termed, the Jewel Tower, from the purpose to which it is appropriated), where Jane was confined by the queen’s commands, lies at the north-eastern extremity of the ballium wall, and corresponds in size and structure with the Develin, or Devereux Tower, at the opposite angle. Circular in form, like the last-mentioned building, and erected, in all probability, at the same period—the latter end of the reign of John, or the commencement of that of Henry the Third, it consists of two stories having walls of immense thickness, and containing, as is the case with every other fortification, deep recesses, terminated by narrow loop-holes. A winding stone staircase, still in a tolerable state of preservation, communicates with these stories, and with the roof, which was formerly embattled, and defended on either side by two small square turrets. Externally, on the west, the Martin Tower has lost its original character; the walls being new-fronted and modernized, and a flight of stops raised to the upper story, completely masking the ancient door-way, which now forms the entrance to the jewel-room. On the cast, however, it retains much of its ancient appearance, though in part concealed by surrounding habitations; and when the building now in progress, and intended for the reception of the regalia, is completed, it will be still further hidden. * While digging the foundations of the proposed structure, which were sunk much below the level of the ballium wall, it became apparent that the ground had been artificially raised to a considerable height by an embankment of gravel and sand; and the prodigious solidity and strength of the wall were proved from the difficulty experienced by the workmen in breaking through it, to effect a communication with the new erection.

Within, on the basement floor, on the left of the passage, and generally hidden by the massive portal, is a small cell constructed in the thickness of the wall; and further on, the gloomy chamber used as a depositary for the crown ornaments, and which requires to be artificially lighted, is noticeable for its architecture, having a vaulted and groined roof of great beauty. The upper story, part of the residence of Mr. Swift, the keeper of the regalia, at present comprehends two apartments, with a hall leading to them, while the ceiling having been lowered, other rooms are gained. Here, besides the ill-fated and illustrious lady whose history forms the subject of this chronicle, was confined the lovely, and, perhaps guiltless, Anne Boleyn. The latter fact has, however, been doubted, and the upper chamber in the Beauchamp Tower assigned as the place of her imprisonment. But this supposition, from many circumstances, appears improbable, and the inscription bearing her name, and carved near the entrance of the hall, is conclusive as to her having been confined in this tower.

Here, in 1641, the twelve bishops, impeached of high treason by the revolutionary party in the House of Commons, for protesting against the force used against them, and the acts done in their absence, were imprisoned during their committal to the Tower:—at least, so runs the legend, though it is difficult to conceive how so many persons could be accommodated in so small a place. Here, also, Blood made his atrocious attempt (a story still involved in obscurity—it has been conjectured, with some show of probability, that he was prompted to the deed by Charles himself), to steal the crown jewels; and in this very chamber, the venerable Talbot Edwards made his gallant defence of the royal ensigns, receiving for his bravery and his wounds, a paltry grant of two hundred pounds, half of which, owing to vexatious delays, he only received, while the baffled robber was rewarded with a post at court, and a pension of five hundred pounds a-year in Ireland. Can it be doubted after this which of the two was the offender, in the eyes of the monarch?

* The view of this fabric, at page 321, was taken from the
spot cleared out for the erection of the New Jewel Rooms;
and as the latter structure is already in a state of
forwardness, and will be probably finished before Christmas,
this aspect of the old tower can scarcely be said to exist
longer.

It must not be omitted that the Jewel Tower enjoys, in common with its corresponding fortification, the Devereux Tower, the reputation of being haunted. Its ghostly visitant is a female figure robed in white—whether the spirit of Anno Boleyn, or the ill-fated Jane, cannot be precisely ascertained.

The Martin Tower acquired its present designation of the Jewel Tower, in the reign of James the First, when the crown ornaments were removed to it from a small building, where they had been hitherto kept, on the south side of the White Tower.

The regalia were first exhibited to the public in the reign of Charles the Second, when many of the perquisites of the ancient master of the Jewel House were abolished, and its privileges annexed to the office of the lord chamberlain.

Jane’s present prison was far more commodious than her former place of confinement in the Brick Tower, and by Mary’s express injunctions, every attention consistent with her situation was shown her. Strange as it may seem, she felt easier, if not happier, than she had done during the latter part of the period of her liberation. Then, she was dissatisfied with herself, anxious for her husband, certain of the failure of his enterprise, and almost desiring its failure,—now, the worst was past. No longer agitated by the affairs of the world, she could suffer with patience, and devote herself wholly to God. Alone within her prison-chamber, she prayed with more fervour than she had been able to do for months; and the soothing effect it produced, was such, that she felt almost grateful for her chastening. “I am better able to bear misfortune than prosperity,” she murmured, “and I cannot be too thankful to Heaven, that I am placed in a situation to call forth my strength. Oh! that Dudley may be able to endure his trial with equal fortitude! But I fear his proud heart will rebel. Sustain him, Lord! I beseech thee, and bring him to a true sense of his condition.”

Convinced that her days were now numbered, having no hope of pardon, scarcely desiring it, and determined to reject it, if coupled with any conditions affecting her faith, Jane made every preparation for her end. No longer giving up a portion of her time to study, she entirely occupied herself with her devotions. Influenced by the controversial spirit of the times, she had before been as anxious to overcome her opponents in argument, as they were to convince her of her errors. Now, though feeling equally strong in her cause, she was more lowly-minded. Reproaching herself bitterly with her departure from her duty, she sought by incessant prayer, by nightly vigil, by earnest and heart-felt supplication to wipe out the offence. “I have not sinned in ignorance,” she thought, “but with my eyes open, and therefore my fault is far greater than if no light had been vouchsafed me. By sincere contrition alone can I hope to work out my salvation; and if sorrow, remorse, and shame, combined with the most earnest desire of amendment, constitute repentance, I am truly contrite. But I feel my own unworthiness, and though I know the mercy of Heaven is infinite, yet I scarcely dare to hope for forgiveness for my trespasses. I have trusted too much to myself already—and find that I relied on a broken reed. I will now trust only to God.”

And thus she passed her time, in the strictest self-examination, fixing her thoughts above, and withdrawing them as much as possible from earth. The effect was speedily manifest in her altered looks and demeanour. When first brought to the Martin Tower, she was downcast and despairing. Ere three days had passed, she became calm, and almost cheerful, and her features resumed their wonted serene and seraphic expression. She could not, it is true, deaden the pangs that ever and anon shook her, when she thought of her husband and father. But she strove to console herself by the hope that they would be purified, like herself, by the trial to which they were subjected, and that their time of separation would be brief. To the duke she addressed that touching letter preserved among the few fragments of her writings, which after it had been submitted to Gardiner, was allowed to be delivered to him. It concluded with these words:—“And thus, good father, I have opened unto you the state wherein I presently stand,—my death at hand. Although to you it may seem woful, yet to me there is nothing that can be more welcome than to aspire from this Vale of Misery to that heavenly throne of all joy and pleasure with Christ, my Saviour. In whose steadfast faith (if it may be lawful for the daughter so to write to the father), the Lord who hath hitherto strengthened you so continue to keep you, that at the last we may meet in heaven.”

