1553.
By the time he had finished his work, he was reminded by a clamorous
monitor within him, that he had had no supper, and he recalled with
agonizing distinctness the many glorious meals he had consumed with his
friends the giants. He had not even the common prisoners fare, a loaf
and a cup of water, to cheer him.
“Surely they cannot intend to starve me,” he thought. “I will knock at
the door and try whether any one is without.” But though he thumped
with all his might against it, no answer was returned. Indignant at this
treatment, he began to rail against the giants, as if they had been the
cause of his misfortunes.
“Why do they not come to deliver me?” he cried, in a peevish voice. “The
least they could do would be to bring me some provisions. But, I warrant
me, they have forgotten their poor famishing dwarf, while they are
satisfying their own inordinate appetites. What would I give for a slice
of Hairun’s wild boar now! The bare idea of it makes my mouth water. But
the recollection of a feast is a poor stay for a hungry stomach. Cruel
Og! barbarous Gog! inhuman Magog! where are ye now? Insensible that ye
are to the situation of your friend, who would have been the first to
look after you had ye been similarly circumstanced! Where are ye, I
say—supping with Peter Trusbut, or Ribald, or at our lodging in the
By-ward Tower? Wherever ye are, I make no doubt you have plenty to eat,
whereas I, your best friend, who would have been your patron, if I had
been raised to the dignity promised by De Noailles—am all but starving.
It cannot be—hilloah! hilloah! help!” And he kicked against the door as
if his puny efforts would burst it open. “The queen cannot be aware of
my situation. She shall hear of it—but how?”
Perplexing himself how to accomplish this, he flung himself on a straw
mattress in one corner, which, together with a bench and a small table
constituted the sole furniture of the room, and in a short time fell
asleep. He was disturbed by the loud jarring of a door, and, starting to
his feet, perceived that two men had entered the room, one of whom
bore a lantern, which he hold towards him. In this person Xit at once
recognised Nightgall; and in the other, as he drew nearer, Wolfytt the
sworn tormentor. The grim looks of the latter so terrified Xit, that
he fell back on the mattress in an ecstacy of apprehension. His fright
seemed to afford great amusement to the cause of it, for he burst into
a coarse loud laugh that made the roof ring again. His merriment rather
restored the dwarf, who ventured to inquire, in a piteous accent,
whether they had brought him any supper.
“Ay, ay!” rejoined Wolfytt, with a grin. “Follow us, and you shall have
a meal that shall serve you for some days to come.”
“Readily,” replied Xit. “I am excessively hungry, and began to think I
was quite forgotten.”
“We have been employed in making all ready for you,” rejoined Wolfytt.
“We were taken a little by surprise. It is not often we have such a
prisoner as you.”
“I should think not,” returned Xit, whose vanity was tickled by the
remark. “I was determined to let posterity know that one dwarf had
been confined within the Tower. Bring your lantern this way, Master
Nightgall, and you will perceive I have already carved my name on the
wall.”
“So I see,” growled Nightgall, holding the light to the inscription.
“Bring him along, Wolfytt.”
“He will not need, sir,” returned Xit, with dignity. “I am ready to
attend you.”
“Good!” exclaimed Wolfytt. “Supper awaits us, he! he!” They then passed
through the door, Xit strutting between the pair. Descending a short
flight of stone steps, they came to another strong door, which Nightgall
opened. It admitted them to a dark narrow passage, which, so far as it
could be discerned, was of considerable extent. After pursuing a direct
course for some time, they came to an opening on the left, into which
they struck. This latter passage was so narrow that they were obliged to
walk singly. The roof was crusted with nitrous drops, and the floor was
slippery with moisture.
“We are going into the worst part of the Tower,” observed Xit, who began
to feel his terrors revive. “I have been here once before. I recollect
it leads to the Torture Chamber, the Little-Ease, and the Pit. I hope
you are not taking me to one of those horrible places?”
“Poh! poh!” rejoined Wolfytt, gruffly. “You are going to Master
Nightgall’s bower.”
“His bower!” exclaimed Xit, surprised by the term—“what! where he keeps
Cicely?”
At the mention of this name, Nightgall, who had hitherto maintained
a profound silence, uttered an exclamation of anger, and regarded the
dwarf with a withering look.
