“Who is she?” demanded Gog.
“Can you not guess,” rejoined Xit.
“The fair Cicely,” returned the giant.
“You are wide of the mark,” replied the dwarf—“though, I confess, she is lovely enough to turn his head outright. But he is not so moonstruck as to aspire to her. Had I sought her hand, there might have been some chance of success. But Magog—pshaw!”
“Tush!” cried Og, “I will be sworn it is Mistress Bridget Crumbewell, the Bowyer’s daughter, who hath bewitched him. I have noted that she hath cast many an amorous glance at him of late. It is she, I’ll be sworn.”
“Then you are forsworn, for it is not Bridget Crumbewell,” rejoined Xit—“the object of his affections is a widow.”
“A widow!” exclaimed both giants—“then he is lost.”
“I see not that,” replied the dwarf. “Magog might do worse than espouse Dame Placida Paston. Her husband, old Miles Paston, left a good round sum behind him, and a good round widow too. She has a bright black eye, a tolerable waist for so plump a person, and as neat an ancle as can be found within the Tower, search where you will. I am half disposed to enter the lists with him.”
“Say you so,” replied Og, laughing at the dwarf’s presumption, “then e’en make the attempt. And such assistance as we can render, shall not be wanting; for neither Gog nor I—if I do not misapprehend his sentiments—have any desire that our brother should enter into the holy state of matrimony.”
“Right, brother,” rejoined Gog; “we must prevent it if possible, and I see not a better way than that you propose. If it does nothing else, it will afford us excellent pastime.”