With her husband she was allowed no communication; and in reply to her request to see him once more, she was told that their sole meeting would be on the scaffold:—a wanton insult, for it was not intended to execute them together. The room, or rooms, (for the large circular chamber was even then divided by a partition,) occupied by Jane in the Martin Tower, were those on the upper story, tenanted, as before-mentioned, by the keeper of the regalia, and her chief place of resort during the day-time was one of the deep embrasures looking towards the north. In this recess, wholly unobserved and undisturbed, she remained, while light lasted, upon her knees, with a book of prayers, or the bible before here, fearful of losing one of the precious moments which flew by so quickly—and now so tranquilly. At night, she withdrew, not to repose, but to a small table in the midst of the apartment, on which she placed the sacred volume and a lamp, and knelt down beside it. Had she not feared to disturb her calm condition, she would not have allowed herself more than an hour’s repose, at the longest intervals nature could endure. But desirous of maintaining her composure to the last, she yielded to the demand, and from midnight to the third hour stretched herself upon her couch. She then arose, and resumed her devotions. The same rules were observed in respect to the food she permitted herself to take. Restricting herself to bread and water, she ate and drank sufficient to support nature, and no more.

On the fourth day after her confinement, the jailor informed her there was a person without who had an order from the queen to see her. Though Jane would have gladly refused admittance to the applicant, she answered meekly, “Let him come in.”

Immediately afterwards a grave-looking middle-aged man, with a studious countenance overclouded with sorrow, appeared, he was attired in a black robe, and carried a flat velvet cap in his hand.

“What, Master Roger Ascham, my old instructor!” exclaimed Jane, rising as he approached, and extending her hand to him, “I am glad to see you.”

Ascham was deeply affected. The tears rushed to his eyes, and it was some moments before he could speak.

“Do not lament for me, good friend,” said Jane, in a cheerful tone, “but rejoice with me, that I have so profited by your instructions as to be able to bear my present lot with resignation.”

“I do indeed heartily rejoice at it, honoured and dear madam,” replied Ascham, subduing his emotion, “and I would gladly persuade myself that my instructions had contributed in however slight a degree to your present composure. But you derive your fortitude from a higher source than any on earth. It is your piety, not your wisdom that sustains you; and though I have pointed out the way to the living waters at which you have drunk, it is to that fountain alone that you owe the inestimable blessing of your present frame of mind. I came not hither to depress, but to cheer you—not to instruct, but be instructed. Your life, madam, will afford the world one of the noblest lessons it has ever received, and though your career may be closed at the point whence most others start, it will have been run long enough.”

“Alas! good Master Ascham,” rejoined Jane, “I once thought that my life and its close would be profitable to our church—that my conduct might haply be a model to its disciples—and my name enrolled among its martyrs. Let him who standeth take heed lest he fall. I had too much confidence in myself. I yielded to impulses, which, though not culpable in the eyes of men, were so in those of God.”

“Oh madam! you reproach yourself far too severely,” cried Ascham. “Unhappy circumstances have made you amenable to the laws of your country, it is true, and you give up your life as a willing sacrifice to justice. But this is all that can, or will be required of you, by your earthly or your supreme Judge. That your character might have been more absolutely faultless in the highest sense I will not deny, had you sacrificed every earthly feeling to duty. But I for one should not have admired—should not have loved you as I now love you, had you acted otherwise. What you consider a fault has proved you a true woman in heart and affection; and your constancy as a believer in the gospel, and upholder of its doctrines, has been equally strongly manifested. Your name in after ages will be a beacon and a guiding-star to the whole Protestant church.”

“Heaven grant it!” exclaimed Jane, fervently. “I once hoped—once thought so.”

“Hope so—think so still,” rejoined Ascham. “Ah, dear madam, when I last took my leave of you before my departure for Germany, and found you in your chamber at Bradgate, buried in the Phædo of the divine philosopher, while your noble father and his friends were hunting, and disporting themselves in the park—when to my wondering question, as to why you did not join in their pastime, you answered, ‘that all their sport in the park was but a shadow to the pleasure you found in Plato’—adding, ‘alas! good folk, they never felt what true pleasure meant’—at that time, I little thought for what a sad, though proud destiny you were reserved.”

“Neither did I, good Master Ascham,” replied Jane; “but you now find me at a better study. I have exchanged him whom you term, and truly, in a certain sense, the ‘divine’ philosopher, for writings derived from the highest source of inspiration,—direct from heaven—and I find in this study more pleasure and far more profit than the other. And now farewell, good friend. Do me one last favour. Be present at my ending. And see how she, whom you have taught to live, will die. Heaven bless you!” <

“Heaven bless you too, noble and dear lady,” replied Ascham, kneeling and pressing her hand to his lips. “I will obey your wishes.” He then arose, and covering his face to hide his fast-falling tears, withdrew.

Jane, also, was much moved, for she was greatly attached to her old instructor; and to subdue her emotion, took a few turns within her chamber. In doing this, she noticed the various inscriptions and devices carved by former occupants; and taking a pin, traced with its point the following lines, on the wall of the recess where she performed her devotions:

Non aliéna putes homini quæ obtingere possunt;

Sors hodierna mihi, eras erit ilia tibi.

Underneath, she added the following, and subscribed them with her name:

Deo juvante, nil nocet livor malus;

Et non juvante, nil juvat labor gravis:

Post tenebras, spero lucem!

The lines have been effaced. But tradition has preserved them. How deeply affecting is the wish of the patient sufferer—“Post tenebras, spero lucem!”

Scarcely had Jane resumed her devotions, when she was a second time interrupted by the jailor, who, ushering a young female into the room, departed. Jane arose, and fixed her eyes upon the new-comer, but did not appear to recognise her; while the latter, unable to restrain her tears, tottered towards her, and threw herself at her feet.

“Do you not know me, dearest madam?” she cried, in a voice suffocated by emotion.

“Can it be Cicely?” inquired Jane, eagerly. “The tones are hers.”

“It is—it is,” sobbed the other.

Jane instantly raised her, and pressed her affectionately to her bosom.

“Poor child!” she exclaimed, gazing at her pale and emaciated features, now bedewed with tears, “you are as much altered as I am,—nay, more. You must have suffered greatly to rob you of your youth and beauty thus. But I should have known you at once, despite the change, had I not thought you dead. By what extraordinary chance do I behold you here?”

As soon as she could command herself, Angela related all that had befallen her since their last sad parting. She told how she had been betrayed into the hands of Nightgall by one of his associates, who came to Sion House with a forged order for her arrest,—carried her off, and delivered her to the jailor. How she was conveyed by the subterranean passage from Tower Hill to the secret dungeons beneath the fortress,—how she was removed from one cell to another by her inexorable captor, and what she endured from his importunities, threats, and cruel treatment,—and how at last, when she had abandoned all hope of succour, Providence had unexpectedly and mysteriously interposed to release her, and punish her persecutor. She likewise recounted the extraordinary discovery of her birth—Nightgall’s confession—Cholmondeley’s interview with Feckenham—and concluded her narration thus:—“The confessor having informed me that her majesty desired I should be brought before her, I yesterday obeyed the mandate. She received me most graciously—ordered me to relate my story—listened to it with profound attention—and expressed great sympathy with my misfortunes. ‘Your sufferings are at an end, I trust,’ she said, when I had finished, ‘and brighter and happie days are in store for you. The title and estates of which you have been so long and so unjustly deprived, shall be restored to you. Were it for your happiness, I would place you near my person; but a life of retirement, if I guess your disposition rightly, will suit you best.’ In this I entirely agreed, and thanking her majesty for her kindness, she replied:—‘You owe me no thanks, Angela. The daughter of Sir Alberic Mountjoy—my mother’s trusty friend—has the strongest claims upon my gratitude. Your lover has already received a pardon, and when these unhappy affairs are ended, he shall be at liberty to quit the Tower. May you be happy with him!’”