“I can keep a secret if need be,” continued Xit, in a deprecatory tone,
alarmed at his own indiscretion. “Neither Cuthbert Cholmondeley, nor
Dame Potentia, nor any one else, shall hear of her from me, if you
desire it, good Master Nightgall.”
“Peace!” thundered the jailor.
“You will get an extra turn of the rack for your folly, you
crack-brained jackanapes,” laughed Wolfytt.
Luckily the remark did not reach Xit’s ears. He was too much frightened
by Nightgall’s savage look to attend to anything else.
They had now reached a third door, which Nightgall unlocked and fastened
as soon as the others had passed through it. The passage they entered
was even darker and damper than the one they had quitted. It contained
a number of cells, some of which, as was evident from the groans that
issued from them, were tenanted.
“Is Alexia here?” inquired Xit, whose blood froze in his veins as he
listened to the dreadful sounds.
“Alexia!” vociferated Nightgall, in a terrible voice. “What do you know
of her?”
“Oh, nothing, nothing,” replied Xit. “But I have heard Cuthbert
Cholmondeley speak of her.”
“She is dead,” replied Nightgall, in a sombre voice; “and I will bury
you in the same grave with her, if her name ever passes your lips
again.”
“It shall not, worthy sir,” returned Xit,—“it shall not. Curse on my
unlucky tongue, which is for ever betraying me into danger!”
They had now arrived at an arched doorway in the wall, which being
opened by Nightgall, discovered a flight of steps leading to some
chamber beneath. Nightgall descended, but Xit refused to follow him.
“I know where you are taking me,” he cried. “This is the way to the
torture-chamber.”
Wolfytt burst into a loud laugh, and pushed him forward.
“I won’t go,” screamed Xit, struggling with all his force against the
tormentor. “You have no authority to treat me thus. Help! kind Og! good
Gog! dear Magog!—help! or I shall be lamed for life. I shall never more
be able to amuse you with my gambols, or the tricks that so much divert
you. Help! help! I say.”
“Your cries are in vain,” cried Wolfytt, kicking him down the steps; “no
one can save you now.”
Precipitated violently downwards, Xit came in contact with Nightgall,
whom he upset, and they both rolled into the chamber beneath, where the
latter arose, and would have resented the affront upon his comrade, or,
at all events, upon the dwarf, if he had not been in the presence of
one of whom he stood in the greatest awe. This was Simon Renard, who
was writing at a table. Disturbed by the noise, the ambassador glanced
round, and on perceiving the cause immediately resumed his occupation.
Near him stood the thin erect figure of Sorrocold,—his attenuated limbs
appearing yet more meagre from the tight-fitting black hose in which
they were enveloped, The chirurgcon wore a short cloak of sad-coloured
cloth, and a doublet of the same material. His head was covered by
a flat black cap, and a pointed beard terminated his hatchet-shaped,
cadaverous face. His hands rested on a long staff, and his dull heavy
eyes were fixed upon the ground.
At a short distance from Sorrocold, stood Mauger, bare-headed, and
stripped to his leathern doublet, his arms folded upon his bosom,
and his gaze bent upon Renard, whose commands he awaited. Nightgall’s
accident called a smile to his grim countenance, but it instantly faded
away, and gave place to his habitual sinister expression.
Such were the formidable personages in whoso presence Xit found himself.
Nor was the chamber less calculated to strike terror into his breast
than its inmates. It was not the torture-room visited by Cholmondeley,
when he explored the subterranean passages of the fortress, but another
and larger chamber contiguous to the former, yet separated from it by a
wall of such thickness that no sound could penetrate through it. It
was square-shaped, with a deep round-arched recess on the right of the
entrance, at the further end of which was a small cell, surmounted with
a pointed arch. On the side where Renard sat, the wall was decorated
with thumb-screws, gauntlets, bracelets, collars, pincers, saws, chains
and other nameless implements of torture. To the ceiling was affixed a
stout pulley with a rope, terminated by an iron hook, and two leathern
shoulder-straps. Opposite the door-way stood a brasier, filled with
blazing coals, in which a huge pair of pincers were thrust; and beyond
it was the wooden frame of the rack, already described, with its ropes
and levers in readiness. Reared against the side of the deep dark
recess, previously mentioned, was a ponderous wheel, as broad in the
felly as that of a waggon, and twice the circumference. This antiquated
instrument of torture was placed there to strike terror into the breasts
of those who beheld it—but it was rarely used. Next to it was a heavy
bar of iron employed to break the limbs of the sufferers tied to its
spokes.
