APDL Eductation Resources/APDL Eductation Resources.iso/text/authors/scott/ivanhoe/CHAP10

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                 CHAPTER X.

   Thus, like the sad presaging raven, that tolls
   The sick man's passport in her hollow beak,
   And in the shadow of the silent night
   Doth shake contagion from her sable wings;
   Vex'd and tormented, runs poor Barrabas,
   With fatal curses towards these Christians.
                                   _Jew of Malta_.


  The Disinherited Knight had no sooner reached
his pavilion, than squires and pages in abundance
tendered their services to disarm him, to bring fresh
attire, and to offer him the refreshment of the bath.
Their zeal on this occasion was perhaps sharpened
by curiosity, since every one desired to know who
the knight was that had gained so many laurels,
yet had refused, even at the command of Prince
John, to lift his visor or to name his name.  But
their officious inquisitiveness was not gratified.  The
Disinherited Knight refused all other assistance
save that of his own squire, or rather yeoman---a
clownish-looking man, who, wrapt in a cloak of
dark-coloured felt, and having his head and face
half-buried in a Norman bonnet made of black fur,
seemed to affect the incognito as much as his master.
All others being excluded from the tent, this
attendant relieved his master from the more burdensome
parts of his armour, and placed food and
wine before him, which the exertions of the day
rendered very acceptable.

  The Knight had scarcely finished a hasty meal,
ere his menial announced to him that five men, each
leading a barbed steed, desired to speak with him.
The Disinherited Knight had exchanged his armour
for the long robe usually worn by those of his condition,
which, being furnished with a hood, concealed
the features, when such was the pleasure of
the wearer, almost as completely as the visor of the
helmet itself, but the twilight, which was now fast
darkening, would of itself have rendered a disguise
unnecessary, unless to persons to whom the face of
an individual chanced to be particularly well known.

  The Disinherited Knight, therefore, stept boldly
forth to the front of his tent, and found in attendance
the squires of the challengers, whom he
easily knew by their russet and black dresses, each
of whom led his master's charger, loaded with the
armour in which he had that day fought.

  ``According to the laws of chivalry,'' said the
foremost of these men, ``I, Baldwin de Oyley,
squire to the redoubted Knight Brian de Bois-Guilbert,
make offer to you, styling yourself, for the
present, the Disinherited Knight, of the horse and
armour used by the said Brian de Bois-Guilbert in
this day's Passage of Arms, leaving it with your
nobleness to retain or to ransom the same, according
to your pleasure; for such is the law of arms.''

  The other squires repeated nearly the same formula,
and then stood to await the decision of the
Disinherited Knight.

  ``To you four, sirs,'' replied the Knight, addressing
those who had last spoken, ``and to your honourable
and valiant masters, I have one common
reply.  Commend me to the noble knights, your
masters, and say, I should do ill to deprive them
of steeds and arms which can never be used by
braver  cavaliers.---I  would  I  could  here end my
message to these gallant knights; but being, as I
term myself, in truth and earnest, the Disinherited,
I must be thus far bound to your masters,  that  they
will, of their courtesy, be pleased to ransom their
steeds and armour, since that which I wear I can
hardly term mine own.''

  ``We stand commissioned, each of us,'' answered
the squire of Reginald Front-de-B<oe>uf, ``to offer
a hundred zecchins in ransom of these horses and
suits of armour.''

  ``It is sufficient,'' said the Disinherited Knight.
``Half the sum my present necessities compel me
to accept; of the remaining half, distribute one
moiety among yourselves, sir squires, and divide
the other half betwixt the heralds and the pursuivants,
and minstrels, and attendants.''

  The squires, with cap in hand, and low reverences,
expressed their deep sense of a courtesy and
generosity not often practised, at least upon a scale
so extensive.  The Disinherited Knight then addressed
his discourse to Baldwin, the squire of Brian
de Bois-Guilbert.  ``From your master,'' said he,
``I will accept neither arms nor ransom.  Say to
him in my name, that our strife is not ended---no,
not till we have fought as well with swords as with
lances---as well on foot as on horseback.  To this
mortal quarrel he has himself defied me, and I shall
not forget the challenge.---Meantime, let him be
assured, that I hold him not as one of his companions,
with whom I can with pleasure exchange
courtesies; but rather as one with whom I stand
upon terms of mortal defiance.''

  ``My master,'' answered Baldwin, ``knows how
to requite scorn with scorn, and blows with blows,
as well as courtesy with courtesy, Since you disdain
to accept from him any share of the ransom at
which you have rated the arms of the other knights,
I must leave his armour and his horse here, being
well assured that he will never deign to mount the
one nor wear the other.''

  ``You have spoken well, good squire,'' said the
Disinherited Knight, ``well and boldly, as it beseemeth
him to speak who answers for an absent
master.  Leave not, however, the horse and armour
here.  Restore them to thy master; or, if he scorns
to accept them, retain them, good friend, for thine
own use.  So far as they are mine, I bestow them
upon you freely.''

  Baldwin made a deep obeisance, and retired with
his companions; and the Disinherited Knight entered
the pavilion.

  ``Thus far, Gurth,'' said he, addressing his attendant,
``the reputation of English chivalry hath
not suffered in my hands.''

  ``And I,'' said Gurth, ``for a Saxon swineherd,
have not ill played the personage of a Norman
squire-at-arms.''

  ``Yea, but,'' answered the Disinherited Knight,
thou hast ever kept me in anxiety lest thy clownish
bearing should discover thee.''

  ``Tush!'' said Gurth, ``I fear discovery from
none, saving my playfellow, Wamba the Jester, of
whom I could never discover whether he were most
knave or fool.  Yet I could scarce choose but laugh,
when my old master passed so near to me, dreaming
all the while that Gurth was keeping his porkers
many a mile off, in the thickets and swamps of
Rotherwood.  If I am discovered------''

  ``Enough,'' said the Disinherited Knight, ``thou
knowest my promise.''

  ``Nay, for that matter,'' said Gurth, ``I will
never fail my friend for fear of my skin-cutting.  I
have a tough hide, that will bear knife or scourge
as well as any boar's hide in my herd.''

  ``Trust me, I will requite the risk you run for
my love, Gurth,'' said the Knight.  ``Meanwhile,
I pray you to accept these ten pieces of gold.''

  ``I am richer,'' said Gurth, putting them into his
pouch, ``than ever was swineherd or bondsman.''

  ``Take this bag of gold to Ashby,'' continued
his master, ``and find out Isaac the Jew of York,
and let him pay himself for the horse and arms with
which his credit supplied me.''

  ``Nay, by St Dunstan,'' replied Gurth, ``that I
will not do.''

  ``How, knave,'' replied his master, ``wilt thou
not obey my commands?''

  ``So they be honest, reasonable, and Christian
commands,'' replied Gurth; ``but this is none of
these.  To suffer the Jew to pay himself would be
dishonest, for it would be cheating my master; and
unreasonable, for it were the part of a fool; and unchristian,
since it would be plundering a believer
to enrich an infidel.''

  ``See him contented, however, thou stubborn
varlet,'' said the Disinherited Knight.

  ``I will do so,'' said Gurth, taking the bag under
his cloak, and leaving the apartment; ``and it
will go hard,'' he muttered, ``but I content him
with one-half of his own asking.'' So saying, he
departed, and left the Disinherited Knight to his
own perplexed ruminations; which, upon more accounts
than it is now possible to communicate to
the reader, were of a nature peculiarly agitating
and painful.

  We must now change the scene to the village of
Ashby, or rather to a country house in its vicinity
belonging to a wealthy Israelite, with whom Isaac,
his daughter, and retinue, had taken up their quarters;
the Jews, it is well known, being as liberal
in exercising the duties of hospitality and charity
among their own people, as they were alleged to
be reluctant and churlish in extending them to those
whom they termed Gentiles, and whose treatment
of them certainly merited little hospitality at their
hand.

  In an apartment, small indeed, but richly furnished
with decorations of an Oriental taste, Rebecca
was seated on a heap of embroidered cushions,
which, piled along a low platform that surrounded
the chamber, served, like the estrada of the Spaniards,
instead of chairs and stools.  She was watching
the motions of her father with a look of anxious
and filial affection, while he paced the apartment
with a dejected mien and disordered step; sometimes
clasping his hands together---sometimes casting
his eyes to the roof of the apartment, as one
who laboured under great mental tribulation. ``O,
Jacob!'' he exclaimed---``O, all ye twelve Holy
Fathers of our tribe! what a losing venture is this
for one who hath duly kept every jot and tittle of
the law of Moses---Fifty zecchins wrenched from
me at one clutch, and by the talons of a tyrant!''

  ``But, father,'' said Rebecca, ``you seemed to
give the gold to Prince John willingly.''

  ``Willingly? the blotch of Egypt upon him!---
Willingly, saidst thou?---Ay, as willingly as when,
in the Gulf of Lyons, I flung over my merchandise
to lighten the ship, while she laboured in the
tempest---robed the seething billows in my choice
silks---perfumed their briny foam with myrrh and
aloes---enriched their caverns with gold and silver
work! And was not that an hour of unutterable
misery, though my own hands made the sacrifice?''

  ``But it was a sacrifice which Heaven exacted
to save our lives,'' answered Rebecca, ``and the
God of our fathers has since blessed your store and
your gettings.''

  ``Ay,'' answered Isaac, ``but if the tyrant lays
hold on them as he did to-day, and compels me to
smile while he is robbing me?---O, daughter, disinherited
and wandering as we are, the worst evil
which befalls our race is, that when we are wronged
and plundered, all the world laughs around, and we
are compelled to suppress our sense of injury, and
to smile tamely, when we would revenge bravely.''

  ``Think not thus of it, my father,'' said Rebecca;
``we also have advantages.  These Gentiles, cruel
and oppressive as they are, are in some sort dependent
on the dispersed children of Zion, whom
they despise and persecute.  Without the aid of
our wealth, they could neither furnish forth their
hosts in war, nor their triumphs in peace, and the
gold which we lend them returns with increase to
our coffers.  We are like the herb which flourisheth
most when it is most trampled on.  Even this day's
pageant had not proceeded without the consent of
the despised Jew, who furnished the means.''

  ``Daughter,'' said Isaac, ``thou hast harped upon
another string of sorrow.  The goodly steed and
the rich armour, equal to the full profit of my
adventure with our Kirjath Jairam of Leicester---
there is a dead loss too---ay, a loss which swallows
up the gains of a week; ay, of the space between
two Sabaoths---and yet it may end better than I
now think, for 'tis a good youth.''

  ``Assuredly,'' said Rebecca, ``you shall not repent
you of requiting the good deed received of the
stranger knight.''

  ``I trust so, daughter,'' said Isaac, ``and I trust
too in the rebuilding of Zion; but as well do I
hope with my own bodily eyes to see the walls and
battlements of the new Temple, as to see a Christian,
yea, the very best of Christains, repay a debt
to a Jew, unless under the awe of the judge and
jailor.''

  So saying, he resumed his discontented walk
through the apartment; and Rebecca, perceiving
that her attempts at consolation only served to
awaken new subjects of complaint, wisely desisted
from her unavailing efforts---a prudential line of
conduct, and we recommend to all who set up for
comforters and advisers, to follow it in the like circumstances.