“I echo that wish with all my heart, dear Angela,” cried Jane. “May heaven bless your union!—and it will bless it, I am assured, for you deserve happiness. Nor am I less rejoiced at your deliverance than at Cholmondeley’s. I looked upon myself as in some degree the cause of his destruction, and unceasingly reproached myself with having allowed him to accompany me to the Tower. But now I find—as I have ever found in my severest afflictions,—that all was for the best.”

“Alas! madam,” returned Angela, “when I see you here, I can with difficulty respond to the sentiment.”

“Do not question the purposes of the Unquestionable, Angela,” replied Jane, severely. “I am chastened because I deserve it, and for my own good. The wind is tempered to the shorn lamb, and fortitude is given me to bear my afflictions. Nay, they are not afflictions. I would not exchange my lot—sad as it seems to you—for that of the happiest and the freest within the realm. When the bondage of earth is once broken,—when the flesh has no more power over the spirit—when the gates of heaven are open for admittance—can the world, or worldly joys, possess further charms? No. These prison walls are no restraint to me. My soul soars upwards, and holds communion with God and with his elect, among whom I hope to be numbered. The scaffold will have no terror for me. I shall mount it as the first step towards heaven; and shall hail the stroke of the axe as the signal to my spirit to wing its flight to the throne of everlasting joy.”

“I am rebuked, madam,” returned Angela, with a look of admiration. “Oh! that I might ever hope to obtain such a frame of mind.”

“You may do so, dear Angela,” replied Jane—“but your lot is cast differently from mine. What is required from me is not required from you. Such strong devotional feelings have been implanted in my breast, for a wise purpose, that they usurp the place of all other, and fit me for my high calling. The earnest and hearty believer in the gospel will gladly embrace death, even if accompanied by the severest tortures, at seasons perilous to his church, in the conviction that it will be profitable to it. Such have been the deaths of the martyrs of our religion—such shall be my death.”

“Amen!” exclaimed Angela, fervently.

“Must we part now?” inquired Jane.

“Not unless you desire it,” replied Angela. “I have obtained the queen’s permission to remain with you to the last.”

“I thank her for the boon,” returned Jane. “It will be a great consolation to me to have you near me. Angela, you must not shrink from the last duty of a friend—you must accompany me to the scaffold. I may need you there.”

“I will shrink from nothing you injoin, madam,” replied Angela, shuddering. “But I had rather—far rather—suffer in your stead.”

Jane made no reply, but pressed her hand affectionately.

“I have omitted to tell you, madam,” continued Angela, “that the queen, before I was dismissed from the presence, urged me to embrace the faith of Rome,—that of my father, who perished for his adherence to it,—and to use my endeavours to induce you to become reconciled with that church.”

“And what answer did you make?” demanded Jane, sternly.

“Such as you yourself, would have made, madam,” replied Angela—“I refused both.”

“It is well,” rejoined Jane. “And now I must return to my devotions. You will have a weary office in attending me, Angela. Nor shall I be able to address more than a few words to you—and those but seldom.”

“Think not of me, madam,” replied the other; “all I desire is to be near you, and to join my prayers with yours.”

Both then knelt down, and both prayed long and fervently. It would have been a touching sight to see those young and beautiful creatures with eyes upturned to heaven—hands clasped—and lips murmuring prayer. But the zeal that animated Jane far surpassed that of her companion. Long before the former sought her couch, fatigue overcame the latter, and she was compelled to retire to rest; and when she arose (though it was not yet daybreak), she found the unwearying devotee had already been up for hours. And so some days were spent—Jane ever praying—Angela praying too, but more frequently engaged in watching her companion.

On the morning of Thursday, the 8th of February, the jailor appeared, with a countenance of unusual gloom, and informed his captive that the lieutenant of the Tower and Father Feckenham were without, and desired to see her.

“Admit them,” replied Jane. “I know their errand. You are right welcome, sirs,” she added, with a cheerful look, as they entered. “You bring me good news.”

“Alas! madam,” replied Feckenham, sorrowfully, “we are the bearers of ill tidings. It is our melancholy office to acquaint you that your execution is appointed for to-morrow.”

“Why that is good news,” returned Jane, with an unaltered countenance. “I have long and anxiously expected my release, and am glad to find it so near at hand.”

“I am further charged, by the queen’s highness, who desires not to kill the soul as well as the body,” pursued Feckenham, “to entreat you to use the few hours remaining to you in making your peace with heaven.”

“I will strive to do so, sir,1’ replied Jane meekly.

“Do not mistake me, madam,” rejoined Feckenham, earnestly. “Her majesty’s hope is that you will reconcile yourself with the holy Catholic church, by which means you can alone ensure your salvation. For this end, she has desired me to continue near you to the last, and to use my best efforts for your conversion—and by God’s grace I will do so.”

“You may spare yourself the labour, sir,” replied Jane. “You will more easily overturn these solid walls by your arguments than my resolution.”

“At least, suffer me to make the attempt,” replied Feckenham. “That I have hitherto failed in convincing you is true, and I may fail now, but my very zeal must satisfy you that I have your welfare at heart, and am eager to deliver you from the bondage of Satan.”

“I have never doubted your zeal, sir,” returned Jane; “nor—and I say it in all humility,—do I doubt my own power to refute your arguments. But I must decline the contest now, because my time is short, and I would devote every moment to the service of God.”

“That excuse shall not avail you, madam,” rejoined Fecken-ham, significantly. “The queen and the chancellor are as anxious as I am, for your conversion, and nothing shall be left undone to accomplish it.”

“I must submit, then,” replied Jane, with a look of resignation. “But I repeat, you will lose your labour.”

“Time will show,” returned Feckenham.

“I have not yet dared to ask a question which has risen to my lips, but found no utterance,” said Jane, in an altered tone. “Mv husband!—what of him?”

“His execution will take place at the same time with your own,” replied Feckenham.

“I shall see him to-morrow, then?” cried Jane.

“Perhaps before,” returned Feckenham.

“It were better not,” said Jane, trembling. “I know not whether I can support the interview.”

“I was right,” muttered Feckenham to himself. “The way to move her is through the affections.” And he made a sign to the lieutenant, who quitted the chamber.

“Prepare yourself, madam,” he added to Jane.

“For what?” she cried.

“For your husband’s approach. He is here.”