Perceiving in whose presence he stood, and what preparations were made
for him, Xit gave himself up for lost, and would have screamed aloud,
had not his utterance failed him. His knees smote one another; his hair,
if possible, grew more erect than ever; a thick damp burst upon his
brow; and his tongue, ordinarily so restless, clove to the roof of his
mouth.
“Bring forward the prisoner,” cried Renard, with a stern voice, but
without turning his head.
Upon this, Nightgall seized Xit by the hand, and dragged him towards
the table. A quarter of an hour elapsed, during which Renard continued
writing as if no one were present; and Xit, who at first was half dead
with fright, began to recover his spirits.
“Your excellency sent for me.” he ventured, at length.
“Ha!” ejaculated Renard, pausing and looking at him, “I had forgotten
thee.”
“A proof that my case is not very dangerous,” thought Xit. “I must let
this proud Spaniard see I am not so unimportant as he seems to imagine.
Your excellency I presume, desires to interrogate me on some point,” he
continued aloud. “I pray you proceed without further delay.”
“Is it your excellency’s pleasure that we place him on the rack?”
interposed Nightgall.
“Or shall we begin with the thumb-screws,” observed Mauger, pointing
to a pair upon the table; “I dare say they will extort all he knows. It
would be a pity to stretch him out.”
“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.”
0357
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.
“How do you like your bride?” demanded Wolfytt, with a brutal laugh.
“So little,” answered Xit, “that I care not how soon I am divorced from
her. After all,” he added, “uncomfortable as I am, I would not change
places with Magog.”
This remark was received with half-suppressed laughter by the group
around him, and Wolfytt was so softened that he whispered in his ear,
that if he was obliged to put him on the rack, he would use him as
tenderly as he could. “Let me advise you as a friend,” added the
tormentor, “to conceal nothing.”
“Rely upon it,” replied Xit, in the same tone. “I’ll tell all I know—and
more.”
“That’s the safest plan,” rejoined Wolfytt, drily.
By this time, Renard having finished his despatch, and delivered it to
Nightgall, he ordered Xit to be brought before him. Lifting him by the
nape of his neck, as he would have carried a lap-dog, Wolfytt placed him
on the edge of the rack, opposite the ambassador’s seat. He then walked
back to Manger, who was leaning against the wall near the door, and laid
his hand on his shoulder, while Nightgall seated himself on the steps.
All three looked on with curiosity, anticipating much diversion.
Sorrocold, who had never altered his posture, only testified his
consciousness of what was going forward by raising his lacklustre eyes
from the ground, and fixing them on the dwarf.
Wheeling round on the stool, and throwing one leg indolently over the
other, Renard regarded the mannikin with apparent sternness, but secret
entertainment. The expression of Xit’s countenance, as he underwent this
scrutiny, was so ludicrous, that it brought a smile to every face except
that of the chirurgeon.
After gazing at the dwarf for a few minutes in silence, Renard thus
commenced—“You conveyed messages to the Earl of Devonshire when he was
confined in the Bell Tower?”
“Several,” replied Xit.
“And from whom?” demanded Renard.
“Your excellency desires me speak the truth, I conclude?” rejoined Xit.
“If you attempt to prevaricate, I will have you questioned by that
engine,” returned Renard, pointing to the rack. “I again ask you by whom
you were employed to convey these messages?”
“Your excellency and your attendants will keep the secret if I tell
you?” replied Xit. “I was sworn not to reveal my employer’s name.”
“No further trifling, knave,” cried Renard, “or I shall deliver you to
the tormentors. Who was it?”
“The Queen,” replied Xit.
“Impossible!” exclaimed Renard, in surprise.
“Nothing is impossible to a woman in love,” replied Xit; “and her
highness, though a queen, is still a woman.”
“Beware how you trifle with me, sirrah,” rejoined Renard. “It was M. De
Noailles who employed you.”
“He employed me on the part of her majesty, I assure your excellency,”
returned Xit.
