After many useless struggles to liberate himself, and menaces of what he would do when he got free, which, as may be supposed, only provoked still further the laughter of the by-standers, Xit became so unmanageable, that Og fastened him by his nether garments to a hook in the wall, about fourteen feet from the ground, and left him to recover himself. Thus perched, the dwarf hurled his rapier at Nightgall’s head, and replied to the jeers of the assemblage by such mops and mows as an enraged ape is wont to make at its persecutors. After the lapse of a few minutes, however, he began to find his position so uncomfortable, that he was fain to supplicate for release, to which, on receiving his assurance of quieter conduct for the future, Og consented, and accordingly unhooked him, and set him on the ground. Nightgall, meanwhile, had taken advantage of this diversion, to leave the Guard-room, and hasten to the Stone Kitchen. Dame Potentia was just retiring to rest as the jailer reached her dwelling, and it was only by the most urgent importunity that he succeeded in obtaining admission. “Your pardon, good dame,” he said, as the door was opened. “I have that to tell Cicely, which will effectually cure her love for the young esquire.” “In that case, you are right welcome, Master Nightgall,” she replied; “for the poor child has almost cried her pretty eyes out since I brought her home. And I have been so moved by her tears, that I greatly misdoubt, if her lover had presented himself instead of you, whether I should have had the heart to refuse to let him see her.” “Fool!” muttered Nightgall, half aside. “Where is she?” he added, aloud. “I have no time to lose. I have a secret execution to attend before day-break.” “Yours is a butcherly office, Master Nightgall,” observed Peter Trusbut, who was dozing in an arm-chair by the fire. “Those secret executions, to my mind, are little better than state murders. I would not, for all the power of the Duke of Northumberland, hold your office, or that of Gilliam Mauger, the headsman.” “Nor I yours, on the same fee, Master Pantler,” rejoined Nightgall. “Tastes differ. Where is your daughter, good dame?” “In her chamber,” replied Potentia. “Ho! Cicely, sweetheart!” she added, knocking at a door at the end of a short passage leading out of the kitchen on the right. “Here is Master Nightgall desires to speak with you.” “Does he bring me the token?” demanded the maiden, from within. “Ay marry, does he, child,” replied the dame, winking at the jailer. “Heaven forgive me the falsehood,” she added,—“for I know not what she means.” “Leave us a moment, dear mother,” said Cicely, hastily unfastening the door. “Now, Master Nightgall,” she continued, as Dame Potentia retired, and the jailer entered the room, “have you fulfilled your compact?” “Cicely,” rejoined the jailer, regarding her sternly, “you have not kept faith with me. You have despatched a messenger to the palace.”