As he spoke, the door was opened, and Dudley rushed forward, and caught her in his arms. Not a word was uttered for some moments by the afflicted pair. Angela withdrew weeping as if her heart would break, into one of the recesses, and Feckenham and the lieutenant into another. After the lapse of a short time, thinking it a favourable opportunity for his purpose, the confessor came forward. Jane and her husband were still locked in each other’s embrace, and it seemed as if nothing but force could tear them asunder.

“I would not disturb you,” said Feckenham, “but my orders are that this interview must be brief. I am empowered also to state, madam,” he added to Jane, “that her majesty will even now pardon your husband, notwithstanding his heinous offences against her, provided you are publicly reconciled with the church of Rome.”

“I cannot do it, Dudley,” cried Jane, in a voice of agony—“I cannot—cannot.”

“Neither do I desire it,” he replied. “I would not purchase life on such terms. We will die together.”

“Be it so,” observed Feckenham, with a disconcerted look. “The offer will never be repeated.”

“It would never have been made at all, if there had been a chance of its acceptance,” returned Dudley, coldly. “Tell your royal mistress, that I love my wife too well to require such a sacrifice at her hands, and that she loves me too well to make it.”

“Dudley,” exclaimed Jane, gazing at him with tearful eyes, “I can now die without a pang.”

“Have you aught more to say to each other?” demanded Feckenham. “You will meet no more on earth!”

“Yes, on the scaffold,” cried Jane.

“Not so,” replied Feckcnham, gloomily. “Lord Guilford Dudley will suffer on Tower Hill—you, madam, will meet your sentence on the green before the White Tower, where Anne Boleyn and Catherine Howard perished.”

“We shall meet in the grave, then,” rejoined Dudley, bitterly, “where Mary’s tyranny can neither reach us, nor the voice of juggling priest disturb us more.”

“Your prisoner,” cried Feckenham, turning angrily to the lieutenant.

“Farewell, dear Dudley,” exclaimed Jane, straining him to her bosom—“Be constant.”

“As yourself,” he replied, gently disengaging himself from her. “I am ready, sir,” he added, to Brydges. And without hazarding another look at Jane, who fell back in the arms of Angela, he quitted the chamber.

Half an hour after this, when Jane had in some degree recovered from the shock, Feckenham returned, and informed her that he had obtained from the queen a reprieve for herself and her husband for three days. “You can now no longer allege the shortness of the time allowed you, as a reason for declining a conference with me,” he said: “and I pray you address yourself earnestly to the subject, for I will not desist till I have convinced and converted you.”

“Then I shall have little of the time allotted me to myself,” replied Jane. “But I will not repine. My troubles may benefit others—if not myself.”

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XXXVIII.—HOW THE PRINCESS ELIZABETH AND COURTENAY WERE DELIVERED OUT OF THE TOWER TO FURTHER DURANCE; AND HOW QUEEN MARY WAS WEDDED, BY PROXY, TO PHILIP OF SPAIN.

Elizabeth still continued a close prisoner in the Bell Tower. But she indulged the most sanguine expectations of a speedy release. Her affections had received a severe blow in Courtenay’s relinquishment of his pretensions to her hand, and it required all her pride and mastery over herself to bear up against it. She did, however, succeed in conquering her feelings, and with her usual impetuosity, began now to hate him in the proportion of her former love. While his mistress was thus brooding over the past, and trying to regulate her conduct for the future within the narrow walls of her prison, Courtenay, who had been removed to the Flint Tower, where he was confined in the basement chamber, was likewise occupied in revolving his brief and troubled career. A captive from his youth, he had enjoyed a few months’ liberty, during which, visions of glory, power, greatness, and love—such as have seldom visited the most exalted—opened upon him. The bright dream was now ended, and he was once more a captive. Slight as his experience had been, he was sickened of the intrigues and hollowness of court life, and sighed for freedom and retirement. Elizabeth still retained absolute possession of his heart, but he feared to espouse her, because he was firmly persuaded that her haughty and ambitious character would involve him in perpetual troubles. Cost what it might, he determined to resign her hand as his sole hope of future tranquillity. In this resolution he was confirmed by Gardiner, who visited him in secret, and counselled him as to the best course to pursue.

“If you claim my promise,” observed the crafty chancellor, “I will fulfil it, and procure you the hand of the princess, but I warn you you will not hold it long. Another rebellion will follow, in which you and Elizabeth will infallibly be mixed up, and then nothing will save you from the block.”

Courtenay acquiesced, and Gardiner having gained his point, left him with the warmest assurances that he would watch over his safety. Insincere as he was, the Chancellor was well-disposed towards Courtenay, but he had a difficult game to play. He was met on all hands by Renard, who was bent on the Earl’s destruction and that of the princess; and every move he made with the queen was checked by his wary and subtle antagonist. Notwithstanding her belief in their treasonable practices, Mary was inclined to pardon the offenders, but Renard entreated her to suspend her judgment upon them, till the emperor’s opinion could be ascertained. This, he well knew, if agreed to, would insure their ruin, as he had written secretly in such terms to Charles the Fifth as he was satisfied would accomplish his object. Extraordinary despatch was used by the messengers; and to Renard’s infinite delight, while he and Gardiner were struggling for ascendancy over the queen, a courier arrived from Madrid. Renard’s joy was converted into positive triumph as he opened his own letters received by the same hand, and found that the emperor acquiesced in the expediency of the severest measures towards Elizabeth and her suitor, and recommended their immediate execution. The same despatches informed him that Charles, apprehensive of some further difficulty in respect to his son’s projected union with Mary, had written to the Count D’Egmont at Brussels, with letters of ratification and procuration, commissioning him to repair to the court of London without delay, and conclude the engagement by espousing the queen by proxy.

Not many hours later, the Count himself, who had set out instantly from Brussels on receiving his commission, arrived. He was received on the queen’s part by the Earl of Pembroke, the Earl of Shrewsbury, comptroller of the household, and the Marquis of Winchester, high treasurer, and conducted to the state apartments within the palace of the Tower, where the court was then staying. Mary appointed an audience with him on the following day, and in the interim, to Renard’s disappointment, remained closeted with Gardiner, and would see no one beside. The ambassador, however, consoled himself with the certainty of success, and passed the evening in consultation with D’Egmont, to whom he detailed all that had passed since the flight of the latter.

“The heretical faction in England,” he observed, “is entirely crushed—or will be so, when Jane and Elizabeth are executed. And if his highness, Prince Philip, will follow up my measures, he may not only restore the old faith throughout the realm, but establish the inquisition in the heart of London within six months.”

The next day, at the appointed hour, the Count D’Egmont attended by Renard and the whole of his suite, was conducted with much ceremony to the council-chamber in the White Tower. He found Mary surrounded by the whole of her ministers, and prostrating himself before the throne, acquainted her with his mission, and, presenting her with the letters of procuration he had received from the prince, entreated her to ratify on her side the articles already agreed upon. To this request, for which she was already prepared by the emperor’s despatches, Mary vouchsafed a gracious answer, saying: “I am as impatient for the completion of the contract as the prince your master can be, and shall not hesitate a moment to comply with his wishes. But I would,” she added, smiling, “that he had come to claim its fulfilment himself.”

“His highness only awaits your majesty’s summons, and an assurance that he can land upon your shores without occasioning further tumult,” rejoined D’Egmont.