“He deceived you if he told you so,” replied Renard. “But now, repeat to
me the sum of your conversations with the earl.”
“Our conversations all related to his escape,” replied Xit.
“Hum!” exclaimed Renard. “Now mark me, and answer me truly as you value
a whole skin. Was nothing said of the princess Elizabeth, and of a plot
to place her on the throne, and wed her to Courtenay?”
“Nothing that I remember,” answered Xit.
“Think again!” cried Renard.
“I do recollect that upon one occasion his lordship alluded to the
princess,” answered Xit, after a moment’s pretended reflection.
“Well, what did he say?” demanded Renard.
“That he was sorry he had ever made love to her,” replied Xit.
“And well he might be,” observed Renard. “But was that all?”
“Every syllable,” replied Xit.
“I must assist your memory, then,” said Renard. “What ho! tormentors.”
“Hold!” cried the dwarf; “I will hide nothing from you.”
“Proceed, then,” rejoined Renard, “or I give the order.”
“Well, then,” returned Xit, “since I must needs confess the whole truth,
the reason why the Earl of Devonshire was sorry he had made love to the
princess was this. Her majesty sent him a letter through me, promising
to forgive him, and restore him to her affections.”
“You have been either strangely imposed upon, or you are seeking to
impose upon me, knave,” cried Renard. “But I suspect the latter.”
“I carried the billet myself, and saw it opened,” returned Xit, “and the
earl was so transported with its contents, that he promised to knight me
on the day of his espousals.”
“A safe promise, if he ever made it,” rejoined Renard; “but the whole
story is a fabrication. If her majesty desired to release the earl, why
did she not issue her orders to that effect to Sir Henry Bedingfeld?”
“Because—but before I proceed, I must beg your excellency to desire your
attendants to withdraw. You will perceive my motives, and approve them,
when I offer you my explanation.”
Renard waved his hand, and the others withdrew, Wolfytt observing to
Mauger, “I should like to hear what further lies the little varlet will
invent. He hath a ready wit.”
“Now, speak out—we are alone,” commanded Renard.
“The reason why her majesty did not choose to liberate the Earl of
Devonshire was the fear of offending your excellency,” replied Xit.
“How?” exclaimed Renard, bending his brows.
“In a moment of pique she had affianced herself to Prince Philip of
Spain,” continued Xit. “But in her calmer moments she repented her
precipitancy, and feeling a return of affection for the earl, she
employed M. Do Noailles to make up the matter with him. But the whole
affair was to be kept a profound secret from you.”
“Can this be true?” cried Renard. “But no—no—it is absurd. You are
abusing my patience.”
“If your excellency will condescend to make further inquiries you will
find I have spoken the truth,” rejoined the dwarf.
“But I pray you not to implicate me with the queen. Her majesty, like
many of her sex, has changed her mind, that is all. And she may change
it again for aught I know.”
“It is a strange and improbable story,” muttered Renard; “yet I am
puzzled what to think of it.”
“It was no paltry hope of gain that induced me to act in the matter,”
pursued Xit; “but, as I have before intimated, a promise of being
knighted.”
“If I find, on inquiry, you have spoken the truth,” rejoined Renard,
“and you will serve me faithfully on any secret service on which I may
employ you, I will answer for it you shall attain the dignity you aspire
to.”
“I will do whatever your excellency desires,” returned Xit, eagerly. “I
shall be knighted by somebody, after all.”
“But if you have deceived me,” continued Renard, sternly, “every bone
in your body shall be broken upon that wheel. Your examination is at an
end.” With this, he clapped his hands together, and at the signal the
attendants returned.
“Am I to remain in these irons longer?” inquired Xit.
“No,” replied Renard. “Release him, and take him hence. I shall
interrogate him at the same hour to-morrow night.”
“I pray your excellency to desire these officials to treat me with the
respect due to a person of my anticipated dignity,” cried Xit, as he
was unceremoniously seized and thrown on his back by Wolfytt; “and above
all, command them to furnish me with provisions. I have tasted nothing
to-night.”
Renard signified a wish that the latter request should be complied with,
and the dwarf’s irons being by this time removed, he was led back, by
the road he came, to his chamber in the Constable Towrer, where some
provisions and a flask of wine were placed before him, and he was left
alone.