“I would not be an inch taller for the world,” rejoined Xit, raising himself on his tiptoes.
“I have a suit of irons that will exactly fit him,” observed Wolfytt, going to the wall, and taking down an engine that looked like an exaggerated pair of sugar-tongs. “These were made as a model, and have never been used before, except on a monkey belonging to Hairun the bearward. We will wed you to the ‘Scavenger’s Daughter,’ my little man.”
Xit knew too well the meaning of the term to take any part in the merriment that followed this sally.
“The embraces of the spouse you offer me are generally fatal,” he observed. “I would rather decline the union, if his excellency will permit me.1’ *
“What is your pleasure?” asked Nightgall, appealing to Renard.
“Place him in the irons,” returned the latter. “If these fail, we can have recourse to sharper means.”
Xit would have flung himself at the ambassador’s feet, to ask for mercy, but he was prevented by Wolfytt, who slipping a gag into his mouth, carried him into the dark recess, and, by the help of Mauger, forced him into the engine. Diminished to half his size, and bent into the form of a hoop, the dwarf was then set on the ground, and the gag taken out of his mouth.