“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.