the dwarf screamed forth the following preamble to the proclamation:—“Jane, by the grace of God Queen of England, France, and Ireland, Defender of the Faith, and of the Church of England, and also of Ireland, under Christ on earth the supreme head. To all our loving, faithful, and obedients, and to every of them, greeting.” Here he paused to shout and wave his cap, while the herald, who had followed them, to humour the joke raised his embroidered trumpet to his lips, and blew a blast so loud and shrill, that the very rafters shook with it. To this clamour Og added his stunning laughter, while his brethren, who were leaning over a screen behind, and highly diverted with the incident, joined in lusty chorus. Almost deafened by the noise, Dame Trusbut, by way of putting an end to it, raised her own voice to its utmost pitch, and threatened to turn Xit, whom she looked upon as the principal cause of the disturbance, out of the house. Unfortunately, in her anger, she forgot that she was engaged in dressing the prisoner’s wounds, and while her left hand was shaken menacingly at the dwarf, her right convulsively grasped the poor fellow’s head, occasioning him such exquisite pain, that he added his outcries to the general uproar. The more Dame Trusbut scolded, the more Og and his brethren laughed, and the louder the herald blew his trumpet—so that it seemed as if there was no likelihood of tranquillity being speedily restored—nor, in all probability would it have been so without the ejectment of the dwarf, had it not been for the interference of Ribald, who at length, partly by cajolery, and partly by coercion, succeeded in pacifying the angry dame. During this tumult, the two mysterious personages, who, it has been stated, had planted themselves at the doorway, approached the young couple unobserved, and one of them, after narrowly observing the features of the young man, observed in an under-tone to his companion, “It is Cuthbert Cholmondeley—You doubted me, my lord Pembroke, but I was assured it was Lord Guilford’s favourite esquire, who had conveyed the note to his master, warning him of our scheme.”
“You are right, M. Simon Renard,” replied the earl. “I bow to your superior discernment.”
“The young man is in possession of our secret,” rejoined Renard, “and though we have intercepted the missive, he may yet betray us. He must not return to the palace.”
“He never shall return, my lords,” said a tall dark man, advancing towards them, “if you will entrust his detention to me.”
“Who are you?” demanded Renard, eyeing him suspiciously. “Lawrence Nightgall, the chief jailor of the Tower.”
“What is your motive for this offer?” pursued Renard.
“Look there!” returned Nightgall. “I love that damsel.”
“I see;” replied Renard, smiling bitterly. “He has supplanted you.”
“He has,” rejoined Nightgall; “but he shall not live to profit by his good fortune.”
“Hum!” said Renard, glancing at Cicely, “the damsel is lovely enough to ruin a man’s soul. We will trust you.”
“Follow me, then, without, my lords,” replied Nightgall, “and I will convey him where he shall not cause further uneasiness to any of us. We have dungeons within the Tower, from which those who enter them seldom return.”
“You are acquainted, no doubt, with the secret passages of the White Tower, friend?” asked Renard.
“With all of them,” rejoined Nightgall. “I know every subterranean communication—every labyrinth—every hidden recess within the walls of the fortress, and there are many such—and can conduct you wherever you desire.”
“You are the very man I want,” cried Renard, rubbing his hands, gleefully. “Lead on.”
And the trio quitted the chamber, without their departure being noticed.
Half an hour afterwards, as Cuthbert Cholmondeley issued from the postern with a heart elate with rapture at having elicited from the fair Cicely a confession that she loved him, he received a severe blow on the head from behind, and before he could utter a single outcry, he was gagged, and forced away by his assailants.
IV.—OF THE MYSTERIOUS OCCURRENCE THAT HAPPENED TO QUEEN JANE IN SAINT JOHN’S CHAPEL IN THE WHITE TOWER.
On that night Lord Guilford Dudley was summoned to a secret council by his father, the Duke of Northumberland, and as he had not returned at midnight, the Lady Hastings, who was in attendance upon the Queen, proposed that, to while away the time, they should pay a visit to St. John’s Chapel in the White Tower, of the extreme beauty of which they had all heard, though none of them had seen it. Jane assented to the proposal, and accompanied by her sister, the Lady Herbert, and the planner of the expedition, Lady Hastings, she set forth. Two ushers led the way through the long galleries and passages which had to be traversed before they reached the White Tower; but on arriving at the room adjoining the council-chamber which had so lately been thronged with armed men, but which was now utterly deserted, Jane inquired from her attendants the way to the chapel, and on ascertaining it, commanded her little train to await her return there, as she had determined on entering the sacred structure alone. In vain her sisters remonstrated with her—in vain the ushers suggested that there might be danger in trusting herself in such a place at such an hour without protection—she remained firm—but promised to return in a few minutes, after which they could explore the chapel together.
Taking a lamp from one of the attendants, and pursuing the course pointed out to her, she threaded a narrow passage, similar to that she had traversed with the Duke in the morning, and speedily entered upon the gallery above the chapel. As she passed through the opening in the wall leading to this gallery, she fancied she beheld the retreating figure of a man, muffled in a cloak, and she paused for a moment, half-inclined to turn back. Ashamed, however, of her irresolution, and satisfied that it was a mere trick of the imagination, she walked on. Descending a short spiral wooden staircase, she found herself within one of the aisles of the chapel, and passing between its columns, entered the body of the fane. For some time, she was lost in admiration of this beautiful structure, which, in its style of architecture—the purest Norman—is without an equal. She counted its twelve massive and circular stone pillars, noted their various ornaments and mouldings, and admired their grandeur and simplicity. Returning to the northern aisle, she glanced at its vaulted roof, and was enraptured at the beautiful effect produced by the interweaving arches.
While she was thus occupied, she again fancied she beheld the same muffled figure she had before seen, glide behind one of the pillars. Seriously alarmed, she was now about to retrace her steps, when her eye rested upon an object lying at a little distance from her, on the ground. Prompted by an undefinable feeling of curiosity, she hastened towards it, and holding forward the light, a shudder ran through her frame, as she perceived at her feet, an axe! It was the peculiarly-formed implement used by the headsman, and the edge was turned towards her.
At this moment, her lamp was extinguished.
