LITMIR.BIZ

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he called for the remains of a lordly baron of beef, which had recently graced the royal sideboard. At the sight of this noble joint, Og, who had just appropriated a dish of roast quails, two of which he despatched at a mouthful, uttered a grunt of intense satisfaction, and abandoning the trifling dainties to Xit, prepared for the more substantial fare.

      Assuming the part of carver, Peter Trusbut sliced off huge wedges of the meat, and heaped the platters of the giants with more than would have satisfied men of ordinary appetites. But this did not satisfy them. They came again and again. The meat was of such admirable quality – so well roasted – so full of gravy, and the fat was so exquisite, that they could not sufficiently praise it, nor do it sufficient justice. The knife was never out of Peter Trusbut’s hands; nor was he allowed to remain idle a moment. Scarcely had he helped Og, when Gog’s plate was empty; and before Gog had got his allowance, Magog was bellowing for more. And so it continued as long as a fragment remained upon the bones.

      Puffing with the exertion he had undergone, the pantler then sat down, while Ribald, resolved not to be balked of his pastime, entreated Dame Potentia to let her guests wash down their food with a measure of metheglin. After some little solicitation, she complied, and returned with a capacious jug containing about three gallons of the balmy drink. The jug was first presented to Magog. Raising it to his lips, he took a long and stout pull, and then passed it to Gog, who detained it some seconds, drew a long breath, and returned it to Dame Trusbut, perfectly empty. By dint of fresh entreaties from the warder, Dame Potentia was once more induced to seek the cellar; and, on receiving the jug, Og took care to leave little in it for his brethren, but poured out what was left into a beaker for Xit.

      They were now literally “giants refreshed;” and Peter Trusbut, perceiving that they still cast wistful glances towards the larder, complied with a significant wink from Ribald, and went in search of further provisions. This time he brought the better half of a calvered salmon, a knuckle of Westphalia ham, a venison pasty with a castellated crust of goodly dimensions, a larded capon, and the legs and carcass of a peacock, decorated with a few feathers from the tail of that gorgeous bird. Magog, before whom the latter dainty was placed, turned up his nose at it, and giving it to Xit, vigorously assaulted the venison pasty. It soon became evident that the board would again be speedily cleared; and though he had no intention of playing the niggardly host on the present occasion, Peter Trusbut declared that this was the last time such valiant trenchermen should ever feed at his cost. But his displeasure was quickly dispelled by the mirth of the warder, who laughed him out of his resolution, and encouraged the giants to proceed by every means in his power. Og was the first to give in. Throwing back his huge frame on the bench, he seized a flask of wine that stood near him, emptied it into a flagon, tossed it off at a draught, and declared he had had enough. Gog soon followed his example. But Magog seemed insatiable, and continued actively engaged, to the infinite diversion of Ribald, and the rest of the guests.

      There was one person to whom this festive scene afforded no amusement. This was the fair Cicely. After Cholmondeley’s departure – though wholly unacquainted with what had befallen him – she lost all her sprightliness, and could not summon up a smile, though she blushed deeply when rallied by the warder. In surrendering her heart at the first summons of the enamoured esquire, Cicely had obeyed an uncontrollable impulse; but she was by no means satisfied with herself for her precipitancy. She felt that she ought to have resisted rather than have yielded to a passion which, she feared, could have no happy result; and though her admirer had vowed eternal constancy, and pleaded his cause with all the eloquence and fervour of deep and sincere devotion – an eloquence which seldom falls ineffectually on female ears – she was not so unacquainted with the ways of the world as to place entire faith in his professions. But it was now too late to recede. Her heart was no longer her own; and if her lover had deceived her, and feigned a passion which he did not feel, she had no help for it, but to love on unrequited.

      While her bosom alternately fluttered with hope, or palpitated with fear, and her hands mechanically pursued their employment, she chanced to raise her eyes, and beheld the sinister gaze of Lawrence Nightgall fixed upon her. There was something in his malignant look that convinced her he read what was passing in her breast – and there was a bitter and exulting smile on his lip which, while it alarmed her on her account, terrified her (she knew not why) for her lover.

      “You are thinking of the young esquire who left you an hour ago,” he observed sarcastically.

      “I will not attempt to deny it,” replied Cicely, colouring; “I am.”

      “I know it,” rejoined the jailer; “and he dared to tell you he loved you?”

      Cicely made no reply.

      “And you? – what answer did you give him, mistress?” continued Nightgall, furiously grasping her arm. “What answer did you give him, I say?”

      “Let me go,” cried Cicely. “You hurt me dreadfully. I will not be questioned thus.”

      “I overheard what you said to him,” rejoined the jailer. “You told him that you loved him – that you had loved no other – and would wed no other.”

      “I told him the truth,” exclaimed Cicely. “I do love him, and will wed him.”

      “It is false,” cried Nightgall, laughing maliciously. “You will never see him again.”

      “How know you that?” she cried, in alarm.

      “He has left the Tower – for ever,” returned the jailer, moodily.

      “Impossible!” cried Cicely. “The Duke of Northumberland has given orders that no one shall go forth without a pass. Besides, he told me he was returning to the palace.”

      “I tell you he is gone,” thundered Nightgall. “Hear me, Cicely,” he continued, passionately. “I have loved you long – desperately. I would give my life – my soul for you. Do not cast me aside for this vain court-gallant, who pursues you only to undo you. He would never wed you.”

      “He has sworn to do so,” replied Cicely.

      “Indeed!” cried Nightgall, grinding his teeth, “The oath will never be kept. Cicely, you must – you shall be mine.”

      “Never!” replied the maiden. “Do you suppose I would unite myself to one whom I hate, as I do you?”

      “Hate me!” cried the jailer, grasping her arm with such force that she screamed with pain. “Do you dare to tell me so to my face?”

      “I do,” she rejoined. “Release me, monster!”

      “Body of my father! what’s the matter?” roared Magog, who was sitting near them. “Leave go your hold of the damsel, Master Nightgall,” he added, laying down his knife and fork.

      “Not at your bidding, you overgrown ox!” replied the jailer. “We’ll see that,” replied the giant. And stretching out his hand, he seized him by the nape of the neck, and drew him forcibly backwards.

      “You shall bleed for this, caitiff!” exclaimed Nightgall, disengaging himself, and menacing him with his poniard.

      “Tush!” rejoined Magog, contemptuously, and instantly disarming him. “Your puny weapon will serve me for a toothpick,” he added, suiting the action to the word. And, amid the loud laughter of the assemblage, the jailer slunk away, muttering interjections of rage and vengeance.

      Nightgall’s dark hints respecting Cholmondeley were not without effect upon Cicely, who, well aware of his fierce and revengeful character, could not help fearing some evil; and when he quitted the Stone Kitchen, an undefinable impulse prompted her to follow him. Hastily descending the stairs, on gaining the postern she descried him hurrying along the road between the ballium wall and the external line of fortifications, and instantly decided on following him.

      On reaching the projecting walls of the Beauchamp Tower, behind which she sheltered herself, she saw that he stopped midway between that fortification and the next turret, then known as the Devilin, or Robin the Devil’s Tower, but more recently, from having been the prison of the unfortunate Earl of Essex, as the Devereux Tower. Here he disappeared. Hastening to the spot, Cicely looked for the door, through which he must have passed; and after

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