After the forcible abduction of Sir Narcissus by his spouse, the party
broke up,—Og and Gog shaping their course to the By-ward Tower, Magog
and his spouse, together with Ribald, who had taken up his quarters with
them, to their lodging on the hill leading to the Green,—Hairun to the
Lions’ Tower, Win-wike and his son to the Flint Tower, while Mauger,
Wolfytt, and Sorrocold proceeded to the Cradle Tower. Unfastening his
door, the headsman struck a light, and setting fire to a lamp, motioned
the others to a bench, and placed a stone jar of strong waters before
them, of which Wolfytt took a long, deep pull, but the chirurgeon
declined it.
“I have had enough,” he said. “Besides, I want to see the spirit.”
“I care for no other spirit but this,” rejoined Wolfytt, again applying
his mouth to the jar.
“Take care of yourselves, masters,” observed Mauger. “I must attend to
business.”
“Never mind us,” laughed Wolfytt, observing the executioner take up an
axe, and after examining its edge, begin to sharpen it, “grind away.”
“This is for Lord Guilford Dudley,” remarked Mauger, as he turned the
wheel with his foot. “I shall need two axes to-morrow.”
“Sharp work,” observed Wolfytt, with a detestable grin.
“You would think so were I to try one on you,” retorted Mauger. “Ay, now
it will do,” he added laying aside the implement, and taking up another.
“This is my favourite axe. I can make sure work with it. I always keep
it for queens or dames of high degree—he! he! This notch, which I can
never grind away, was made by the old Countess of Salisbury, that I told
you about. It was a terrible sight to see her white hair dabbled with
blood. Poor Lady Jane won’t give me so much trouble, I’ll be sworn.
She’ll die like a lamb.”
“Ay, ay,” muttered Sorrocold. “God send her a speedy death!”
“She’s sure of it with me,” returned Mauger, “so you may rest easy on
that score.” And as he turned the grindstone quickly round, drawing
sparks from the steel, he chaunted; as hoarsely as a raven, the
following ditty:—
The axe was sharp, and heavy as lead,
As it touched the neck, off went the head!
Wh i r—wh i r—wh i r—wh i r!
And the screaming of the grindstone formed an appropriate accompaniment
to the melody.
Queen Anne laid her white throat upon the block,
Quietly waiting the fatal shock;
The axe it severed it right in twain,
And so quick—so true—that she felt no pain!
Whir—whir—whir—whir!
And he again set the wheel in motion.