“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.