University of Virginia Library

19. XIX.
THE STING OF AN INSECT.

I was posted one night on guard in the anteroom
to the queen's apartments, and, having been up very
late on the preceding night, leaned against the doorway,
half dozing.

From this condition I was aroused by a light footfall
approaching along the corridor; and a moment afterwards
the dwarf, Sir Geoffrey Hudson, made his appearance,
laboring under great excitement.

My brother's espousal of his cause had made him the
friend of the whole Cecil family; and, seeing me, he
now stopped, and began to speak in a piping voice,
which indicated both agitation and anger.

“I have discovered who did all the mischief,” he
squeaked.

“What mischief?” I asked.

“Warning the parliament people that his majesty
was coming to arrest them.”

“Ah? Tell me.”

The dwarf looked guardedly around. Then he made

signs that I should sit down on a bench under one of
the windows. I did so; and then the manikin mounted
with surprising agility to the sill of the window, where
his position enabled him to lean down close to my
ear.

“Coftangry!” he whispered.

“Is it possible? One of the queen's guardsmen!
What object—”

“He was the tool only.”

“The tool of whom?”

“My lady Carlisle.”

I stared at the small speaker. “It is not possible!”
I said.

“I know it!” was the venomous ejaculation. “Coftangry
is mad about her ladyship. Her eyes have turned
his head. I saw them together, whispering hurriedly
in one of the corridors, that day his majesty went to
the parliament. I saw Coftangry hasten out,—lost sight
of him,—but this evening discovered all.”

“In what manner?”

“I was lying beneath a couch in the antechamber to
the blue-room. Her ladyship came in with Coftangry,
and sat down on the couch. I heard every word they
said; he is mad about her; and she made him betray
the queen!”

It was impossible to doubt the sincerity of the
speaker. He was passionately in earnest; his eyes
blazed, and his small form trembled with excitement.

“An ugly affair!” I said; “and I will take prompt
action in the matter. The queen's guardsmen shall
not rest under the imputation of harboring a spy and
traitor in their ranks.”

“No,” said the dwarf; “you must promise me to
leave the affair in my hands.”

“In your hands?”

“Yes. I exact that, Mr. Cecil,—for the moment, at
least.”

“What cours have you determined upon?”

“That is my affair.”

“I cannot make you any promise,” I said. “This
concerns her majesty.”

The dwarf knit his brows, and reflected for a moment.
At last he said,—

“When were you posted here, Mr. Cecil?”

“An hour and a half ago. But why do you ask?”

“What is the length of your watch?”

“Two hours. But how can that interest you?”

“It interests me greatly,” was the cool reply of the
dwarf. “And, as I have now told you all, Mr. Cecil,
I will bid you good-evening.”

As he uttered the words, he sprang to the floor with
his habitual agility, made me a bow full of grave courtesy,
and then hurried off in the direction of the
ground-floor of the palace. I looked after him in some
astonishment, unable to make out his design, and reflecting
upon the tenor of his statement.

So the subtle and brilliant glances of my lady Carlisle
had made Coftangry a traitor! Lured on by her
caressing eyes and ruby lips, he had sold faith and
honor! I was still meditating on this piteous exhibition
of a man's weakness, when footsteps approached.
It was the new guard coming to relieve me; and I
was soon free to return to the guard-room.

As I descended and approached the door, I heard a

loud altercation. I hastened on, entered the guard-room,
and saw Coftangry and the dwarf facing each
other, both raging.

“You are a traitor! Are you a coward too?”
came in piping tones, full of wrath, from Hudson.

“Is this pigmy to continue thus to insult the queen's
guardsmen?” exclaimed Coftangry.

“This pigmy,” hissed the dwarf, “is as well-born
as you are!—is, moreover, a belted knight, which you
are not, and defies you to single combat!”

The words raised a storm in the guard-room; but
a large majority sided with the dwarf.

“He is right!” cried one. “Beware how you refuse
him, Coftangry. You will dishonor her majesty,
who has knighted him.”

The tumult continued for fifteen minutes longer;
then everything grew quiet. The dwarf had carried
his point. On the next morning at daylight, Coftangry
was to meet him in a secluded part of the park,
each on horseback with pistols, in order to equalize
the combatants.

