“Oh, nothing, nothing,” replied Xit. “But I have heard Cuthbert Cholmondeley speak of her.” “She is dead,” replied Nightgall, in a sombre voice; “and I will bury you in the same grave with her, if her name ever passes your lips again.” “It shall not, worthy sir,” returned Xit,—“it shall not. Curse on my unlucky tongue, which is for ever betraying me into danger!” They had now arrived at an arched doorway in the wall, which being opened by Nightgall, discovered a flight of steps leading to some chamber beneath. Nightgall descended, but Xit refused to follow him. “I know where you are taking me,” he cried. “This is the way to the torture-chamber.” Wolfytt burst into a loud laugh, and pushed him forward. “I won’t go,” screamed Xit, struggling with all his force against the tormentor. “You have no authority to treat me thus. Help! kind Og! good Gog! dear Magog!—help! or I shall be lamed for life. I shall never more be able to amuse you with my gambols, or the tricks that so much divert you. Help! help! I say.” “Your cries are in vain,” cried Wolfytt, kicking him down the steps; “no one can save you now.” Precipitated violently downwards, Xit came in contact with Nightgall, whom he upset, and they both rolled into the chamber beneath, where the latter arose, and would have resented the affront upon his comrade, or, at all events, upon the dwarf, if he had not been in the presence of one of whom he stood in the greatest awe. This was Simon Renard, who was writing at a table. Disturbed by the noise, the ambassador glanced round, and on perceiving the cause immediately resumed his occupation. Near him stood the thin erect figure of Sorrocold,—his attenuated limbs appearing yet more meagre from the tight-fitting black hose in which they were enveloped, The chirurgcon wore a short cloak of sad-coloured cloth, and a doublet of the same material. His head was covered by a flat black cap, and a pointed beard terminated his hatchet-shaped, cadaverous face. His hands rested on a long staff, and his dull heavy eyes were fixed upon the ground. At a short distance from Sorrocold, stood Mauger, bare-headed, and stripped to his leathern doublet, his arms folded upon his bosom, and his gaze bent upon Renard, whose commands he awaited. Nightgall’s accident called a smile to his grim countenance, but it instantly faded away, and gave place to his habitual sinister expression.