  The evening was now becoming dark, when a
Jewish servant entered the apartment, and placed
upon the table two silver lamps, fed with perfumed
oil; the richest wines, and the most delicate refreshments,
were at the same time displayed by
another Israelitish domestic on a small ebony table,
inlaid with silver; for, in the interior of their
houses, the Jews refused themselves no expensive
indulgences.  At the same time the servant informed
Isaac, that a Nazarene (so they termed
Christians, while conversing among themselves)
desired to speak with him.  He that would live by
traffic, must hold himself at the disposal of every
one claiming business with him.  Isaac at once replaced
on the table the untasted glass of Greek
wine which he had just raised to his lips, and saying
hastily to his daughter, ``Rebecca, veil thyself,''
commanded the stranger to be admitted.

  Just as Rebecca had dropped over her fine features
a screen of silver gauze which reached to her
feet, the door opened, and Gurth entered, wrapt in
the ample folds of his Norman mantle.  His appearance
was rather suspicious than prepossessing,
especially as, instead of doffing his bonnet, he pulled
it still deeper over his rugged brow.

  ``Art thou Isaac the Jew of York?'' said Gurth,
in Saxon.

  ``I am,'' replied Isaac, in the same language,
(for his traffic had rendered every tongue spoken
in Britain familiar to him)---``and who art thou?''

  ``That is not to the purpose,'' answered Gurth.

  ``As much as my name is to thee,'' replied Isaac;
``for without knowing thine, how can I hold intercourse
with thee?''

  ``Easily,'' answered Gurth; ``I, being to pay
money, must know that I deliver it to the right
person; thou, who are to receive it, will not, I
think, care very greatly by whose hands it is delivered.''

  ``O,'' said the Jew, ``you are come to pay moneys?
---Holy Father Abraham! that altereth our
relation to each other.  And from whom dost thou
bring it?''

  ``From the Disinherited Knight,'' said Gurth,
``victor in this day's tournament.  It is the price
of the armour supplied to him by Kirjath Jairam
of Leicester, on thy recommendation.  The steed
is restored to thy stable.  I desire to know the
amount of the sum which I am to pay for the
armour.''

  ``I said he was a good youth!'' exclaimed Isaac
with joyful exultation.  ``A cup of wine will do
thee no harm,'' he added, filling and handing to the
swineherd a richer drought than Gurth had ever
before tasted. "And how much money,'' continued
Isaac, ``has thou brought with thee?''

  ``Holy Virgin!'' said Gurth, setting down the
cup, ``what nectar these unbelieving dogs drink,
while true Christians are fain to quaff ale as muddy
and thick as the draff we give to hogs!---What
money have I brought with me?'' continued the
Saxon, when he had finished this uncivil ejaculation,
``even but a small sum; something in hand
the whilst.  What, Isaac! thou must bear a conscience,
though it be a Jewish one.''

  ``Nay, but,'' said Isaac, ``thy master has won
goodly steeds and rich armours with the strength
of his lance, and of his right hand---but 'tis a good
youth---the Jew will take these in present payment,
and render him back the surplus.''

  ``My master has disposed of them already,'' said
Gurth.

  ``Ah! that was wrong,'' said the Jew, ``that
was the part of a fool.  No Christians here could
buy so many horses and armour---no Jew except
myself would give him half the values.  But thou
hast a hundred zecchins with thee in that bag,'' said
Isaac, prying under Gurth's cloak, ``it is a heavy
one.''

  ``I have heads for cross-bow bolts in it,'' said
Gurth, readily.

  ``Well, then''---said Isaac, panting and hesitating
between habitual love of gain and a new-born desire
to be liberal in the present instance, ``if I should
say that I would take eighty zecchins for the good
steed and the rich armour, which leaves me not a
guilder's profit, have you money to pay me?''

  ``Barely,'' said Gurth, though the sum demanded
was more reasonable than he expected, ``and it
will leave my master nigh penniless.  Nevertheless,
if such be your least offer, I must be content.''

  ``Fill thyself another goblet of wine,'' said the
Jew. ``Ah! eighty zeechins is too little.  It leaveth
no profit for the usages of the moneys; and, besides,
the good horse may have suffered wrong in
this day's encounter. O, it was a hard and a dangerous
meeting! man and steed rushing on each
other like wild bulls of Bashan! The horse cannot
but have had wrong.''

  ``And I say,'' replied Gurth, ``he is sound, wind
and limb; and you may see him now, in your stable.
And I say, over and above, that seventy zecchins
is enough for the armour, and I hope a Christian's
word is as good as a Jew's.  If you will not take
seventy, I will carry this bag'' (and he shook it till
the contents jingled) ``back to my master.''

  ``Nay, nay!'' said Isaac; ``lay down the talents
---the shekels---the eighty zecchins, and thou shalt
see I will consider thee liberally.''

  Gurth at length complied; and telling out eighty
zecehins upon the table, the Jew delivered out to
him an acquittance for the horse and suit of armour.
The Jew's hand trembled for joy as he wrapped up
the first seventy pieces of gold.  The last ten he
told over with much deliberation, pausing, and saying
something as he took each piece from the table,
and dropt it into his purse.  It seemed as if his
avarice were struggling with his better nature, and
compelling him to pouch zecchin after zecchin while
his generosity urged him to restore some part at
least to his benefactor, or as a donation to his agent.
His whole speech ran nearly thus:

  ``Seventy-one---seventy-two; thy master is a
good youth---seventy-three, an excellent youth---
seventy-four---that piece hath been clipt within the
ring---seventy-five---and that looketh light of weight
---seventy-six---when thy master wants money, let
him come to Isaac of York---seventy-seven---that
is, with reasonable security.'' Here he made a considerable
pause, and Gurth had good hope that the
last three pieces might escape the fate of their comrades;
but the enumeration proceeded.---``Seventy-eight---
thou art a good fellow---seventy-nine---
and deservest something for thyself------''

  Here the Jew paused again, and looked at the
last zecchin, intending, doubtless, to bestow it upon
Gurth.  He weighed it upon the tip of his finger,
and made it ring by dropping it upon the table.
Had it rung too flat, or had it felt a hair's breadth
too light, generosity had carried the day; but, unhappily
for Gurth, the chime was full and true, the
zecchin plump, newly coined, and a grain above
weight.  Isaac could not find in his heart to part
with it, so dropt it into his purse as if in absence of
mind, with the words, ``Eighty completes the tale,
and I trust thy master will reward thee handsomely.
---Surely,'' he added, looking earnestly at the bag,
``thou hast more coins in that pouch?''

  Gurth  grinned,  which  was his nearest approach
to a laugh, as he replied, ``About the same quantity
which thou hast just told over so carefully.''
He then folded the quittance, and put it under his
cap, adding,---``Peril of thy heard, Jew, see that
this be full and ample!'' He filled himself unbidden,
a third goblet of wine, and left the apartment
without ceremony.

  ``Rebecca,'' said the Jew, ``that Ishmaelite hath
gone somewhat beyond me.  Nevertheless his master
is a good youth---ay, and I am well pleased that
he hath gained shekels of gold and shekels of silver,
even by the speed of his horse and by the strength
of his lance, which, like that of Goliath the Philistine,
might vie with a weaver's beam.''

  As he turned to receive Rebecca's answer, he
observed, that during his chattering with Gurth, she
had left the apartment unperceived.

  In the meanwhile, Gurth had descended the stair,
and, having reached the dark antechamber or hall,
was puzzling about to discover the entrance, when
a figure in white, shown by a small silver lamp
which she held in her hand, beckoned him into a
side apartment.  Gurth had some reluctance to obey
the summons.  Rough and impetuous as a wild
boar, where only earthly force was to be apprehended,
he had all the characteristic terrors of a
Saxon respecting fawns, forest-fiends, white women,
and the whole of the superstitions which his ancestors
had brought with them from the wilds of Germany.
He remembered, moreover, that he was in
the house of a Jew, a people who, besides the other
unamiable qualities wbich popular report ascribed
to them, were supposed to be profound necromancers
and cabalists.  Nevertheless, after a moment's
pause, he obeyed the beckoning summons of the
apparition, and followed her into the apartment
which she indicated, where he found to his joyful
surprise that his fair guide was the beautiful Jewess
whom he had seen at the tournament, and a short
time in her father's apartment.

  She asked him the particulars of his transaction
with Isaac, which he detailed accurately.

  ``My father did but jest with thee, good fellow,''
said Rebecca; ``he owes thy master deeper kindness
than these arms and steed could pay, were
their value tenfold.  What sum didst thou pay my
father even now?''

  ``Eighty zecchins,'' said Gurth, surprised at the
question.

  ``In this purse,'' said Rebecca, ``thou wilt find a
hundred.  Restore to thy master that which is his
due, and enrich thyself with the remainder.  Haste
---begone---stay not to render thanks! and beware
how you pass through this crowded town, where
thou mayst easily lose both thy burden and thy
life.---Reuben,'' she added, clapping her hands together,
``light forth this stranger, and fail not to
draw lock and bar behind him.''

  Reuben, a dark-brow'd and black-bearded Israelite,
obeyed her summons, with a torch in his hand;
undid the outward door of the house, and conducting
Gurth across a paved court, let him out through
a wicket in the entrance-gate, which he closed behind
him with such bolts and chains as would well
have become that of a prison.

  ``By St Dunstan,'' said Gurth, as he stumbled
up the dark avenue, ``this is no Jewess, but an angel
from heaven! Ten zecchins from my brave young
master---twenty from this pearl of Zion---Oh, happy
day!---Such another, Gurth, will redeem thy
bondage, and make thee a brother as free of thy
guild as the best.  And then do I lay down my
swineherd's horn and staff, and take the freeman's
sword and buckler, and follow my voung master to
the death, without hiding either my face or my
name.''


                 CHAPTER XI.

   _1st Outlaw_.  Stand, sir, and throw us that you have about you;
If not, we'll make you sit, and rifle you.
   _Speed_.  Sir, we are undone! these are the villains
That all the travellers do fear so much.
   _Val_. My friends,---
   _1st Out_.  That's not so, sir, we are your enemies.
   _2d Out_.  Peace! we'll hear him.
   _3d Out_.  Ay, by my beard, will we;
For he's a proper man.
                              _Two Gentlemen of Verona_.


  The nocturnal adventures of Gurth were not yet
concluded; indeed he himself became partly of that
mind, when, after passing one or two straggling
houses which stood in the outskirts of the village,
he found himself in a deep lane, running between
two banks overgrown with hazel and holly, while
here and there a dwarf oak flung its arms altogether
across the path.  The lane was moreover much rutted
and broken up by the carriages which had recently
transported articles of various kinds to the
tournament; and it was dark, for the banks and
bushes intercepted the light of the harvest moon.