I was a witness of the singular scene which duly followed
this arrangement.

Just as the first streak of dawn was seen above the
great oaks of the Hampton Court park, Coftangry
and Sir Geoffrey Hudson, his diminutive opponent,
made their appearance on horseback at the retired spot
selected for the encounter. Each was accompanied by
one friend; and a number of the Guardsmen who had
followed them formed a group near.

The countenance of Coftangry wore a satirical and
mocking expression, which, added to his sallow complexion,

did not render him a very attractive spectacle.
He seemed to regard the whole affair as an “excellent
jest,” and, drawing his cloak around him, took his
place with an air of mingled amusement and disdain.

The dwarf was cool and determined. His eyes were
fixed upon his adversary with an expression of cold
menace. He wore a light velvet cloak, from beneath
which protruded his minute sword; over his brow
drooped a plumed hat. It seemed impossible that his
short legs could enable him even to retain his seat on
the big horse he rode; but he did retain it, holding
the reins and directing the animal with the ease of a
perfect horseman.

In five minutes all was arranged, and the adversaries
were placed near and facing each other. Then the
word was given, and the dwarf drew his pistol.

Coftangry, with a short laugh, drew—a squirt.

“Here is the weapon I have chosen to meet this
chivalric paladin!” he said. “I feared lest a pistol-bullet
might prove a cannon-ball to this sparrow!”

He raised the squirt, and, uttering a second laugh,
aimed at the dwarf.

“Ready!” he said.

A flush of rage rose to the face of Hudson.

“Are you a gentleman, or a clodhopper?” he
snapped. “Or simply a coward?”

“Come on!” cried Coftangry, with feigned laughter;
though it was easy to see how much the dwarf's words
stung him.

The dwarf looked towards his adversary's friend,
and, lowering his pistol, pointed with the other hand to
Coftangry. The gesture was full of such contempt that

Coftangry turned pale. The words of the Guardsman
appearing as his second in the duel did not soothe him
much.

“If you wish any further aid of mine, Mr. Coftangry,”
said his friend, “you must conform to the
rules of combat, and meet Sir Geoffrey Hudson with
the weapons of a gentleman.”

“I have no pistol with me!” growled Coftangry, in
reply.

The dwarf threw back his cloak, and drew a second
pistol from his belt. He took both by the handles,—
they were small, but exquisitely chased and mounted,—
and, holding them out, said,—

“Here are pistols! Take one; I will take the
other.”

The words ended all further parley. It was not
possible to make longer any opposition. A moment
afterwards, Coftangry and the dwarf were sitting their
horses at the distance of fifteen paces from each other,
pistol in hand, and awaiting the word.

It was given, and a simultaneous report was heard,—
the crack of a popgun it seemed,—accompanied by a
puff of smoke.

The dwarf remained erect, curbing his startled horse
with a firm hand. Coftangry reeled, dropped his rein,
and fell from his horse.

All ran to him, and raised him up. The bullet had
pierced his heart. Five minutes afterwards, whilst
attempts were being made to stanch his wound, his
head fell back, a gurgling sound escaped from his lips,
and he expired.

Such was one of the most singular events I have

ever witnessed; and I have related all the details to
afford some idea of the strange complexion of affairs
at that epoch. The queen had taken into her household,
as a plaything, this pigmy of only two feet in
height: a full-grown man had mimicked him; he had
demanded satisfaction for the wrong; pistols fired from
horseback had equalized giant and pigmy; and it was
the bullet from the dwarf's pistol which penetrated
the full-grown man's heart. Such, I repeat, was this
strange event,—not the result of my fancy, but an
actual occurrence during the reign of his majesty
Charles I. The moral, I think, is, Do not laugh at
misfortune, and beware of the smallest insects, if their
sting is mortal!

The death of Coftangry created a great excitement
in the palace for two or three days. But there was no
one to punish. The dwarf had set spurs to his horse,—
if he wore spurs,—and disappeared. His unfortunate
victim was buried, and the event passed from all minds.
Memory of the dead is short in this world:—at courts,
I think, it is shortest of all!