“He shall speedily receive that assurance,” returned Mary. “Heaven be praised! our troubles are ended, and the spirit of disaffection and sedition checked, if not altogether extinguished. But I pray you hold me excused for a short time,” she continued, motioning him to rise; “I have some needful business to conclude before I proceed with this solemnity.”

Waving her hand to Sir Thomas Brydges, who stood among the group of nobles near the throne, he immediately quitted the presence, returning in a few moments with a guard of halberdiers in the midst of which were Elizabeth and Courtenay. At the approach of the prisoners, the assemblage divided into two lines to allow them passage; and preceded by the lieutenant, they advanced to within a short distance of the queen.

Marv, meantime, had seated herself; and her countenance, hitherto radiant with smiles, assumed a severe expression. A mournful silence pervaded the courtly throng, and all seemed as ominous and lowering as if a thunder-cloud had settled over them. This was not however the case with Renard. A sinister smile lighted up his features, and he observed in an under-tone to D’Egmont, “My hour of triumph is at hand.”

“Wait awhile,” replied the other.

Elizabeth looked in no wise abashed or dismayed by the position in which she found herself. Throwing angry and imperious glances around, and bending her brows on those who scanned her too curiously, she turned her back upon Courtenay, and seemed utterly unconscious of his presence.

At the queen’s command, Gardiner stepped forward, and taking a roll of paper from an attendant, proceeded to read the charges against the prisoners, together with the depositions of those who had been examined, as to their share in the insurrection. When he concluded, Elizabeth observed in a haughty tone—“There is nothing in all that to touch me, my lord. Wyat has recanted his confession, and avowed he was suborned by Renard. And as to the rest of my accusers, they are unworthy of credit. The queen’s highness must acquit me.”

“What say you, my lord!” demanded Gardiner of Courtenay.

“Nothing,” replied the earl.

“Do you confess yourself guilty of the high crimes and misdemeanours laid to your charge, then?” pursued the chancellor.

“No!” answered Courtenay, firmly. “But I will not seek to defend myself further. I throw myself on the queen’s mercy.”

“You do wisely, my lord,” returned Gardiner; “and your grace,” he added to Elizabeth, “would do well to abate your pride, and imitate his example.”

“In my father’s time, my lord,” observed the princess, scornfully, “you would not, for your head, have dared to hold such language towards me.”

“I dared to plead your mother’s cause with him,” retorted Gardiner with much asperity. “Your majesty will now pronounce such sentence upon the accused, as may seem meet to you,” he added, turning to the queen.

“We hold their guilt not clearly proven,” replied Mary. “Nevertheless, too many suspicious circumstances appear against them to allow us to set them at large till all chance of further trouble is ended. Not desiring to deal harshly with them, we shall not confine them longer within the Tower. Which of you, my lords, will take charge of the princess Elizabeth? It will be no slight responsibility. You will answer for her security with your heads. Which of you will take charge of her, I say?”

As she spoke, she glanced inquiringly round the assemblage, but no answer was returned.

“Had not your highness better send her grace under a sure guard to the emperor’s court at Brussels,” observed Renard, who could scarcely conceal his mortification at the queen’s decision.

“I will think of it,” returned Mary.

“Sooner than this shall be,” interposed Sir Henry Bedingfeld, “since none worthier of the office can be found, I will undertake it.”

“You are my good genius, Bedingfeld,” replied Mary.—“To you, then, I confide her, and I will associate with you in the office, Sir John Williams, of Thame. The place of her confinement shall be my palace at Woodstock, and she will remain there till you receive further orders. You will set out with a sufficient guard for Oxfordshire.”

“I am ever ready to obey your highness,” replied Bedingfeld.

“Accursed meddler!” exclaimed Renard to D’Egmont, “he has marred my project.”

“The Earl of Devonshire will be confined in Fotheringay Castle, in Northamptonshire,” pursued Mary. “To you, Sir Thomas Tresham,” she continued, addressing one of those near her, “I commit him.”

“I am honoured in the charge,” returned Tresham, bowing.

“Your majesty will repent this ill-judged clemency,” cried Renard, unable to repress his choler; “and since my counsels are unheeded, I must pray your highness to allow me to resign the post I hold near your person.”

“Be it so,” replied Mary in a freezing tone; “we accept your resignation—and shall pray his imperial majesty to recal you.”

“Is this my reward?” exclaimed Renard, as he retired, covered with shame and confusion. “Cursed is he that puts faith in princes!”

The prisoners were then removed, and as they walked side by side, Courtenay sought to address the princess, but she turned away her head sharply, according him neither look nor word in reply. Finding himself thus repulsed, the earl desisted, and they proceeded in silence as long as their way lay together.

And thus, without one farewell, they parted—to meet no more. Liberated at the instance of Philip of Spain, Courtenay journeyed to Italy, where he died two years afterwards, at Padua, obtaining, as Holinshed touchingly remarks, “that quiet, which in his life he could never have.” Of the glorious destiny reserved for Elizabeth, nothing need be said.

The prisoners removed, the queen presented her hand to the Earl of Pembroke, and repaired with her whole retinue to Saint John’s Chapel.

Arrived there, Mary stationed herself at the altar, around which were grouped Bonner, Tunstal, Feckenham, and a host of other priests and choristers, in their full robes. In a short time, the nave and aisles of the sacred structure were densely crowded by the lords of the council, together with other nobles and their attendants, the dames of honour, the guard, and the suite of the Count D’Egmont. Nor were the galleries above unoccupied, every available situation finding a tenant.

D’Egmont, as the representative of Philip of Spain, took up a position on the right of the queen, and sustained his part with great dignity. As soon as Gardiner was prepared, the ceremonial commenced. D’Egmont tendered his hand to Mary, who took it, and they both knelt down upon the cushion before the altar, while the customary oaths were administered, and a solemn benediction pronounced over them. This done, they arose, and Gardiner observed to the queen in a voice audible throughout the structure—“Your majesty is now wedded to the Prince of Spain. May God preserve you both, and bless your union!”

“God preserve Queen Mary!” cried the Earl of Pembroke, stepping forward.

And the shout was enthusiastically echoed by all within the chapel. But not a voice was raised, nor a blessing invoked for her husband.

Te Deum was then sung by the choristers, and mass performed by Bonner and the priests.

“His imperial majesty entreats your acceptance of this slight offering,” said D’Egmont, when the sacred rites were concluded, presenting the queen with a diamond ring, of inestimable value.

“I accept the gift,” replied Mary, “and I beg you to offer my best thanks to the emperor. For yourself, I hope you will wear this ornament in remembrance of me, and of the occasion.” And detaching a collar of gold set with precious stones from her own neck, she placed it over that of D’Egmont.

“I now go to bring your husband, gracious madam,” said the count.

“Heaven grant you a safe and speedy journey!” replied Mary.

“And to your highness a prosperous union!” rejoined the count; “and may your race long occupy the throne.” So saying, he bowed and departed.

D’Egmont’s wish did not produce a cheering effect on Mary. Jane’s words rushed to her mind, and she feared that her union would not be happy—would not be blessed with offspring. And it need scarcely be added, her forebodings were realised. Coldly treated by a haughty and neglectful husband, she went childless to the tomb.