  From the village were heard the distant sounds
of revelry, mixed occasionally with loud laughter,
sometimes broken by screams, and sometimes by
wild strains of distant music.  All these sounds, intimating
the disorderly state of the town, crowded
with military nobles and their dissolute attendants,
gave Gurth some uneasiness.  ``The Jewess was
right,'' he said to himself. ``By heaven and St
Dunstan, I would I were safe at my journey's end
with all this treasure! Here are such numbers, I
will not say of arrant thieves, but of errant knights
and errant squires, errant monks and errant minstrels,
errant jugglers and errant jesters, that a
man with a single merk would be in danger, much
more a poor swineherd with a whole bagful of zecchins.
Would I were out of the shade of these infernal
bushes, that I might at least see any of St
Nicholas's clerks before they spring on my shoulders.''

  Gurth accordingly hastened his pace, in order to
gain the open common to which the lane led, but
was not so fortunate as to accomplish his object.
Just as he had attained the upper end of the lane,
where the underwood was thickest, four men sprung
upon him, even as his fears anticipated, two from
each side of the road, and seized him so fast, that
resistance, if at first practicable, would have been
now too late.---``Surrender your charge,'' said one
of them; ``we are the deliverers of the commonwealth,
who ease every man of his burden.''

  ``You should not ease me of mine so lightly,''
muttered Gurth, whose surly honesty could not be
tamed even by the pressure of immediate violence,
---``had I it but in my power to give three strokes
in its defence.''

  ``We shall see that presently,''  said  the  robber;
and, speaking to his companions, he added, ``bring
along the knave.  I see he would have his head
broken, as well as his purse cut, and so be let blood
in two veins at once.''

  Gurth was hurried along agreeably to this mandate,
and having been dragged somewhat roughly
over the bank, on the left-hand side of the lane,
found himself in a straggling thicket, which lay betwixt
it and the open common.  He was compelled
to follow his rough conductors into the very depth
of this cover, where they stopt unexpectedly in an
irregular open space, free in a great measure from
trees, and on which, therefore, the beams of the
moon fell without much interruption from boughs
and leaves.  Here his captors were joined by two
other persons, apparently belonging to the gang.
They had short swords by their sides, and quarter-staves
in their hands, and Gurth could now observe
that all six wore visors, which rendered their occupation
a matter of no question, even had their former
proceedings left it in doubt.

  ``What money hast thou, churl?'' said one of
the thieves.

  ``Thirty zecchins of my own property,'' answered
Gurth, doggedly.

  ``A forfeit---a forfeit,'' shouted the robbers; ``a
Saxon hath thirty zecchins, and returns sober from
a village! An undeniable and unredeemable forfeit
of all he hath about him.''

  ``I hoarded it to purchase my freedom,'' said
Gurth.

  ``Thou art an ass,'' replied one  of  the  thieves
``three quarts of double ale had rendered thee as
free as thy master, ay, and freer too, if he be a
Saxon like thyself.''

  ``A sad truth,'' replied Gurth; ``but if these
same thirty zecchins will buy my freedom from
you, unloose my hands, and I will pay them to you.''

  ``Hold,'' said one who seemed to exercise some
authority over the others; ``this bag which thou
bearest, as I can feel through thy cloak, contains
more coin than thou hast told us of.''

  ``It is the good knight my master's,'' answered
Gurth, ``of which, assuredly, I would not have
spoken a word, had you been satisfied with working
your will upon mine own property.''

  ``Thou art an honest fellow,'' replied the robber,
``I warrant thee; and we worship not St Nicholas
so devoutly but what thy thirty zecchins may yet
escape, if thou deal uprightly with us.  Meantime
render up thy trust for a time.'' So saying, he
took from Gurth's breast the large leathern pouch,
in which the purse given him by Rebecca was enclosed,
as well as the rest of the zecchins, and then
continued his interrogation.---``Who is thy master?''

  ``The Disinherited Knight,'' said Gurth.

  ``Whose good lance,'' replied the robber, ``won
the prize in to-day's tourney? What is his name
and lineage?''

  ``It is his pleasure,'' answered Gurth, ``that they
be concealed; and from me, assuredly, you will
learn nought of them.''

  ``What is thine own name and lineage?''

  ``To tell that,'' said Gurth, ``might reveal my
master's.''

  ``Thou art a saucy groom,'' said the robber, ``but
of that anon. How comes thy master by this gold?
is it of his inheritance, or by what means hath it
accrued to him?''

  ``By his good lance,'' answered Gurth.---``These
bags contain the ransom of four good horses, and
four good suits of armour.''

  ``How much is there?'' demanded the robber.

  ``Two hundred zecchins.''

  ``Only two hundred zecchins!'' said the bandit;
``your master hath dealt liberally by the vanquished,
and put them to a cheap ransom.  Name those
who paid the gold.''

  Gurth did so.

  ``The armour and horse of the Templar Brian
de Bois-Guilbert, at what ransom were they held?
---Thou seest thou canst not deceive me.''

  ``My master,'' replied Gurth, ``will take nought
from the Templar save his life's-blood.  They are
on terms of mortal defiance, and cannot hold courteous
intercourse together.''

  ``Indeed!''---repeated the robber, and paused
after he had said the word.  ``And what wert thou
now doing at Ashby with such a charge in thy custody?''

  ``I went thither to render to Isaac the Jew of
York,'' replied Gurth, ``the price of a suit of armour
with which he fitted my master for this tournament.''

  ``And  how  much  didst thou pay to Isaac?---
Methinks, to judge by weight, there is still two
hundred zecchins in this pouch.''

  ``I paid to Isaac,'' said the Saxon, ``eighty zecchins,
and he restored me a hundred in lieu thereof.''

  ``How! what!'' exclaimed all the robbers at
once; ``darest thou trifle with us, that thou tellest
such improbable lies?''

  ``What I tell you,'' said Gurth, ``is as true as
the moon is in heaven.  You will find the just sum
in a silken purse within the leathern pouch, and separate
from the rest of the gold.''

  ``Bethink thee, man,'' said the Captain, ``thou
speakest of a Jew---of an Israelite,---as unapt to
restore gold, as the dry sand of his deserts to return
the cup of water which the pilgrim spills upon
them.''

  ``There is no more mercy  in  them,''  said  another
of the banditti, ``than in an unbribed sheriffs  officer.''

  ``It is, however, as I say,'' said Gurth.

  ``Strike a light instantly,'' said the Captain; ``I
will examine this said purse; and if it be as this
fellow says, the Jew's bounty is little less miraculous
than the stream which relieved his fathers in
the wilderness.''

  A light was procured accordingly, and the robber
proceeded to examine the purse.  The others
crowded around him, and even two who had hold of
Gurth relaxed their grasp while they stretched their
necks to see the issue of the search.  Availing himself
of their negligence, by a sudden exertion of
strength and activity, Gurth shook himself free of
their hold, and might have escaped, could he have
resolved to leave his master's property behind him.
But such was no part of his intention.  He wrenched
a quarter-staff from one of the fellows, struck
down the Captain, who was altogether unaware of
his purpose, and had wellnigh repossessed himself
of the pouch and treasure.  The thieves, however,
were too nimble for him, and again secured both
the bag and the trusty Gurth.

  ``Knave!'' said the Captain, getting up, ``thou
hast broken my head; and with other men of our
sort thou wouldst fare the worse for thy insolence.
But thou shalt know thy fate instantly.  First let
us speak of thy master; the knight's matters must
go before the squire's, according to the due order
of chivalry.  Stand thou fast in the meantime---
if thou stir again, thou shalt have that will make
thee quiet for thy life---Comrades!'' he then said,
addressing his gang, ``this purse is embroidered
with Hebrew characters, and I well believe the
yeoman's tale is true.  The errant knight, his master,
must needs pass us toll-free.  He is too like
ourselves for us to make booty of him, since dogs
should not worry dogs where wolves and foxes are
to be found in abundance.''

  ``Like us?'' answered one of the gang; ``I
should like to hear how that is made good.''

  ``Why, thou fool,'' answered the Captain, ``is
he not poor and disinherited as we are?---Doth he
not win his substance at the sword's point as we
do?---Hath he not beaten Front-de-B<oe>uf and
Malvoisin, even as we would beat them if we could?
Is he not the enemy to life and death of Brian de
Bois-Guilbert, whom we have so much reason to
fear? And were all this otherwise, wouldst thou
have us show a worse conscience than an unbeliever,
a Hebrew Jew?''

  ``Nay, that were a shame,'' muttered the other
fellow; ``and yet, when I served in the band of
stout old Gandelyn, we had no such scruples of
conscience.  And this insolent peasant,---he too, I
warrant me, is to be dismissed scatheless?''

  ``Not if _thou_ canst scathe him,'' replied the Captain.
---``Here, fellow,'' continued he, addressing
Gurth, ``canst thou use the staff, that thou starts
to it so readily?''

  ``I think,'' said Gurth, ``thou shouldst be best
able to reply to that question.''

  ``Nay, by my troth, thou gavest me a round
knock,'' replied the Captain; ``do as much for this
fellow, and thou shalt pass scot-free; and if thou
dost not---why, by my faith, as thou art such a
sturdy knave, I think I must pay thy ransom myself.
---Take thy staff, Miller,'' he added, ``and keep
thy head; and do you others let the fellow go, and
give him a staff---there is light enough to lay on
load by.''

  The two champions being alike armed with quarter-staves,
stepped forward into the centre of the
open space, in order to have the full benefit of the
moonlight; the thieves in the meantime laughing,
and crying to their comrade, ``Miller! beware thy
toll-dish.'' The Miller, on the other hand, holding
his quarter-staff by the middle, and making it flourish
round his head after the fashion which the
French call _faire le moulinet_, exclaimed boastfully,
``Come on, churl, an thou darest: thou shalt feel
the strength of a miller's thumb!''

  ``If thou best a miller,'' answered Gurth, undauntedly,
making his weapon play around his head
with equal dexterity, ``thou art doubly a thief,
and I, as a true man, bid thee defiance.''

  So saying, the two champions closed together,
and for a few minutes they displayed great equality
in strength, courage, and skill, intercepting and
returning the blows of their adversary with the most
rapid dexterity, while, from the continued clatter
of their weapons, a person at a distance might have
supposed that there were at least six persons engaged
on each side.  Less obstinate, and even less
dangerous combats, have been described in good
heroic verse; but that of Gurth and the Miller
must remain unsung, for want of a sacred poet to
do justice to its eventful progress.  Yet, though
quarter-staff play be out of date, what we can in
prose we will do for these bold champions.

  Long they fought equally, until the Miller began
to lose temper at finding himself so stoutly opposed,
and at hearing the laughter of his companions,
who, as usual in such cases, enjoyed his vexation.
This was not a state of mind favourable to
the noble game of quarter-staff, in which, as in ordinary
cudgel-playing, the utmost coolness is requisite;
and it gave Gurth, whose temper was
steady, though surly, the opportunity of acquiring
a decided advantage, in availing himself of which
he displayed great mastery.

  The Miller pressed furiously forward, dealing
blows with either end of his weapon altemately,
and striving to come to half-staff distance, while
Gurth defended himself against the attack, keeping
his hands about a yard asunder, and covering
himself by shifting his weapon with great celerity,
so as to protect his head and body.  Thus did he
maintain the defensive, making his eye, foot, and
hand keep true time, until, observing his antagonist
to lose wind, he darted the staff at his face
with his left hand; and, as the Miller endeavoured
to parry the thrust, he slid his right hand down to
his left, and with the full swing of the weapon
struck his opponent on the left side of the head,
who instantly measured his length upon the green
sward.

