“I have a suit of irons that will exactly fit him,” observed Wolfytt, going to the wall, and taking down an engine that looked like an exaggerated pair of sugar-tongs. “These were made as a model, and have never been used before, except on a monkey belonging to Hairun the bearward. We will wed you to the ‘Scavenger’s Daughter,’ my little man.” 0357 Xit knew too well the meaning of the term to take any part in the merriment that followed this sally. “The embraces of the spouse you offer me are generally fatal,” he observed. “I would rather decline the union, if his excellency will permit me.1’ * “What is your pleasure?” asked Nightgall, appealing to Renard. “Place him in the irons,” returned the latter. “If these fail, we can have recourse to sharper means.” Xit would have flung himself at the ambassador’s feet, to ask for mercy, but he was prevented by Wolfytt, who slipping a gag into his mouth, carried him into the dark recess, and, by the help of Mauger, forced him into the engine. Diminished to half his size, and bent into the form of a hoop, the dwarf was then set on the ground, and the gag taken out of his mouth. “How do you like your bride?” demanded Wolfytt, with a brutal laugh. “So little,” answered Xit, “that I care not how soon I am divorced from her. After all,” he added, “uncomfortable as I am, I would not change places with Magog.” This remark was received with half-suppressed laughter by the group around him, and Wolfytt was so softened that he whispered in his ear, that if he was obliged to put him on the rack, he would use him as tenderly as he could. “Let me advise you as a friend,” added the tormentor, “to conceal nothing.” “Rely upon it,” replied Xit, in the same tone. “I’ll tell all I know—and more.” “That’s the safest plan,” rejoined Wolfytt, drily. By this time, Renard having finished his despatch, and delivered it to Nightgall, he ordered Xit to be brought before him. Lifting him by the nape of his neck, as he would have carried a lap-dog, Wolfytt placed him on the edge of the rack, opposite the ambassador’s seat. He then walked back to Manger, who was leaning against the wall near the door, and laid his hand on his shoulder, while Nightgall seated himself on the steps. All three looked on with curiosity, anticipating much diversion. Sorrocold, who had never altered his posture, only testified his consciousness of what was going forward by raising his lacklustre eyes from the ground, and fixing them on the dwarf. Wheeling round on the stool, and throwing one leg indolently over the other, Renard regarded the mannikin with apparent sternness, but secret entertainment. The expression of Xit’s countenance, as he underwent this scrutiny, was so ludicrous, that it brought a smile to every face except that of the chirurgeon. After gazing at the dwarf for a few minutes in silence, Renard thus commenced—“You conveyed messages to the Earl of Devonshire when he was confined in the Bell Tower?”