signature? Does not this paper declare that he is mine, and only mine?” And she handed to his Grace the Archbishop the document which the Prince signed that evening when she wore the magic ring, and Giglio drank so much champagne. And the old Archbishop, taking out his eye-glasses, read—“This is to give notice that I, Giglio, only son of Savio, King of Paflagonia, hereby promise to marry the charming Barbara Griselda Countess Gruffanuff, and widow of the late Jenkins Gruffanuff, Esq.”
“H’m,” says the Archbishop, “the document is certainly a—a document.”
“Phoo!” says the Lord Chancellor: “the signature is not in his Majesty’s handwriting.” Indeed, since his studies at Bosforo, Giglio had made an immense improvement in caligraphy.
“Is it your handwriting, Giglio?” cries the Fairy Blackstick, with an awful severity of countenance.
“Y—y—y—es,” poor Giglio gasps out. “I had quite forgotten the confounded paper: she can’t mean to hold me by it. You old wretch, what will you take to let me off? Help the Queen, some one—her Majesty has fainted.”
| “Chop her head off!” | |
| “Smother the old witch!” | exclaim the impetuous Hedzoff, the ardent Smith, and the faithful Jones. |
| “Pitch her into the river!” |
But Gruffanuff flung her arms round the Archbishop’s neck and bellowed out, “Justice, justice, my Lord Chancellor!” so loudly, that her piercing shrieks caused everybody to pause. As for Rosalba, she was borne away lifeless by her ladies; and you may imagine the look of agony which Giglio cast towards that lovely being, as his hope, his joy, his darling, his all in all, was thus removed, and in her place the horrid old Gruffanuff rushed up to his side, and once more shrieked out, “Justice, justice!”
“Won’t you take that sum of money which Glumboso hid?” says Giglio: “two hundred and eighteen thousand millions, or thereabouts. It’s a handsome sum.”
“I will have that and you too!” says Gruffanuff.
“Let us throw the crown jewels into the bargain,” gasps out Giglio.
“I will wear them by my Giglio’s side!” says Gruffanuff.
“Will half, three-quarters, five-sixths, nineteen-twentieths, of my kingdom do, Countess?” asks the trembling monarch.
“What were all Europe to me without you, my Giglio?” cries Gruff, kissing his hand.vol. ii.—17
