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.

0475

0477

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.

0481

0482

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.

0484

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.”

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.

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.

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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.

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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.