  ``Well and yeomanly done!'' shouted the robbers;
``fair play and Old England for ever! The
Saxon hath saved both his purse and his hide, and
the Miller has met his match.''

  ``Thou mayst go thy ways, my friend,'' said the
Captain, addressing Gurth, in special confirmation
of the general voice, ``and I will cause two of my
comrades to guide thee by the best way to thy master's
pavilion, and to guard thee from night-walkers
that might have less tender consciences than
ours; for there is many one of them upon the amble
in such a night as this.  Take heed, however,''
he added sternly; ``remember thou hast refused to
tell thy name---ask not after ours, nor endeavour
to discover who or what we are; for, if thou makest
such an attempt, thou wilt come by worse fortune
than has yet befallen thee.''

  Gurth thanked the Captain for his courtesy, and
promised to attend to his recommendation.  Two of
the outlaws, taking up their quarter-staves, and desiring
Gurth to follow close in the rear, walked
roundly forward along a by-path, which traversed
the thicket and the broken ground adjacent to it.
On the very verge of the thicket two men spoke to
his conductors, and receiving an answer in a whisper,
withdrew into the wood, and suffered them to pass
unmolested.  This circumstance induced Gurth to
believe both that the gang was strong in numbers,
and that they kept regular guards around their place
of rendezvous.

  When they arrived on the open heath, where
Gurth might have had some trouble in finding his
road, the thieves guided him straight forward to the
top of a little eminence, whence he could see, spread
beneath him in the moonlight, the palisades of the
lists, the glimmering pavilions pitched at either
end, with the pennons which adorned them fluttering
in the moonbeams, and from which could be heard
the hum of the song with which the sentinels were
beguiling their night-watch.

  Here the thieves stopt.

  ``We go with you no farther,'' said they; ``it
were not safe that we should do so.---Remember
the warning you have received---keep secret what
has this night befallen you, and you will have no
room to repent it---neglect what is now told you,
and the Tower of London shall not protect you
against our revenge.''

  ``Good night to you, kind sirs,'' said Gurth; ``I
shall remember your orders, and trust that there is
no offence in wishing you a safer and an honester
trade.''

  Thus they parted, the outlaws returning in the
direction from whence they had come, and Gurth
proceeding to the tent of his master, to whom, notwithstanding
the injunction he had received, he
communicated the whole adventures of the evening.

  The Disinherited Knight was filled with astonishment,
no less at the generosity of Rebecca, by
which, however, he resolved he would not profit,
than that of the robbers, to whose profession such
a quality seemed totally foreign.  His course of reflections
upon these singular circumstances was,
however, interrupted by the necessity for taking
repose, which the fatigue of the preceding day, and
the propriety of refreshing himself for the morrow's
encounter, rendered alike indispensable.

  The knight, therefore, stretched himself for repose
upon a rich couch with which the tent was
provided; and the faithful Gurth, extending his
hardy limbs upon a bear-skin which formed a sort
of carpet to the pavilion, laid himself across the
opening of the tent, so that no one could enter
without awakening him.



                CHAPTER XII.

     The heralds left their pricking up and down,
     Now ringen trumpets loud and clarion.
     There is no more to say, but east and west,
     In go the speares sadly in the rest,
     In goth the sharp spur into the side,
     There see men who can just and who can ride;
     There shiver shaftes upon shieldes thick,
     He feeleth through the heart-spone the prick;
     Up springen speares, twenty feet in height,
     Out go the swordes to the silver bright;
     The helms they to-hewn and to-sbred;
     Out burst the blood with stern streames red.
                                        Chaucer.

  Morning arose in unclouded splendour, and ere
the sun was much above the horizon, the idlest or
the most eager of the spectators appeared on the
common, moving to the lists as to a general centre,
in order to secure a favourable situation for viewing
the continuation of the expected games.

  The marshals and their attendants appeared next
on the field, together with the heralds, for the purpose
of receiving the names of the knights who intended
to joust, with the side which each chose to
espouse.  This was a necessary precaution, in order
to secure equality betwixt the two bodies who
should be opposed to each other.

  According to due formality, the Disinherited
Knight was to be considered as leader of the one
body, while Brian de Bois-Guilbert, who had been
rated as having done second-best in the preceding
day, was named first champion of the other band.
Those who had concurred in the challenge adhered
to his party of course, excepting only Ralph de Vipont,
whom his fall had rendered unfit so soon to
put on his armour. There was no want of distinguished
and noble candidates to fill up the ranks
on either side.

  In fact, although the general tournament, in
which all knights fought at once, was more dangerous
than single encounters, they were, nevertheless,
more frequented and practised by the chivalry
of the age.  Many knights, who had not sufficient
confidence in their own skill to defy a single
adversary of high reputation, were, nevertheless,
desirous of displaying their valour in the general
combat, where they might meet others with whom
they were more upon an equality.  On the present
occasion, about fifty knights were inscribed as desirous
of combating upon each side, when the marshals
declared that no more could be admitted, to
the disappointment of several who were too late in
preferring their claim to be included.

  About the hour of ten o'clock, the whole plain
was crowded with horsemen, horsewomen, and foot-passengers,
hastening to the tournament; and shortly
after, a grand flourish of trumpets announced
Prince John and his retinue, attended by many of
those knights who meant to take share in the game,
as well as others who had no such intention.

  About the same time arrived Cedric the Saxon,
with the Lady Rowena, unattended, however, by
Athelstane.  This Saxon lord had arrayed his tall
and strong person in armour, in order to take his
place among the combatants; and, considerably to
the surprise of Cedric, had chosen to enlist himself
on the part of the Knight Templar.  The Saxon,
indeed, had remonstrated strongly with his friend
upon the injudicious choice he had made of his
party; but he had only received that sort of answer
usually given by those who are more obstinate
in following their own course, than strong in justifying
it.

  His best, if not his only reason, for adhering to
the party of Brian de Bois-Guilbert, Athelstane
had the prudence to keep to himself.  Though his
apathy of disposition prevented his taking any
means to recommend himself to the Lady Rowena,
he was, nevertheless, by no means insensible to her
charms, and considered his union with her as a
matter already fixed beyond doubt, by the assent
of Cedric and her other friends.  It had therefore
been with smothered displeasure that the proud
though indolent Lord of Coningsburgh beheld the
victor of the preceding day select Rowena as the
object of that honour which it became his privilege
to confer.  In order to punish him for a preference
which seemed to interfere with his own suit, Athelstane,
confident of his strength, and to whom his
flatterers, at least, ascribed great skill in arms, had
determined not only to deprive the Disinherited
Knight of his powerful succour, but, if an opportunity
should occur, to make him feel the weight
of his battle-axe.

  De Bracy, and other knights attached to Prince
John, in obedience to a hint from him, had joined
the party of the challengers, John being desirous to
secure, if possible, the victory to that side. On the
other hand, many other knights, both English and
Norman, natives and strangers, took part against
the challengers, the more readily that the opposite
band was to be led by so distinguished a champion
as the Disinherited Knight had approved himself.

  As soon as Prince John observed that the destined
Queen of the day had arrived upon the field,
assuming that air of courtesy which sat well upon
him when he was pleased to exhibit it, he rode forward
to meet her, doffed his bonnet, and, alighting
from his horse, assisted the Lady Rowena from her
saddle, while his followers uncovered at the same
time, and one of the most distinguished dismounted
to hold her palfrey.

  ``It is thus,'' said Prince John, ``that we set the
dutiful example of loyalty to the Queen of Love
and Beauty, and are ourselves her guide to the
throne which she must this day occupy.---Ladies,''
he said, ``attend your Queen, as you wish in your
turn to be distinguished by like honours.''

  So saying, the Prince marshalled Rowena to the
seat of honour opposite his own, while the fairest
and most distinguished ladies present crowded after
her to obtain places as near as possible to their
temporary sovereign.

  No sooner was Rowena seated, than a burst of
music, half-drowned by the shouts of the multitude,
greeted her new dignity.  Meantime, the sun shone
fierce and bright upon the polished arms of the
knights of either side, who crowded the opposite
extremities of the lists, and held eager conference
together concerning the best mode of arranging
their line of battle, and supporting the conflict.

  The heralds then proclaimed silence until the
laws of the tourney should be rehearsed.  These
were calculated in some degree to abate the dangers
of the day; a precaution the more necessary,
as the conflict was to be maintained with sharp
swords and pointed lances.

  The champions were therefore prohibited to
thrust with the sword, and were confined to striking.
A knight, it was announced, might use a
mace or battle-axe at pleasure, but the dagger was
a prohibited weapon.  A knight unhorsed might
renew the fight on foot with any other on the opposite
side in the same predicament; but mounted
horsemen were in that case forbidden to assail him.
When any knight could force his antagonist to the
extremity of the lists, so as to touch the palisade
with his person or arms, such opponent was obliged
to yield himself vanquished, and his armour and
horse were placed at the disposal of the conqueror.
A knight thus overcome was not permitted to take
farther share in the combat.  If any combatant was
struck down, and unable to recover his feet, his
squire or page might enter the lists, and drag his
master out of the press; but in that case the knight
was adjudged vanquished, and his arms and horse
declared forfeited.  The combat was to cease as
soon as Prince John should throw down his leading
staff, or truncheon; another precaution usually taken
to prevent the unnecessary effusion of blood
by the too long endurance of a sport so desperate.
Any knight breaking the rules of the tournament,
or otherwise transgressing the rules of honourable
chivalry, was liable to be stript of his arms, and,
having his shield reversed to be placed in that posture
astride upon the bars of the palisade, and exposed
to public derision, in punishment of his unknightly
conduct.  Having announced these precautions,
the heralds concluded with an exhortation
to each good knight to do his duty, and to merit
favour from the Queen of Beauty and of Love.

  This proclamation having been made, the heralds
withdrew to their stations.  The knights, entering
at either end of the lists in long procession, arranged
themselves in a double file, precisely opposite
to each other, the leader of each party being in the
centre of the foremost rank, a post which he did
not occupy until each had carefully marshalled the
ranks of his party, and stationed every one in his
place.

  It was a goodly, and at the same time an anxious,
sight, to behold so many gallant champions, mounted
bravely, and armed richly, stand ready prepared
for an encounter so formidable, seated on their war-saddles
like so many pillars of iron, and awaiting
the signal of encounter with the same ardour as
their generous steeds, which, by neighing and pawing
the ground, gave signal of their impatience.

  As yet the knights held their long lances upright,
their bright points glancing to the sun, and
the streamers with which they were decorated fluttering
over the plumage of the helmets.  Thus
they remained while the marshals of the field surveyed
their ranks with the utmost exactness, lest
either party had more or fewer than the appointed
number.  The tale was found exactly complete.
The marshals  then  withdrew  from  the  lists,
and William de Wyvil,  with  a  voice  of  thunder,  pronounced
the signal words---_Laissez aller_! The
trumpets sounded as he spoke---the spears of the
champions were at once lowered and placed in the
rests---the spurs were dashed into the flanks of the
horses, and the two foremost ranks of either party
rushed upon each other in full gallop, and met in
the middle of the lists with a shock, the sound of
which was heard at a mile's distance.  The rear
rank of each party advanced at a slower pace to
sustain the defeated, and follow up the success of
the victors of their party.

