III.-OF THE THREE GIANTS OF THE TOWER, OG, GOG, AND MAGOG; OF XIT, THE DWARF; OF THE FAIR CICELY; OF PETER TRUSBUT, THE PANTLER, AND POTENTIA HIS WIFE; OF HAIRUN THE REARWARD, RIBALD THE WARDER, MAUGER THE HEADSMAN, AND

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NIGHTGALL THE JAILOR: AND OF THE PLEASANT PASTIME HELD IN THE STONE KITCHEN.

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      Cuthbert Cholmondeley, it may be remembered, was greatly struck by a beautiful damsel whom he discovered among the crowd during the ceremonial at the Gate Tower; and, as faithful chroniclers, we are bound to state that the impression was mutual, and that if he was charmed with the lady, she was not less pleased with him. Notwithstanding her downcast looks, the young esquire was not so inexperienced in feminine arts as to be unconscious of the conquest he had made. During the halt at the gate, he never withdrew his eyes from her for a single moment, and when he was reluctantly compelled to move forward with the procession, he cast many a lingering look behind. As the distance lengthened between them, the courage of the damsel seemed to revive; she raised her head, and before her admirer had reached the extremity of the lofty wall masking the lieutenant’s lodgings, he perceived her gazing fixedly after him. She held by the hand a little curly-haired boy, whom Cholmondeley concluded must be her brother,—and he was perplexing himself as to her rank,—for though her beauty was of the highest order, and her lineaments such as might well belong to one of high birth, her attire seemed to bespeak her of no exalted condition,—when an incident occurred, which changed the tenor of his thoughts, and occasioned him not a little uneasiness. While she remained with her eyes fixed upon him, a tall man in a dark dress rushed, with furious gestures and an inflamed countenance, out of the gateway leading to the inner line of fortifications on the left, and shaking his hand menacingly at the esquire, forced her away. Cholmondeley saw her no more; but the imploring look which she threw at him as she disappeared, produced so powerful an effect upon his feelings that it was with difficulty he could prevent himself from flying to her assistance. So absorbed was he by this idea, that he could think of nothing else;—the pageant, at which he was assisting, lost all interest for him, and amid the throng of court beauties who surrounded him, he beheld only the tender blue eyes, the light satin tresses, the ravishing countenance, and sylph-like person of the unknown maiden. Nor could he exclude from his recollection the figure of the tall dark man; and he vainly questioned himself as to the tie subsisting between him and the damsel. Could he be her father?—Though his age might well allow of such a supposition, there was no family resemblance to warrant it. Her husband?—that he was scarcely disposed to admit. Her lover?—he trembled with jealous rage at the idea. In this perplexity, he bethought himself of applying for information to one of the warders; and, accordingly, he addressed himself to Magog, who, with Xit, happened to be standing near him. Describing the damsel, he inquired of the giant whether he knew anything of her.

      “Know her!” rejoined Magog, “ay, marry, do I. Who that dwells within this fortress knows not fair Mistress Cicely, the Rose of the Tower, as she is called? She is daughter to Dame Prudentia Trusbut, wife of Peter the pantler—”

      “A cook’s daughter!” exclaimed Cholmondeley, all his dreams of high-born beauty vanishing at once.

      “Nay, I ought rather to say,” returned the giant, noticing the young mans look of blank disappointment, and guessing the cause, “that she passes for his daughter.”

      “I breathe again,” murmured Cholmondeley.

      “Her real birth is a mystery,” continued Magog; “or, if the secret is known at all, it is only to the worthy pair who have adopted her. She is said to be the offspring of some illustrious and ill-fated lady, who was imprisoned within the Tower, and died in one of its dungeons, after giving birth to a female child, during the reign of our famous king, Harry the Eighth,” and he reverently doffed his bonnet as he pronounced his sire’s name; “but I know nothing of the truth or falsity of the story, and merely repeat it because you seem curious about her.”

      “Your intelligence delights me,” replied Cholmondeley, placing a noble in his hand. “Can you bring me where I can obtain further sight of her?”

      “Ay, and speech too, worshipful sir, if you desire it,” replied the giant, a smile illuminating his ample features. “When the evening banquet is over, and my attendance at the palace is no longer required, I shall repair to the Stone Kitchen at Master Trusbut’s dwelling, where a supper is provided for certain of the warders and other officers of the Tower, to which I and my brethren are invited, and if it please you to accompany us, you are almost certain to behold her.”

      Cholmondeley eagerly embraced the offer, and it was next arranged that the dwarf should summon him at the proper time.

      “If your worship requires a faithful emissary to convey a letter or token to the fair damsel,” interposed Xit, “I will undertake the office.”

      “Fail not to acquaint me when your master is ready,” replied Cholmondeley, “and I will reward you. There is one question,” he continued, addressing Magog, “which I have omitted to ask.—Who is the tall dark man who seems to exercise such strange control over her? Can it be her adoptive father, the pantier?”

      “Of a surety no,” replied the giant, grinning, “Peter Trusbut is neither a tall man nor a dark; but is short, plump, and rosy, as beseems his office. The person to whom your worship alludes must be Master Lawrence Nightgall, the chief jailor, who lately paid his suit to her. He is of a jealous and revengeful temper, and is not unlikely to take it in dudgeon that a handsome gallant should set eyes upon the object of his affections.”

      “Your description answers exactly to the man I mean,” returned Cholmondeley, gravely.

      “Shall I bear a cartel to him from your worship?” said Xit. “Or, if you require a guard, I will attend upon your person,” he added, tapping the pummel of his sword.

      “I do not require your services in either capacity, as yet, valiant sir,” replied the esquire, smiling. “After the banquet I shall expect you.”

      Resuming his place near Lord Guilford Dudley, Cholmondeley shortly afterwards proceeded with the royal cortege to the council-chamber, where, being deeply interested by Northumberland’s address to the conspiring lords, he for an instant forgot the object nearest his heart. But the next, it returned with greater force than ever; and he was picturing to himself the surprise, and, as he fondly hoped, the delight, he should occasion her by presenting himself at her dwelling, when Simon Renard’s dark proposal to the Earl of Pembroke reached his ear. Anxious to convey the important information he had thus obtained to his master, as soon as possible, he endeavoured to approach him, but at this moment the council broke up, and the whole train returned to the palace. During the banquet that followed, no opportunity for an instant’s private conference occurred—the signal for the separation of the guests being the departure of the Queen and her consort. While he was considering within himself what course he had best pursue, he felt his mantle slightly plucked behind, and, turning at the touch, beheld the dwarf.

      “My master, the giant Magog, awaits you without, worshipful sir,” said Xit, with a profound reverence.

      Weighing his sense of duty against his love, he found the latter feeling too strong to be resisted. Contenting himself, therefore, with tracing a hasty lino of caution upon a leaf torn from his tablets, he secured it with a