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XXXIX.—OF THE WEDDING OF SIR NARCISSUS LE GRAND WITH JANE THE FOOL, AND WHAT HAPPENED AT IT; AND OF THE ENTERTAINMENT GIVEN BY HIM, ON THE OCCASION, TO HIS OLD FRIENDS AT THE STONE KITCHEN.

Sir Narcissus Le Grand made rapid strides in the royal favour, as well as in that of his mistress. He was now in constant attendance on the queen, and his coxcombry afforded her so much amusement, that she gave him a post near her person, in order to enjoy it. Jane the Fool, too, who had a secret liking for him, though she affected displeasure at Mary’s command, became so violently enamoured, and so excessively jealous, if the slightest attentions were paid him by the dames of honour, that the queen thought it desirable to fix an early day for wedding.

The happy event took place on Saturday, the 10th of February, at Saint Peter’s chapel on the green, and was honoured by the presence of the queen, and all her attendants. Never were merrier nuptials witnessed! And even the grave countenance of Feckenham, the officiating priest on the occasion, wore a smile, as the bridegroom, attired in his gayest habiliments, bedecked at all points with lace, tags, and fringe; curled, scented, and glistening with silver and gold, was borne into the chapel on the shoulders of Og,—who had carried him from the By-ward Tower, through a vast concourse of spectators,—and deposited at the altar near the bride. Behind Og, came his two brethren, together with Dames Placida and Potentia; while Peter Trusbut, Ribald, and Winwike, brought up the rear.

Arrived at the height of his ambition, graced with a title, favoured by the queen, and idolised by his bride, who was not altogether destitute of personal attractions, and was, at least, twice his own size, the poor dwarfs brain was almost turned, and he had some difficulty in maintaining the decorous and dignified deportment which he felt it necessary to maintain on the occasion. The ceremony was soon performed,—too soon for Sir Narcissus, who would willingly have prolonged it—The royal train departed,—not, however, before Mary had bestowed a well-filled purse of gold upon the bridegroom, and commanded him to bring his friends to the palace, where a supper would be provided for them. Sir Narcissus then offered his hand to his bride, and led her forth, followed by his companions.

A vast crowd had collected before the doors of the sacred edifice. But a passage having been kept clear by a band of halberdiers for the queen, the lines were unbroken when the wedding-party appeared. Loud acclamations welcomed Sir Narcissus, who paused for a moment beneath the porch, and taking off his well-plumed cap, bowed repeatedly to the assemblage. Reiterated shouts and plaudits succeeded, and the clamour was so great from those who could not obtain a glimpse of him, that the little knight entreated Og to take him once more upon his shoulder. The request was immediately complied with; and when he was seen in this exalted situation, a deafening shout rent the skies. The applauses, however, were shared by his consort, who placed on the shoulder of Gog, became equally conspicuous.

In this way, they were carried side by side along the green, and Sir Narcissus was so enchanted that he desired the bearers to proceed as slowly as possible. His enthusiasm became at length so great, that when several of those around him jestingly cried, “Largesse, largesse! Sir Narcissus,” he opened the purse lately given him by the queen, and which hung at his girdle, and threw away the broad pieces in showers. “I will win more gold,” he observed to Og, who remonstrated with him on his profusion; “but such a day as this does not occur twice in one’s life.”

“Happiness and long life attend you and your lovely dame, Sir Narcissus!” cried a bystander.

“There is not a knight in the Tower to be compared with you, worshipful sir!” roared another.

“You deserve the queen’s favour!” vociferated a third.

“Greater dignities are in store for you!” added a fourth.

Never was new-made and new-married knight so enchanted. Acknowledging all the compliments and fine speeches with smirks, smiles, and bows, he threw away fresh showers of gold. After making the complete circuit of the fortress, he crossed the drawbridge, and proceeded to the wharf, where he was hailed by different boats on the river: everywhere, his reception was the same. On the return of the party, Hairun invited them all to the Lions’ Tower, and ushering them to the gallery, brought out several of the wild animals, and went through his performances as if the queen herself had been present. In imitation of the sovereign, Sir Narcissus bestowed his last few coins, together with the purse containing them, upon the bearward. During the exhibition, the knight had entertained his consort with an account of his combat with old Max; and before quitting the menagerie he led her into the open space in front of the cages, that she might have a nearer view of the formidable animal.

“It will not be necessary to read you such a lesson, sweetheart, as my friend Magog read his dame,” he observed. “But it is as well you should know that I have a resource in case of need.”

“I shall not require to be brought to obedience by a bear, chuck,” returned Lady Le Grand, with a languishing look. “Your slightest word is law to me!”

“So she says now,” observed Dame Potentia, who happened to overhear the remark, to Dame Placida. “But let a week pass over their heads, and she will alter her tone.”

“Perhaps so,” sighed Placida. “But I have never had my own way since my encounter with old Max. Besides, these dwarfs are fiery fellows, and have twice the spirit of men of larger growth.”

“There is something in that, it must be owned,” rejoined Potentia, reflectively.

Max, by Sir Narcissus’s command, was let out of his cage, and when within a few yards of them, sat on his hind-legs, and opened his enormous jaws. At this sight, Lady Le Grand screamed, and took refuge behind her husband, who, bidding her fear nothing, drew his sword, and put himself in a posture of defence. Suppressing a laugh, Hairun informed the knight that Max only begged for something to eat; and sundry biscuits and apples being given him, he was driven back to his cage without any misadventure. Hairun then led the party to his lodging, where a collation was spread out for them, of which they partook-At its conclusion, Peter Trusbut observed, that if Sir Narcissus-and Lady Le Grand would honour him with their company at the Stone Kitchen on the following night, he would use his best endeavours to prepare a supper worthy of them.

“It will give me infinite pleasure to sup with thee, worthy Peter,” replied the knight, with a patronising air; “but I must insist that the banquet be at my expense. Thou shalt cook it,—I will pay for it.”

“As you please, worshipful sir,” rejoined Trusbut. “But I can have what I please from the royal larder.”

“So much the better,” returned Sir Narcissus. “But mine the entertainment shall be. And I here invite you all to it.”

“My best endeavours shall be used to content your worship,” replied the pantler. “We have had some good suppers in the Stone Kitchen ere now, but this shall exceed them all.”

“It is well,” replied the knight. “Hairun, you had better bring your monkey to divert us.”

“Right willingly, worshipful sir,” replied the bearward; “and if you have a cast-off suit of clothes to spare, I will deck him in them for the occasion.”

“You will find my last suit at the By-ward Tower,” replied Sir Narcissus. “Og will give them to you; and you may, if you choose, confer upon him the name I have cast off with them.”

“I will not fail to adopt your worship’s suggestion,” returned Hairun, smothering a laugh. “Henceforth, I shall call my ape Xit, and who knows whether in due season he may not attain the dignity of knighthood?”

Sir Narcissus did not exactly relish this remark, which made many of the guests smile; but he thought it better not to notice it, and taking a courteous leave of the hospitable bearward, proceeded to the palace, where a lodging was now given him, and where he passed the remainder of the day with his friends in jollity and carousing. Nor was it until the clock had chimed midnight, that he was left alone with his spouse.