  The consequences of the encounter were not instantly
seen, for the dust raised by the trampling
of so many steeds darkened the air, and it was a
minute ere the anxious spectator could see the fate
of the encounter.  When the fight became visible,
half the knights on each side were dismounted,
some by the dexterity of their adversary's lance,---
some by the superior weight and strength of opponents,
which had borne down both horse and
man,---some lay stretched on earth as if never more
to rise,---some had already gained their feet, and
were closing hand to hand with those of their antagonists
who were in the same predicament,---and
several on both sides, who had received wounds by
which they were disabled, were stopping their blood
by their scarfs, and endeavouring to extricate themselves
from the tumult.  The mounted knights,
whose lances had been almost all broken by the
fury of the encounter, were now closely engaged
with their swords, shouting their war-cries, and exchanging
buffets, as if honour and life depended on
the issue of the combat.

  The tumult was presently increased by the advance
of the second rank on either side, which, acting
as a reserve, now rushed on to aid their companions.
The followers of Brian de Bois-Guilbert
shouted ---``_Ha! Beau-seant! Beau-seant!_ * --- For

*   _Beau-seant_ was the name of the Templars' banner, which
*    was half black, half white, to intimate, it is said, that they were
*    candid and fair towards Christians, but black and terrible towards
*    infidels.

the Temple---For the Temple!'' The opposite party
shouted in answer---``_Desdichado! Desdichado!_''
---which watch-word they took from the motto
upon their leader's shield.

  The champions thus encountering each other
with the utmost fury, and with alternate success,
the tide of battle seemed to flow now toward the
southern, now toward the northern extremity of
the lists, as the one or the other party prevailed.
Meantime the clang of the blows, and the shouts of
the combatants, mixed fearfully with the sound of
the trumpets, and drowned the groans of those who
fell, and lay rolling defenceless beneath the feet of
the horses.  The splendid armour of the combatants
was now defaced with dust and blood, and gave way
at every stroke of the sword and battle-axe.  The
gay plumage, shorn from the crests, drifted upon
the breeze like snow-flakes.  All that was beautiful
and graceful in the martial array had disappeared,
and what was now visible was only calculated
to awake terror or compassion.

  Yet such is the force of habit, that not only the
vulgar spectators, who are naturally attracted by
sights of horror, but even the ladies of distinction
who crowded the galleries, saw the conflict with a
thrilling interest certainly, but without a wish to
withdraw their eyes from a sight so terrible.  Here
and there, indeed, a fair cheek might turn pale, or
a faint scream might be heard, as a lover, a brother,
or a husband, was struck from his horse.  But, in
general, the ladies around encouraged the combatants,
not only by clapping their hands and waving
their veils and kerchiefs, but even by exclaiming,
``Brave lance! Good sword!'' when any successful
thrust or blow took place under their observation.

  Such being the interest taken by the fair sex in
this bloody game, that of the men is the more easily
understood.  It showed itself in loud acclamations
upon every change of fortune, while all eyes were
so riveted on the lists, that the speetators seemed
as if they themselves had dealt and received the
blows which were there so freely bestowed.  And
between every pause was heard the voice of the
heralds, exclaiming, ``Fight on, brave knights!
Man dies, but glory lives!---Fight on---death is
better than defeat!---Fight on, brave knights!---
for bright eyes behold your deeds!''

  Amid the varied fortunes of the combat, the eyes
of all endeavoured to discover the leaders of each
band, who, mingling in the thick of the fight, encouraged
their companions both by voice and example.
Both displayed great feats of gallantry, nor
did either Bois-Guilbert or the Disinherited Knight
find in the ranks opposed to them a champion who
could be termed their unquestioned match.  They
repeatedly endeavoured to single out each other,
spurred by mutual animosity, and aware that the
fall of either leader might be considered as decisive
of victory.  Such, however, was the crowd and confusion,
that, during the earlier part of the conflict,
their efforts to meet were unavailing, and they were
repeatedly separated by the eagerness of their followers,
each of whom was anxious to win honour,
by measuring his strength against the leader of the
opposite party.

  But when the field became thin by the numbers
on either side who had yielded themselves vanquished,
had been compelled to the extremity of
the lists, or been otherwise rendered incapable of
continuing the strife, the Templar and the Disinherited
Knight at length encountered hand to
hand, with all the fury that mortal animosity, joined
to rivalry of honour, could inspire.  Such was
the address of each in parrying and striking, that
the spectators broke forth into a unanimous and
involuntary shout, expressive of their delight and
admiration.

  But at this moment the party of the Disinherited
Knight had the worst; the gigantic arm of
Front-de-B<oe>uf on the one flank, and the ponderous
strength of Athelstane on the other, bearing down
and dispersing those immediately exposed to them.
Finding themselves freed from their immediate antagonists,
it seems to have occurred to both these
knights at the same instant, that they would render
the most decisive advantage to their party, by
aiding the Templar in his contest with his rival.
Turning their horses, therefore, at the same moment,
the Norman spurred against the Disinherited
Knight on the one side, and the Saxon on the
other.  It was utterly impossible that the object of
this unequal and unexpected assault could have
sustained it, had he not been warned by a general
cry from the spectators, who could not but take interest
in one exposed to such disadvantage.

  ``Beware! beware! Sir Disinherited!'' was
shouted so universally, that the knight became
aware of his danger; and, striking a full blow at
the Templar, he reined back his steed in the same
moment, so as to escape the charge of Athelstane
and Front-de-B<oe>uf.  These knights, therefore, their
aim being thus eluded, rushed from opposite sides
betwixt the object of their attack and the Templar,
almost running their horses against each other ere
they could stop their career.  Recovering their
horses however, and wheeling  them round, the
whole three pursued their united purpose of bearing
to the earth the Disinherited Knight.

  Nothing could have saved him, except the remarkable
strength and activity of the noble horse
which he had won on the preceding day.

  This stood him in the more stead, as the horse
of Bois-Guilbert was wounded, and those of Front-de-B<oe>uf
and Athelstane were both tired with the
weight of their gigantic masters, clad in complete
armour, and with the preceding exertions of the
day.  The masterly horsemanship of the Disinherited
Knight, and the activity of the noble animal
which he mounted, enabled him for a few minutes
to keep at sword's point his three antagonists,
turning and wheeling with the agility of a hawk
upon the wing, keeping his enemies as far separate
as he could, and rushing now against the one, now
against the other, dealing sweeping blows with his
sword, without waiting to receive those which were
aimed at him in return.

  But although the lists rang with the applauses
of his dexterity, it was evident that he must at last
be overpowered; and the nobles around Prince
John implored him with one voice to throw down
his warder, and to save so brave a knight from the
disgrace of being overcome by odds.

  ``Not I, by the light of Heaven!'' answered
Prince John; ``this same springal, who conceals
his name, and despises our proffered hospitality,
hath already gained one prize, and may now afford
to let others have their turn.'' As he spoke thus,
an unexpected incident changed the fortune of the
day.

  There was among the ranks of the Disinherited
Knight a champion in black armour, mounted on
a black horse, large of size, tall, and to all appearance
powerful and strong, like the rider by whom
he was mounted, This knight, who bore on his
shield no device of any kind, had hitherto evinced
very little interest in the event of the fight, beating
off with seeming case those combatants who
attacked him, but neither pursuing his advantages,
nor himself assailing any one.  In short, he had
hitherto acted the part rather of a spectator than
of a party in the tournament, a circumstance which
procured him among the spectators the name of
_Le Noir Faineant_, or the Black Sluggard.

  At once this knight seemed to throw aside his
apathy, when he discovered the leader of his party
so hard bestead; for, setting spurs to his horse,
which was quite fresh, he came to his assistance
like a thunderbolt, exclaiming, in a voice like a
trumpet-call, ``_Desdichado_, to the rescue!'' It was
high time; for, while the Disinherited Knight was
pressing upon the Templar, Front-de-B<oe>uf had got
nigh to him with his uplifted sword; but ere the
blow could descend, the Sable Knight dealt a stroke
on his head, which, glancing from the polished helmet,
lighted with violence scarcely abated on the
_chamfron_ of the steed, and Front-de-B<oe>uf rolled
on the ground, both horse and man equally stunned
by the fury of the blow.  _Le Noir Faineant_ then
turned his horse upon Athelstane of Coningsburgh;
and his own sword having been broken in his encounter
with Front-de-B<oe>uf, he wrenched from the
hand of the bulky Saxon the battle-axe which he
wielded, and, like one familiar with the use of the
weapon, bestowed him such a blow upon the crest,
that Athelstane also lay senseless on the field.  Having
achieved this double feat, for which he was the
more highly applauded that it was totally unexpected
from him, the knight seemed to resume the sluggishness
of his character, returning calmly to the
northern extremity of the lists, leaving his leader
to cope as he best could with Brian de Bois-Guilbert.
This was no longer matter of so much difficulty
as formerly.  The Templars horse had bled
much, and gave way under the shock of the Disinherited
Knight's charge.  Brian de Bois-Guilbert
rolled on the field, encumbered with the stirrup,
from which he was unable to draw his foot.  His
antagonist sprung from horseback, waved his fatal
sword over the head of his adversary, and commanded
him to yield himself; when Prince John,
more moved by the Templars dangerous situation
than he had been by that of his rival, saved him
the mortification of confessing himself vanquished,
by casting down his warder, and putting an end to
the conflict.

  It was, indeed, only the relics and embers of the
fight which continued to burn; for of the few
knights who still continued in the lists, the greater
part had, by tacit consent, forborne the conflict for
some time, leaving it to be determined by the strife
of the leaders.

  The squires, who had found it a matter of danger
and difficulty to attend their masters during
the engagement, now thronged into the lists to pay
their dutiful attendance to the wounded, who were
removed with the utmost care and attention to the
neighbouring pavilions, or to the quarters prepared
for them in the adjoining village.

  Thus ended the memorable field of Ashby-de-la-Zouche,
one of the most gallantly contested tournaments
of that age; for although only four knights,
including one who was smothered by the heat of
his armour, had died upon the field, yet upwards
of thirty were desperately wounded, four or five
of whom never recovered.  Several more were disabled
for life; and those who escaped best carried
the marks of the conflict to the grave with them.
Hence it is always mentioned in the old records, as
the Gentle and Joyous Passage of Arms of Ashby.

  It being now the duty of Prince John to name
the knight who had done best, he determined that
the honour of the day remained with the knight
whom the popular voice had termed _Le Noir Faineant_.
It was pointed out to the Prince, in impeachment
of this decree, that the victory had been
in fact won by the Disinherited Knight, who, in
the course of the day, had overcome six champions
with his own hand, and who had finally unhorsed
and struck down the leader of the opposite party.
But Prince John adhered to his own opinion, on
the ground that the Disinherited Knight and his
party had lost the day, but for the powerful assistance
of the Knight of the Black Armour, to whom,
therefore, he persisted in awarding the prize.

