LITMIR.BIZ

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a half-merry, half-mischievous expression of countenance, “I have found it out – I have found it out.”

      “Found out what?” cried out both giants.

      “He is in love,” replied the dwarf.

      “Magog in love!” ejaculated Og, starting. “Impossible!”

      “You shall be convinced to the contrary if you will come with me,” rejoined Xit. “I have seen him enter the house. And, what is more, I have seen the lady.”

      “Who is she?” demanded Gog.

      “Can you not guess,” rejoined Xit.

      “The fair Cicely,” returned the giant.

      “You are wide of the mark,” replied the dwarf – “though, I confess, she is lovely enough to turn his head outright. But he is not so moonstruck as to aspire to her. Had I sought her hand, there might have been some chance of success. But Magog – pshaw!”

      “Tush!” cried Og, “I will be sworn it is Mistress Bridget Crumbewell, the Bowyer’s daughter, who hath bewitched him. I have noted that she hath cast many an amorous glance at him of late. It is she, I’ll be sworn.”

      “Then you are forsworn, for it is not Bridget Crumbewell,” rejoined Xit – “the object of his affections is a widow.”

      “A widow!” exclaimed both giants – “then he is lost.”

      “I see not that,” replied the dwarf. “Magog might do worse than espouse Dame Placida Paston. Her husband, old Miles Paston, left a good round sum behind him, and a good round widow too. She has a bright black eye, a tolerable waist for so plump a person, and as neat an ancle as can be found within the Tower, search where you will. I am half disposed to enter the lists with him.”

      “Say you so,” replied Og, laughing at the dwarf’s presumption, “then e’en make the attempt. And such assistance as we can render, shall not be wanting; for neither Gog nor I – if I do not misapprehend his sentiments – have any desire that our brother should enter into the holy state of matrimony.”

      “Right, brother,” rejoined Gog; “we must prevent it if possible, and I see not a better way than that you propose. If it does nothing else, it will afford us excellent pastime.”

      “Excuse me a moment,” observed Xit. “If I am to play the suitor to advantage, I must change my dress. I will return on the instant, and conduct you to Dame Placida’s dwelling.”

      So saying, he withdrew for a short space, during which he arrayed himself in his holiday garments. “Magog will have no chance,” he observed, as he strutted into the room, and glanced at his pigmy limbs with an air of intense self-satisfaction; “the widow is already won.”

      “If she be as fond of apes as some of her sex, she is so,” replied Og; “but widows are not so easily imposed upon.”

      The two giants, who, during Xit’s absence had entirely cleared the board, and wound up the repast by emptying the nine-hooped pot, now expressed themselves ready to start. Accordingly, they set out, and, preceded by Xit, shaped their course along the southern ward, and passing beneath the gateway of the Bloody Tower, ascended the hill leading to the Green, on the right of which, as at the present time, stood a range of buildings inhabited by the warders and other retainers of the royal household.

      Before one of these Xit stopped, and pointing to an open window about six feet from the ground, desired Gog to raise him up to it, The giant complied, when they beheld a sight that filled them with merriment. Upon a stout oak table – for there was no chair in the domicile sufficiently large to sustain him – sat Magog, his hand upon his breast, and his eyes tenderly fixed upon a comely dame, who was presenting him with a large foaming pot of ale. The languishing expression of the giant’s large lumpish features was so irresistibly diverting, that it was impossible to help laughing; and the lookers-on only restrained themselves, in the hope of witnessing something still more diverting.

      Dame Placida Paston had a short plump (perhaps a little too plump, and yet it is difficult to conceive how that can well be,) figure; a round rosy face, the very picture of amiability and good humour; a smooth chin, dimpling cheeks, and the brightest and merriest black eyes imaginable. Her dress was neatness itself, and her dwelling as neat as her dress. With attractions like these, no wonder she captivated many a heart, and among others that of Magog, who had long nourished a secret passion for her, but could not muster courage to declare it – for, with a bluff and burly demeanour towards his own sex, the giant was as bashful as a shamefaced stripling in the presence of any of womankind.

      With the tact peculiarly belonging to widows, Dame Placida had discovered the state of affairs, and perhaps being not altogether unwilling to discourage him, having accidentally met him on the Tower Green on the day in question, had invited him to visit her in the evening. It was this invitation which had so completely upset the love-sick giant. The same bashfulness that prevented him from making known his attachment to the object of it, kept him silent towards his brethren, as he feared to excite their ridicule.

      On his arrival at her abode, Dame Placida received him with the utmost cordiality, and tried to engage him in conversation. But all without effect.

      “I see how it is,” she thought; “there is nothing like a little strong liquor to unloose a man’s longue.” And she forthwith proceeded to a cupboard to draw a pot of ale. It was at this juncture that she was discovered by the observers outside.

      Magog received the proffered jug, and fixing a tender look on the fair donor, pressed his huge hand to his heart, and drained it to the last drop. The widow took back the empty vessel, and smilingly inquired if he would have it replenished. The giant replied faintly in the negative, – so faintly, that she was about to return to the cupboard for a fresh supply, when Magog caught her hand, and flung himself on his knees before her. In this posture he was still considerably the taller of the two; but bending himself as near to the ground as possible, he was about to make his proposal in due form, when he was arrested by a tremendous peal of laughter from without, and, looking up, beheld Xit seated on the window-sill, while behind him appeared the grinning countenances of his brethren.

      Ashamed and enraged at being thus detected, Magog sprang to his feet, and seizing Xit by the nape of the neck, would have inflicted some severe chastisement upon him, if Dame Placida had not interfered to prevent it. At her solicitation, the mannikin was released; and he no sooner found himself at liberty, than, throwing himself at her feet, he protested he was dying for her. Perhaps it might be from a certain love of teazing, inherent even in the best-tempered of her sex, or, perhaps, she thought such a course might induce Magog more fully to declare himself; but whatever motive influenced her, certain it is that Dame Placida appeared by no means displeased with her diminutive suitor, but suffered him, after a decent show of reluctance, to take her hand.

      Thus encouraged, the dwarf was so elated, that springing upon a chair, he endeavoured to snatch a kiss. But the widow, having no idea of allowing such a liberty, gave him a smart box on the ear, which immediately brought him to the ground.

      Notwithstanding this rebuff, Xit would have persevered, had not Magog, whose feelings were really interested, begun to appear seriously angry. Seeing this, he judged it prudent to desist, and contented himself with entreating the widow to declare which of the two she preferred. Dame Placida replied, that she must take a few hours to consider upon it, but invited them both to supper on the following evening, when she would deliver her answer. Having given a similar invitation to the two giants outside, she dismissed the whole party.

      XIII. – OF THE STRATAGEM PRACTISED BY CUTHBERT CHOLMONDELEY ON THE JAILOR

      Several days had now elapsed since Cholmondeley was thrown into the dungeon, and during that time he had been visited only at long intervals by Nightgall. To all his menaces, reproaches, and entreaties, the jailor turned a deaf ear. He smiled grimly as he set down the scanty provisions – a loaf and a pitcher of water – with which he supplied his captive; but he could not be induced to speak. When questioned about Cicely and upbraided with his perfidy, his countenance assumed an exulting expression which Cholmondeley found so intolerable that he never again repeated his inquiries. Left to

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