At what hour Sir Narcissus arose on the following morning does not appear. But at eight in the evening, attired as on the previous day, and accompanied by his dame in her wedding-dress, he repaired to the Stone Kitchen. He found the whole party assembled, including, besides those he had invited, Win-wike, and his son, a chubby youth of some ten years old, Mauger, Wolfytt, and Sorrocold. Sir Narcissus could have dispensed with the company of the three latter; but not desiring to quarrel with them, he put the best face he could upon the matter, and bade them heartily welcome. He found, too, that Hairun had literally obeyed his injunctions, and brought his monkey with him, dressed up in his old clothes.

“Allow me to present Xit, the ape, to your worship,” said the bearward.

“He is welcome,” replied Sir Narcissus, laughing, to conceal his vexation at the absurd resemblance which the animal bore to him.

Sir Narcissus was then conducted to a seat at the head of the table. On the right was placed his lady, on the left, Dame Placida; while the pantler, who, as usual, filled the office of carver, faced him. The giants were separated by the other guests, and Ribald sat between Dames Placida and Potentia, both of whom he contrived to keep in most excellent humour. Peter Trusbut did not assert too much when he declared that the entertainment should surpass all that had previously been given in the Stone Kitchen; and not to be behindhand, the giants exceeded all their former efforts in the eating line. They did not, it is true, trouble themselves much with the first course, which consisted of various kinds of pottage and fish; though Og spoke in terms of rapturous commendation of a sturgeon’s jowl, and Magog consumed the best part of a pickled tunny-fish.

But when these were removed, and the more substantial viands appeared, they set to work in earnest. Turning up their noses at the boiled capons, roasted bustards, stewed quails, and other light matters, they, by one consent, assailed a largo shield of brawn, and speedily demolished it. Their next incursion was upon a venison pasty—a soused pig followed,—and while Gog prepared himself for a copious draught of Rhenish by a dish of anchovies, Magog, who had just emptied a huge two-handed flagon of bragget, sharpened his appetite—the edge of which was a little taken off,—with a plate of pickled oysters. A fawn roasted, whole, with a pudding in its inside, now claimed their attention, and was pronounced delicious. Og, then, helped himself to a shoulder of mutton and olives; Gog to a couple of roasted ruffs; and Magog again revived his flagging powers with a dish of buttered crabs. At this juncture, the strong waters were introduced by the pantler, and proved highly acceptable to the labouring giants.

Peter Trusbut performed wonders. In the old terms of his art, he leached the brawn, reared the goose, sauced the capon, spoiled the fowls, flushed the chickens, unlaced the rabbits, winged the quails, minced the plovers, thighed the pigeons, bordered the venison pasty, tranched the sturgeon, under-tranched the tunny-fish, tamed the crab, and barbed the lobster.

The triumphs of the repast now appeared. They were a baked swan, served in a coffin of rye-paste; a crane, likewise roasted whole; and a peacock, decorated with its tail. The first of these birds,—to use his own terms,—was reared by the pantler; the second displayed; and the last disfigured. And disfigured it was, in more ways than one; for, snatching the gaudy plumes from its tail, Sir Narcissus decorated his dame’s cap with them. The discussion of these noble dishes fully occupied the giants, and when they had consumed a tolerable share of each, they declared they had done. Nor could they be tempted with the marrow toasts, the fritters, the puddings, the wafers, and other cates and sweetmeats that followed,—though they did not display the like objection to the brimming cups of hippocras, which wound up the repast.

The only person who appeared to want appetite for the feast, or who, perhaps, was too busy to eat, was Sir Narcissus. For the first time in his life, he played the part of host, and he acquitted himself to admiration. Ever and anon, rising in his chair, with a goblet of wine in his hand, he would pledge some guest, or call out to Peter Trusbut to fill some empty plate. He had a jest for every one;—abundance of well-turned compliments for the ladies; and the tenderest glances and whispers for his dame, who looked more lovesick and devoted than ever. By the time the cloth was removed, and the dishes replaced by flagons and pots of hydromel and wine, Sir Narcissus was in the height of his glory. The wine had got a little into his head, but not more than added to his exhilaration, and he listened with rapturous delight to the speech made by Og, who in good set terms proposed his health and that of his bride. The pledge was drunk with the utmost enthusiasm; and in the heat of his excitement, Sir Narcissus mounted on the table, and bowing all round, returned thanks in the choicest phrases he could summon. His speech received several interruptions from the applauses of his guests; and Hairun, who was bent upon mischief, thought this a favourable opportunity for practising it. During the banquet, he had kept the monkey in the back-ground, but he now placed him on the table behind Sir Narcissus, whose gestures and posture the animal began to mimic. Its grimaces were so absurd and extraordinary, that the company roared with laughter, to the infinite astonishment of the speaker, who at the moment wras indulging in a pathetic regret, at the necessity he should be under of quitting his old haunts in consequence of his new dignities and duties; but his surprise was changed to anger, as he felt his sword suddenly twitched from the sheath, and beheld the grinning countenance of the ape close behind him. Uttering an exclamation of fury, he turned with the intention of sacrificing the cause of his annoyance on the spot; but the animal wras too quick for him, and springing on his shoulders, plucked off his cap, and twisted its fingers in his well-curled hair, lugging him tremendously. Screaming with pain and rage, Sir Narcissus ran round the table upsetting all in his course, but unable to free himself from his tormentor, who keeping fast hold of his head, grinned and chattered as if in mockery of his vociferations.

Lady Le Grand had not noticed the monkey’s first proceedings, her attention being diverted by Ribald, who pressed her, with many compliments upon her charms, to take a goblet of malmsey which he had poured out for her. But she no sooner perceived what was going forward, than she flew to the rescue, beat off the monkey, and hugging her little lord to her bosom, almost smothered him with kisses and caresses. Nor were Dames Placida and Potcntia less attentive to him. At first, they had treated the matter as a joke, but seeing the diminutive knight was really alarmed, they rubbed his head, patted him on the back, embraced him as tenderly as Lady Le Grand would permit, and loudly upbraided Hairun for his misconduct. Scarcely able to conceal his laughter, the offender pretended the utmost regret, and instantly sent off the monkey by one of the attendants to the Lions’ Tower.

It was some time before Sir Narcissus could be fully appeased; and it required all the blandishments of the dames, and the humblest apologies from Hairun, to prevent him from quitting the party in high dudgeon. At length, however, he was persuaded by Magog to wash down his resentment in a pottle of sack, brewed by the pantler—and the generous drink restored him to instant good-humour. Called upon by the company to conclude his speech, he once more ventured upon the table, and declaiming bitterly against the interruption he had experienced, finished his oration amid the loudest cheers. He then bowed round in his most graceful manner, and returned to his chair.

It has already been stated that Mauger, Sorrocold, and Wolfytt were among the guests. The latter had pretty nearly recovered from the wound inflicted by Nightgall, which proved, on examination, by no means dangerous; and, regardless of the consequences, he ate, drank, laughed, and shouted as lustily as the rest. The other two being of a more grave and saturnine character, seldom smiled at what was going forward; and though they did not neglect to fill their goblets, took no share in the general conversation, but sat apart in a corner near the chimney with Winwike, discussing the terrible scenes they had witnessed in their different capacities, with the true gusto of amateurs.