  To the surprise of all present, however, the
knight thus preferred was nowhere to be found.
He had left the lists immediately when the conflict
ceased, and had been observed by some spectators
to move down one of the forest glades with the
same slow pace and listless and indifferent manner
which had procured him the epithet of the Black
Sluggard.  After he had been summoned twice by
sound of trumpet, and proclamation of the heralds,
it became necessary to name another to receive the
honours which had been assigned to him.  Prince
John had now no further excuse for resisting the
claim of the Disinherited Knight, whom, therefore,
he named the champion of the day.

  Through a field slippery with blood, and encumbered
with broken armour and the bodies of slain
and wounded horses, the marshals of the lists again
conducted the victor to the foot of Prince John's
throne.

  ``Disinherited Knight,'' said Prince John, ``since
by that title only you will consent to be known to
us, we a second time award to you the honours of
this tournament, and announce to you your right
to claim and receive from the hands of the Queen
of Love and Beauty, the Chaplet of Honour which
your valour has justly deserved.'' The Knight
bowed low and gracefully, but returned no answer.

  While the trumpets sounded, wbile the heralds
strained their voices in proclaiming honour to the
brave and glory to the victor---while ladies waved
their silken kerchiefs and embroidered veils, and
while all ranks joined in a clamorous shout of exultation,
the marshals conducted the Disinherited
Knight across the lists to the foot of that throne of
honour which was occupied by the Lady Rowena.

  On the lower step of this throne the champion
was made to kneel down.  Indeed his whole action
since the fight had ended, seemed rather to have
been upon the impulse of those around him than
from his own free will; and it was observed that
he tottered as they guided him the second time
across the lists.  Rowena, descending from her station
with a graceful and dignified step, was about
to place the chaplet which she held in her hand
upon the helmet of the champion, when the marshals
exclaimed with one voice, ``It must not be
thus---his head must be bare.'' The knight muttered
faintly a few words, which were lost in the
hollow of his helmet, but their purport seemed to
be a desire that his casque might not be removed.

  Whether from love of form, or from curiosity, the
marshals paid no attention to his expressions of
reluctance, but unhelmed him by cutting the laces
of his casque, and undoing the fastening of his gorget.
When the helmet was removed, the well-formed,
yet sun-burnt features of a young man of
twenty-five were seen, amidst a profusion of short
fair hair.  His countenance was as pale as death,
and marked in one or two places with streaks of
blood.

  Rowena had no sooner beheld him than she uttered
a faint shriek; but at once summoning up the
energy of her disposition, and compelling herself,
as it were, to proceed, while her frame yet trembled
with the violence of sudden emotion, she placed
upon the drooping head of the victor the splendid
chaplet which was the destined reward of the day,
and pronounced, in a clear and distinct tone, these
words: ``I bestow on thee this chaplet, Sir Knight,
as the meed of valour assigned to this day's victor:''
Here she paused a moment, and then firmly added,
``And upon brows more worthy could a wreath of
chivalry never be placed!''

  The knight stooped his head, and kissed the
hand of the lovely Sovereign by whom his valour
had been rewarded; and then, sinking yet farther
forward, lay prostrate at her feet.

  There was a general consternation.  Cedric, who
had been struck mute by the sudden appearance
of his banished son, now rushed forward, as if to
separate him from Rowena.  But this had been
already accomplished by the marshals of the field,
who, guessing the cause of Ivanhoe's swoon, had
hastened to undo his armour, and found that the
head of a lance had penetrated his breastplate, and
inflicted a wound in his side.



                CHAPTER XIII.

     ``Heroes, approach!'' Atrides thus aloud,
     ``Stand forth distinguish'd from the circling crowd,
       Ye who by skill or manly force may claim,
       Your rivals to surpass and merit fame.
       This cow, worth twenty oxen, is decreed,
       For him who farthest sends the winged reed.''
                                        _Iliad_.


  The name of Ivanhoe was no sooner pronounced
than it flew from mouth to mouth, with all the celerity
with which eagerness could convey and curiosity
receive it.  It was not long ere it reached the
circle of the Prince, whose brow darkened as he
heard the news.  Looking around him, however,
with an air of scorn, ``My Lords,'' said he, ``and
especially you, Sir Prior, what think ye of the
doctrine the learned tell us, concerning innate attractions
and antipathies? Methinks that I felt
the presence of my brother's minion, even when I
least guessed whom yonder suit of armour enclosed.''

  ``Front-de-B<oe>uf must prepare to restore his fief
of Ivanhoe,'' said De Bracy, who, having discharged
his part honourably in the tournament, had laid his
shield and helmet aside, and again mingled with
the Prince's retinue.

  ``Ay,'' answered Waldemar Fitzurse, ``this gallant
is likely to reclaim the castle and manor which
Richard assigned to him, and which your Highness's
generosity has since given to Front-de-B<oe>uf.''

  ``Front-de-B<oe>uf,'' replied John, ``is a man more
willing to swallow three manors such as Ivanhoe,
than to disgorge one of them.  For the rest, sirs, I
hope none here will deny my right to confer the
fiefs of the crown upon the faithful followers who
are around me, and ready to perform the usual military
service, in the room of those who have wandered
to foreign Countries, and can neither render
homage nor service when called upon.''

  The audience were too much interested in the
question not to pronounce the Prince's assumed
right altogether indubitable.  ``A generous Prince!
---a most noble Lord, who thus takes upon himself
the task of rewarding his faithful followers!''

  Such were the words which burst from the train,
expectants all of them of similar grants at the expense
of King Richard's followers and favourites,
if indeed they had not as yet received such.  Prior
Aymer also assented to the general proposition,
observing, however, ``That the blessed Jerusalem
could not indeed be termed a foreign country.  She
was _communis mater_---the mother of all Christians.
But he saw not,'' he declared, ``how the Knight of
Ivanhoe could plead any advantage from this, since
he'' (the Prior) ``was assured that the crusaders, under
Richard, had never proceeded much farther than
Askalon, which, as all the world knew, was a town
of the Philistines, and entitled to none of the privileges
of the Holy City.''

  Waldemar, whose curiosity had led him towards
the place where Ivanhoe had fallen to the ground,
now returned.  ``The gallant,'' said he, ``is likely
to give your Highness little disturbance, and to
leave Front-de-B<oe>uf in the quiet possession of his
gains--he is severely wounded.''

  ``Whatever becomes of him,'' said Prince John,
``he is victor of the day; and were he tenfold our
enemy, or the devoted friend of our brother, which
is perhaps the same, his wounds must be looked to
---our own physician shall attend him.''

  A stern smile curled the Prince's lip as he spoke.
Waldemar Fitzurse hastened to reply, that Ivanhoe
was already removed from the lists, and in the custody
of his friends.

  ``I was somewhat afflicted,'' he said, ``to see the
grief of the Queen of Love and Beauty, whose sovereignty
of a day this event has changed into mourning.
I am not a man to be moved by a woman's
lament for her lover, but this same Lady Rowena
suppressed her sorrow with such dignity of manner,
that it could only be discovered by her folded hands,
and her tearless eye, which trembled as it remained
fixed on the lifeless form before her.''

  ``Who is this Lady Rowena,'' said Prince John,
``of whom we have heard so much?''

  ``A Saxon heiress of large possessions,'' replied
the Prior Aymer; ``a rose of loveliness, and a
jewel of wealth; the fairest among a thousand, a
bundle of myrrh, and a cluster of camphire.''

  ``We shall cheer her sorrows,'' said Prince John,
``and amend her blood, by wedding her to a Norman.
She seems a minor, and must therefore be
at our royal disposal in marriage.---How sayst thou,
De Bracy? What thinkst thou of gaining fair
lands and livings, by wedding a Saxon, after the
fashion of the followers of the Conqueror?''

  ``If the lands are to my liking, my lord,'' answered
De Bracy, ``it will be hard to displease me with a
bride; and deeply will I hold myself bound to your
highness for a good deed, which will fulfil all promises
made in favour of your servant and vassal.''

  ``We will not forget it,'' said Prince John;
``and that we may instantly go to work, command
our seneschal presently to order the attendance of
the Lady Rowena and her company---that is, the
rude churl her guardian, and the Saxon ox whom
the Black Knight struck down in the tournament,
upon this evening's banquet.---De Bigot,'' he added
to his seneschal, ``thou wilt word this our second
summons so courteously, as to gratify the pride of
these Saxons, and make it impossible for them again
to refuse; although, by the bones of Becket, courtesy
to them is casting pearls before swine.''

  Prince John had proceeded thus far, and was
about to give the signal for retiring from the lists,
when a small billet was put into his hand.

  ``From whence?'' said Prince John, looking at
the person by whom it was delivered.

  ``From foreign parts, my lord, but from whence
I know not'' replied his attendant.  ``A Frenchman
brought it hither, who said, he had ridden
night and day to put it into the hands of your highness.''

  The Prince looked narrowly at the superscription,
and then at the seal, placed so as to secure the
flex-silk with which the billet was surrounded, and
which bore the impression of three fleurs-de-lis.
John then opened the billet with apparent agitation,
which visibly and greatly increased when he
had perused the contents, which were expressed in
these words---

  ``_Take heed to ourse for the Devil is unchained!_''

  The Prince turned as pale as death, looked first
on the earth, and then up to heaven, like a man
who has received news that sentence of execution
has been passed upon him.  Recovering from the
first effects of his surprise, he took Waldemar Fitzurse
and De Bracy aside, and put the billet into
their hands successively.  ``It means,'' he added,
in a faltering voice, ``that my brother Richard has
obtained his freedom.''

  ``This may be a false alarm, or a forged letter,''
said De Bracy.

  ``It is France's own hand and seal,'' replied
Prince John.

  ``It is time, then,'' said Fitzurse, ``to draw our
party to a head, either at York, or some other centrical
place.  A few days later, and it will be indeed
too late.  Your highness must break short
this present mummery.''

  ``The yeomen and commons,'' said De Bracy,
``must not be dismissed discontented, for lack of
their share in the sports.''

  ``The day,'' said Waldemar, ``is not yet very far
spent---let the archer's shoot a few rounds at the
target, and the prize be adjudged.  This will be an
abundant fulfilment of the Prince's promises, so far
as this herd of Saxon serfs is concerned.''

  ``I thank thee, Waldemar,'' said the Prince;
``thou remindest me, too, that I have a debt to pay
to that insolent peasant who yesterday insulted our
person.  Our banquet also shall go forward to-night
as we proposed.  Were this my last hour of power,
it should be an hour sacred to revenge and to pleasure---
let new cares come with to-morrow's new
day.''

  The sound of the trumpets soon recalled those
spectators who had already begun to leave the field;
and proclamation was made that Prince John, suddenly
called by high and peremptory public duties,
held himself obliged to discontinue the entertainments
of to-morrow's festival: Nevertheless, that,
unwilling so many good yeoman should depart
without a trial of skill, he was pleased to appoint
them, before leaving the ground, presently to execute
the competition of archery intended for the
morrow.  To the best archer a prize was to be
awarded, being a bugle-horn, mounted with silver,
and a silken baldric richly ornamented with a medallion
of St Hubert, the patron of silvan sport.

  More than thirty yeomen at first presented themselves
as competitors, several of whom were rangers
and under-keepers in the royal forests of Needwood
and Charnwood.  When, however, the archers understood
with whom they were to be matched, up
wards of twenty withdrew themselves from the contest,
unwilling to encounter the dishonour of almost
certain defeat.  For in those days the skill of each
celebrated marksman was as well known for many
miles round him, as the qualities of a horse trained
at Newmarket are familiar to those who frequent
that well-known meeting.

  The diminished list of competitors for silvan
fame still amounted to eight.  Prince John stepped
from his royal seat to view more nearly the persons
of these chosen yeomen, several of whom wore the
royal livery.  Having satisfied his curiosity by this
investigation, he looked for the object of his resentment,
whom he observed standing on the same
spot, and with the same composed countenance
which he had exhibited upon the preceding day.

  ``Fellow,'' said Prince John, ``I guessed by thy
insolent babble that thou wert no true lover of the longbow,
and I see thou darest  not  adventure  thy  skill
among such merry-men as stand yonder.''

  ``Under favour, sir,'' replied the yeoman, ``I
have another reason for refraining to shoot, besides
the fearing discomfiture and disgrace.''

  ``And what is thy other reason?'' said Prince
John, who, for some cause which perhaps he could
not himself have explained, felt a painful curiosity
respecting this individual.

  ``Because,'' replied the woodsman, ``I know not
if these yeomen and I are used to shoot at the same
marks; and because, moreover, I know not how
your Grace might relish the winning of a third prize
by one who has unwittingly fallen under your displeasure.''

  Prince  John  coloured  as  he  put  the question,
``What is thy name, yeoman?''

  ``Locksley,'' answered the yeoman.

  ``Then, Locksley,'' said Prince John, ``thou
shalt shoot in thy turn, when these yeomen have
displayed their skill.  If thou carriest the prize, I
will add to it twenty nobles; but if thou losest it,
thou shalt be stript of thy Lincoln green, and
scourged out of the lists with bowstrings, for a
wordy and insolent braggart.''

  ``And how if I refuse to shoot on such a wager?''
said the yeoman.---``Your Grace's power, supported,
as it is, by so many men-at-arms, may indeed easily
strip and scourge me, but cannot compel me to
bend or to draw my bow.''

  ``If thou refusest my fair proffer,'' said the
Prince, ``the Provost of the lists shall cut thy bowstring,
break thy bow and arrows, and expel thee
from the presence as a faint-hearted craven.''

  ``This is no fair chance you put on me, proud
Prince,'' said the yeoman, ``to compel me to peril
myself against the best archers of Leicester And
Staffordshire, under the penalty of infamy if they
should overshoot me.  Nevertheless, I will obey
your pleasure.''

  ``Look to him close, men-at-arms,'' said Prince
John, ``his heart is sinking; I am jealous lest he
attempt to escape the trial.---And do you, good
fellows, shoot boldly round; a buck and a butt of
wine are ready for your refreshment in yonder tent,
when the prize is won.''

  A target was placed at the upper end of the
southern avenue which led to the lists.  The contending
archers took their station in turn, at the
bottom of the southern access, the distance between
that station and the mark allowing full distance for
what was called a shot at rovers.  The archers,
having previously determined by lot their order of
precedence, were to shoot each three shafts in succession.
The sports were regulated by an officer of
inferior rank, termed the Provost of the Games;
for the high rank of the marshals of the lists would
have been held degraded, had they condescended
to superintend the sports of the yeomanry.

  One by one the archers, stepping forward, delivered
their shafts yeomanlike and bravely.  Of
twenty-four arrows, shot in succession, ten were
fixed in the target, and the others ranged so near
it, that, considering the distance of the mark, it was
accounted good archery.  Of the ten shafts which
hit the target, two within the inner ring were shot
by Hubert, a forester in the service of Malvoisin,
who was accordingly pronounced victorious.

  ``Now, Locksley,'' said Prince John to the bold
yeoman, with a bitter smile, ``wilt thou try conclusions
with Hubert, or wilt thou yield up bow,
baldric, and quiver, to the Provost of the sports?''

  ``Sith it be no better,'' said Locksley, ``I am content
to try my fortune; on condition that when I
have shot two shafts at yonder mark of Hubert's,
he shall be bound to shoot one at that which I shall
propose.''

  ``That is but fair,'' answered Prince John, ``and
it shall not be refused thee.---If thou dost beat this
braggart, Hubert, I will fill the bugle with silver-pennies
for thee.''

  ``A man can do but his best,'' answered Hubert;
``but my grandsire drew a good long bow at Hastings,
and I trust not to dishonour his memory.''

  The former target was now removed, and a fresh
one of the same size placed in its room.  Hubert,
who, as victor in the first trial of skill, had the
right to shoot first, took his aim with great deliberation,
long measuring the distance with his eye,
while he held in his hand his bended bow, with the
arrow placed on the string.  At length he made a
step forward, and raising the bow at the full stretch
of his left arm, till the centre or grasping-place was
nigh level with his face, he drew his bowstring to
his ear.  The arrow whistled through the air, and
lighted within the inner ring of the target, but not
exactly in the centre.

  ``You have not allowed for the wind, Hubert,''
said his antagonist, bending his bow, ``or that had
been a better shot.''

  So saying, and without showing the least anxiety
to pause upon his aim, Locksley stept to the appointed
station, and shot his arrow as carelessly in
appearance as if he had not even looked at the mark.
He was speaking almost at the instant that the shaft
left the bowstring, yet it alighted in the target two
inches nearer to the white spot which marked the
centre than that of Hubert.

  ``By the light of heaven!'' said Prince John to
Hubert, ``an thou suffer that runagate knave to
overcome thee, thou art worthy of the gallows!''

  Hubert had but one set speech for all occasions.
``An your highness were to hang me,'' he said, `` a
man can but do his best.  Nevertheless, my grandsire
drew a good bow---''

  ``The foul fiend on thy grandsire and all his generation!''
interrupted John , ``shoot, knave, and
shoot thy best, or it shall be the worse for thee!''

  Thus exhorted, Hubert resumed his place, and
not neglecting the caution which he had received
from his adversary, he made the necessary allowance
for a very light air of wind, wbich had just
arisen, and shot so successfully that his arrow alighted
in the very centre of the target.

  ``A Hubert! a Hubert!'' shouted the populace,
more interested in a known person than in a stranger.
``In the clout!---in the clout!---a Hubert for
ever!''

  ``Thou canst not mend that shot, Locksley,'' said
the Prince, with an insulting smile.

  ``I will notch his shaft for him, however,'' replied
Locksley.

  And letting fly his arrow with a little more precaution
than before, it lighted right upon that of
his competitor, which it split to shivers.  The people
who stood around were so astonished at his wonderful
dexterity, that they could not even give vent
to their surprise in their usual clamour.  ``This
must be the devil, and no man of flesh and blood,''
whispered the yeoman to eaeh other; ``such archery
was never seen since a bow was first bent in
Britain.''

  ``And now,'' said Locksley, ``I will crave your
Grace's permission to plant such a mark as is used
in the North Country; and welcome every brave
yeoman who shall try a shot at it to win a smile
from the bonny lass he loves best.''

  He then turned to leave the lists.  ``Let your
guards attend me,'' he said, ``if you please---I go
but to cut a rod from the next willow-bush.''

  Prince John made a signal that some attendants
should follow him in case of his escape: but the cry
of ``Shame! shame!'' which burst from the multitude,
induced him to alter his ungenerous purpose.

  Locksley returned almost instantly with a willow
wand about six feet in length, perfectly straight,
and rather thicker than a man's thumb. He began
to peel this with great composure, observing at the
same time, that to ask a good woodsman to shoot
at a target so broad as had hitherto been used, was
to put shame upon his skill.  ``For his own part,''
he said, ``and in the land where he was bred, men
would as soon take for their mark King Arthur's
round-table, which held sixty knights around it.  A
child of seven years old,'' he said, `` might hit yonder
target with a headless shaft; but,'' added he,
walking deliberately to the other end of the lists,
and sticking the willow wand upright in the ground,
``he that hits that rod at five-score yards, I call him
an archer fit to bear both bow and quiver before a
king, an it were the stout King Richard himself.''

  ``My grandsire,'' said Hubert, ``drew a good
bow at the battle of Hastings, and never shot at
such a mark in his life---and neither will I. If this
yeoman can cleave that rod, I give him the bucklers---
or rather, I yield to the devil that is in his
jerkin, and not to any human skill; a man can but
do his best, and I will not shoot where I am sure to
miss.  I might as well shoot at the edge of our parson's
whittle, or at a wheat straw, or at a sunbeam,
as at a twinkling white streak which I can hardly
see.''

  ``Cowardly dog!'' said Prince John.---``Sirrah
Locksley, do thou shoot; but, if thou hittest such
a mark, I will say thou art the first man ever did
so. However it be, thou shalt not crow over us with
a mere show of superior skill.''

  ``I will do my best, as Hubert says,'' answered
Locksley; ``no man can do more.''

  So saying, he again bent his bow, but on the present
occasion looked with attention to his weapon,
and changed the string, which he thought was no
longer truly round, having been a little frayed by
the two former shots.  He then took his aim with
some deliberation, and the multitude awaited the
event in breathless silence.  The archer vindicated
their opinion of his skill: his arrow split the willow
rod against which it was aimed.  A jubilee of
acclamations followed; and even Prince John, in
admiration of Locksley's skill, lost for an instant
his dislike to his person.  ``These twenty nobles,''
he said, ``which, with the bugle, thou hast fairly
won, are thine own; we will make them fifty, if
thou wilt take livery and service with us as a yeoman
of our body guard, and be near to our person.
For never did so strong a hand bend a bow, or so
true an eye direct a shaft.''

  ``Pardon me, noble Prince,'' said Locksley; ``but
I have vowed, that if ever I take service, it should
be with your royal brother King Richard. These
twenty nobles I leave to Hubert, who has this day
drawn as brave a bow as his grandsire did at Hastings.
Had his modesty not refused the trial, he
would have hit the wand as well I.''

  Hubert shook his head as he received with reluctance
the bounty of the stranger, and Locksley,
anxious to escape further observation, mixed with
the crowd, and was seen no more.

  The victorious archer would not perhaps have
escaped John's attention so easily, had not that
Prince had other subjects of anxious and more important
meditation pressing upon his mind at that
instant.  He called upon his chamberlain as he gave
the signal for retiring from the lists, and commanded
him instantly to gallop to Ashby, and seek out
Isaac the Jew.  ``Tell the dog,'' he said, ``to send
me, before sun-down, two thousand crowns.  He
knows the security; but thou mayst show him this
ring for a token.  The rest of the money must be
paid at York within six days.  If he neglects, I
will have the unbelieving villain's head.  Look that
thou pass him not on the way; for the circumcised
slave was displaying his stolen finery amongst us.''

  So saying, the Prince resumed his horse, and returned
to Ashby, the whole crowd breaking up and
dispersing upon his retreat.



                CHAPTER XIV.

      In rough magnificence array'd,
      When ancient Chivalry display'd
      The pomp of her heroic games,
      And crested chiefs and tissued dames
      Assembled, at the clarion's call,
      In some proud castle's high arch'd hall.