“And so Lady Jane Grey and her husband will positively be executed to-morrow?” observed Winwike. “There is no chance of further reprieve, I suppose.”

“None whatever,” replied Mauger. “Father Feckenham, I understand, offered her two days more, if she would prolong her disputation with him, but she refused. No—no. There will be no further respite. She will suffer on the Green—her husband on Tower Hill.”

“So I heard,” replied Sorrocold—“Poor soul! she is very young—not seventeen, I am told.”

“Poll—poh!” cried Mauger, gruffly—“there’s nothing in that. Life is as sweet at seventy as seventeen. However, I’ll do my work as quickly as I can. If you wish to see a head cleanly taken off, get as near the scaffold as you can.”

“I shall not fail to do so,” returned Sorrocold. “I would not miss it for the world.”

“As soon as the clock strikes twelve, and the Sabbath is ended,” continued Mauger, “my assistants will begin to put up the scaffold. You know the spot before Saint Peter’s chapel. They say the grass won’t grow there. But that’s an old woman’s tale—he! he!”

“Old woman’s tale, or not,” rejoined Winwike, gravely—“it’s true. I’ve often examined the spot, and never could find a blade of herbage there.”

“Well, well,” rejoined Mauger, “I won’t dispute the point. Believe it, and welcome. I could tell other strange tales concerning that place. It’s a great privilege to be beheaded there, and only granted to illustrious personages. The last two who fell there were Queen Catherine Howard, and her confidante, the Countess of Rochford. Lady Jane Grey would be beheaded on Tower Hill, with her husband, but they are afraid of the mob, who might compassionate the youthful pair, and occasion a riot. It’s better to be on the safe side—he! he!”

“You said you had some other strange talcs to tell concerning that place,” observed Sorrocold. “What are they?”

“I don’t much like talking about them,” rejoined Mauger, reluctantly, “but since I’ve dropped a hint on the subject, I may as well speak out. You must know, then, that the night before the execution of the old Countess of Salisbury, who would not lay her head upon the block, and whom I was obliged to chase round the scaffold and bring down how I could—the night before she fell,—and a bright moonlight night it was,—I was standing on the scaffold putting it in order for the morrow, when all at once there issued from the church porch a female figure, shrouded from head to foot in white.”

“Well!” exclaimed Sorrocold, breathlessly.

“Well,” returned the headsman, “though filled with alarm, I never took my eyes from it, but watched it glide slowly round the scaffold, and finally return to the porch, where it disappeared.”

“Did you address it?” asked Winwike.

“Not I,” replied Mauger. “My tongue clove to the roof of my mouth. I could not have spoken to save my life.”

“Strange!” exclaimed Sorrocold. “Did you ever see it again?”

“Yes, on the night before Catherine Howard’s execution,” replied Mauger; “and I have no doubt it will appear to-night.”

“Do you think so?” cried Sorrocold. “I will watch for it.”

“I shall visit the scaffold myself, an hour after midnight,” returned Mauger—“you can accompany me if you think proper.”

“Agreed!” exclaimed the chirurgeon.

They were here interrupted by a boisterous roar of merriment from the other guests. While their sombre talk was going on, Ribald, who had made considerable progress in the good graces of Lady Le Grand, had related a merry tale, and at its close, which was attended with shouts of laughter, Sir Narcissus ordered a fresh supply of wine, and the vast measures were promptly replenished by the pantier. Several pleasant hours were thus consumed, until at last Sir Narcissus arose, or rather attempted to rise, for his limbs refused their office, and his gaze was rather unsteady, and addressed his friends as follows:—“Farewell, my merry gossips,” he hiccupped—“farewell! As I am now a married man, I must keep go-o-o-d hours.” (At this moment the clock struck twelve). “I have already trespassed too much on Lady Le Grand’s good nature. She is getting sleepy. So, to speak truth, am! I shall often visit you again—as often, at least, as my dignities and duties will permit. Do not stand in awe of my presence. I shall always unbend with you—always. The truly great are never proud—at least to their inferiors. With their superiors it is a different matter. This alone would convince you of my illustrious origin.”

“True,” cried Gog, “no one would suspect you of being the son of a groom of the pantry, for instance.”

“No one,” repeated Xit, fiercely, and making an ineffectual attempt to draw his sword, “or if he did suspect it, he should never live to repeat it.”

“Well, well,” replied Gog, meekly. “I don’t suspect it.”

“None of us suspect it,” laughed Og.

“I am qu-quito sa-sa-satisfied,” replied Sir Narcissus. “More wine, old Trusbut. Fill the pots, pantler. I’ll give you a r-r-r-rousing pledge.”

“And so will I,” cried his dame, who, like her lord, was a little the worse for the wine she had swallowed,—her goblet being kept constantly filled by the assiduous Ribald—“so will I, if you don’t come home directly, you little sot.”

“Lady Le Gr-r-and,” cried Sir Narcissus, furiously, “I’ll divorce you.—I’ll behead you as Harry the Eighth did Anne Boleyn.”

“No, chuck, you won’t,” replied the lady. “You will think better of it to-morrow.” So saying, she snatched him up in her arms, and despite his resistance carried him off to his lodging in the palace, long before reaching which, he had fallen asleep, and when he awoke next morning, he had but a very confused recollection of the events of the preceding night.

And here, as it will be necessary to take leave of our little friend, we will give a hasty glance at his subsequent history. Within a year of his union, a son was born to him, who speedily eclipsed his sire in stature, and in due season became a stalwart, well-proportioned man, six feet in height, and bearing a remarkable resemblance to Ribald. Sir Narcissus was exceedingly fond of him; and it was rather a droll sight to see them together. The dwarfish knight continued to rise in favour with the queen, and might have been constantly with the court had he pleased, but as he preferred, from old habits and associations, residing within the Tower, he was allowed apartments in the palace, of which he was termed, in derision, the grand seneschal. On Elizabeth’s accession, he was not removed, but retained his post till the middle of the reign of James the First, when he died full of years and honours—active, vain, and consequential to the last, and from his puny stature, always looking young. He was interred in front of Saint Peter’s chapel on the green, near his old friends the giants, who had preceded him some years to the land of shadows, and the stone that marks his grave may still be seen.

As to the three gigantic warders, they retained their posts, and played their parts at many a feast and high solemnity during Elizabeth’s golden rule, waxing in girth and bulk as they advanced in years, until they became somewhat gross and unwieldy. Og, who had been long threatened with apoplexy, his head being almost buried in his enormous shoulders, expired suddenly in his chair after a feast; and his two brethren took his loss so much to heart, that they abstained altogether from the flask, and followed him in less than six months, dying, it was thought, of grief, but more probably of dropsy. Their resting-place has been already indicated. In the same spot, also, the Lady Le Grand, Dame Placida, and the worthy pantler and his spouse. Magog was a widower during the latter part of his life, and exhibited no anxiety to enter a second time into the holy estate of matrimony. Og and Gog died unmarried.

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