                                           Warton.

  Prince John held his high festival in the Castle
of Ashby.  This was not the same building of which
the stately ruins still interest the traveller, and
which was erected at a later period by the Lord
Hastings, High Chamberlain of England, one of
the first victims of the tyranny of Richard the Third,
and yet better known as one of Shakspeare's characters
than by his historical fame.  The castle and
town of Ashby, at this time, belonged to Roger de
Quincy, Earl of Winchester, who, during the period
of our history, was absent in the Holy Land.
Prince John, in the meanwhile, occupied his castle,
and disposed of his domains without scruple; and
seeking at present to dazzle men's eyes by his hospitality
and magnificence, had given orders for great
preparations, in order to render the banquet as
splendid as possible.

  The purveyors of the Prince, who exercised on
this and other occasions the full authority of royalty,
had swept the country of all that could be collected
which was esteemed fit for their master's
table.  Guests also were invited in great numbers;
and in the necessity in which he then found
himself of courting popularity, Prince John had
extended his invitation to a few distinguished Saxon
and Danish families, as well as to the Norman nobility
and gentry of the neighbourhood.  However
despised and degraded on ordinary occasions, the
great numbers of the Anglo-Saxons must necessarily
render them formidable in the civil commotions
which seemed approaching, and it was an obvious
point of policy to secure popularity with their
leaders.

  It was accordingly the Prince's intention, which
he for some time maintained, to treat these unwonted
guests with a courtesy to which they had been
little accustomed.  But although no man with less
scruple made his ordinary habits and feelings bend
to his interest, it was the misfortune of this Prince,
that his levity and petulance were perpetually breaking
out, and undoing all that had been gained by
his previous dissimulation.

  Of this fickle temper he gave a memorable example
in Ireland, when sent thither by his father,
Henry the Second, with the purpose of buying
golden opinions of the inhabitants of that new and
important acquisition to the English crown.  Upon
this occasion the Irish chieftains contended which
should first offer to the young Prince their loyal
homage and the kiss of peace.  But, instead of receiving
their salutations with courtesy, John and
his petulant attendants could not resist the temptation
of pulling the long beards of the Irish chieftains;
a conduct which, as might have been expected,
was highly resented by these insulted dignitaries,
and produced fatal consequences to the English
domination in Ireland.  It is necessary to keep
these inconsistencies of John's character in view,
that the reader may understand his conduct during
the present evening.

  In execution of the resolution which he had formed
during his cooler moments, Prince John received
Cedric and Athelstane with distinguished courtesy,
and expressed his disappointment, without
resentment, when the indisposition of Rowena was
alleged by the former as a reason for her not attending
upon his gracious summons.  Cedric and
Athelstane were both dressed in the ancient Saxon
garb, which, although not unhandsome in itself,
and in the present instance composed of costly materials,
was so remote in shape and appearance from
that of the other guests, that Prince John took
great credit to himself with Waldemar Fitzurse
for refraining from laughter at a sight which the
fashion of the day rendered ridiculous.  Yet, in the
eye of sober judgment, the short close tunic and
long mantle of the Saxons was a more graceful, as
well as a more convenient dress, than the garb of
the Normans, whose under garment was a long
doublet, so loose as to resemble a shirt or waggoner's
frock, covered by a cloak of scanty dimensions,
neither fit to defend the wearer from cold or from
rain, and the only purpose of which appeared to be
to display as much fur, embroidery, and jewellery
work, as the ingenuity of the tailor could contrive
to lay upon it.  The Emperor Charlemagne, in
whose reign they were first introduced, seems to
have been very sensible of the inconveniences arising
from the fashion of this garment. ``In Heaven's
name,'' said hie, ``to what purpose serve these
abridged cloaks? If we are in bed they are no
cover, on horseback they are no protection from
the wind and rain, and when seated, they do not
guard our legs from the damp or the frost.''

  Nevertheless, spite of this imperial objurgation,
the short cloaks continued in fashion down to the
time of which we treat, and particularly among the
princes of the House of Anjou.  They were therefore
in universal use among Prince John's courtiers;
and the long mantle, which formed the upper
garment of the Saxons, was held in proportional
derision.

  The guests were seated at a table which groaned
under the quantity of good cheer.  The numerous
cooks who attended on the Prince's progress, having
exerted all their art in varying the forms in
which the ordinary provisions were served up, had
succeeded almost as well as the modern professors
of the culinary art in rendering them perfectly unlike
their natural appearance. Besides these dishes
of domestic origin, there were various delicacies
brought from foreign parts, and a quantity of rich
pastry, as well as of the simnel-bread and wastle
cakes, which were only used at the tables of the
highest nobility.  The banquet was crowned with
the richest wines, both foreign and domestic.

  But, though luxurious, the Norman nobles were
not generally speaking an intemperate race.  While
indulging themselves in the pleasures of the table,
they aimed at delicacy, but avoided excess, and were
apt to attribute gluttony and drunkenness to the
vanquished Saxons, as vices peculiar to their inferior
station.  Prince John, indeed, and those who
courted his pleasure by imitating his foibles, were
apt to indulge to excess in the pleasures of the
trencher and the goblet; and indeed it is well
known that his death was occasioned by a surfeit
upon peaches and new ale.  His conduct, however,
was an exception to the general manners of his
countrymen.

  With sly gravity, interrupted only by private
signs to each other, the Norman knights and nobles
beheld the ruder demeanour of Athelstane and
Cedric at a banquet, to the form and fashion of
which they were unaccustomed.  And while their
manners were thus the subject of sarcastic observation,
the untaught Saxons unwittingly transgressed
several of the arbitrary rules established for
the regulation of society.  Now, it is well known,
that a man may with more impunity be guilty of
an actual breach either of real good breeding or of
good morals, than appear ignorant of the most minute
point of fashionable etiquette.  Thus Cedric,
who dried his hands with a towel, instead of suffering
the moisture to exhale by waving them gracefully
in the air, incurred more ridicule than his companion
Athelstane, when he swallowed to his own
single share the whole of a large pasty composed of
the most exquisite foreign delicacies, and termed at
that time a _Karum-Pie_.  When, however, it was
discovered, by a serious cross-examination, that the
Thane of Coningsburgh (or Franklin, as the Normans
termed him) had no idea what he had been
devouring, and that he had taken the contents of
the Karum-pie for larks and pigeons, whereas they
were in fact beccaficoes and nightingales, his ignorance
brought him in for an ample share of the ridicule
which would have been more justly bestowed
on his gluttony.

  The long feast had at length its end; and, while
the goblet circulated freely, men talked of the feats
of the preceding tournament,---of the unknown victor
in the archery games, of the Black Knight,
whose self-denial had induced him to withdraw
from the honours he had won,---and of the gallant
Ivanhoe, who had so dearly bought the honours of
the day.  The topics were treated with military
frankness, and the jest and laugh went round the
hall.  The brow of Prince John alone was overclouded
during these discussions; some overpowering
care seemed agitating his mind, and it was only
when he received occasional hints from his attendants,
that he seemed to take interest in what
was passing around him.  On such occasions he
would start up, quaff a cup of wine as if to raise
his spirits, and then mingle in the conversation by
some observation made abruptly or at random.

  ``We drink this beaker,''  said  he,  ``to  the  health
of Wilfred of Ivanhoe, champion of this Passage
of Arms, and grieve that his wound renders him
absent from our board---Let all fill to the pledge,
and especially Cedric of Rotherwood, the worthy
father of a son so promising.''

  ``No, my lord,'' replied Cedric, standing up, and
placing on the table his untasted cup, ``I yield not
the name of son to the disobedient youth, who at
once despises my commands, and relinquishes the
manners and customs of his fathers.''

  ``'Tis impossible,'' cried Prince John, with well-feigned
astonishment, ``that so gallant a knight
should be an unworthy or disobedient son!''

  ``Yet, my lord,'' answered Cedric, ``so it is with
this Wilfred.  He left my homely dwelling to mingle
with the gay nobility of your brother's court,
where he learned to do those tricks of horsemanship
which you prize so highly.  He left it contrary
to my wish and command; and in the days of Alfred
that would have been termed disobedience---
ay, and a crime severely punishable.''

  ``Alas!'' replied Prince John, with a deep sigh
of affected sympathy, ``since your son was a follower
of my unhappy brother, it need not be enquired
where or from whom he learned the lesson
of filial disobedience.''

  Thus spake Prince John, wilfully forgetting, that
of all the sons of Henry the Second, though no one
was free from the charge, he himself had been most
distinguished for rebellion and ingratitude to his
father.

  ``I think,'' said be, after a moment's pause, ``that
my brother proposed to confer upon his favourite
the rich manor of Ivanhoe.''

  ``He did endow him with it,'' answered Cedric;
``nor is it my least quarrel with my son, that he
stooped to hold, as a feudal vassal, the very domains
which his fathers possessed in free and independent
right.''

  ``We shall then have your willing sanction, good
Cedric,'' said Prince John, ``to confer this fief upon
a person whose dignity will not be diminished
by holding land of the British crown.---Sir Reginald
Front-de-B<oe>uf,'' he said, turning towards that
Baron, ``I trust you will so keep the goodly Barony
of Ivanhoe, that Sir Wilfred shall not incur
his father's farther displeasure by again entering
upon that fief.''

  ``By St Anthony!'' answered the black-brow'd
giant, ``I will consent that your highness shall hold
me a Saxon, if either Cedric or Wilfred, or the best
that ever bore English blood, shall wrench from me
the gift with which your highness has graced me.''

  ``Whoever shall call thee Saxon, Sir Baron,'' replied
Cedric, offended at a mode of expression by
which the Normans frequently expressed their habitual
contempt of the English, ``will do thee an
honour as great as it is undeserved.''

  Front-de-B<oe>uf would have replied, but Prince
John's petulance and levity got the start.

  ``Assuredly,'' said be, ``my lords, the noble Cedric
speaks truth; and his race may claim precedence
over us as much in the length of their pedigrees
as in the longitude of their cloaks.''

  ``They go before us indeed in the field---as deer
before dogs,'' said Malvoisin.

  ``And with good right may they go before us---
forget not,'' said the Prior Aymer, ``the superior
decency and decorum of their manners.''

  ``Their singular abstemiousness and temperance,''
said De Bracy, forgetting the plan which promised
him a Saxon bride.

  ``Together with the courage and conduct,'' said
Brian de Bois-Guilbert, ``by which they distinguished
themselves at Hastings and elsewhere.''

  While, with smooth and smiling cheek, the courtiers,
each in turn, followed their Prince's example,
and aimed a shaft of ridicule at Cedric, the face of
the Saxon became inflamed with passion, and he
glanced his eyes fiercely from one to another, as if
the quick succession of so many injuries had prevented
his replying to them in turn; or, like a baited
bull, who, surrounded by his tormentors, is at
a loss to choose from among them the immediate
object of his revenge.  At length he spoke, in a
voice half choked with passion; and, addressing
himself to Prince John as the head and front of the
offence which he had received, ``Whatever,'' he said,
``have been the follies and vices of our race, a Saxon
would have been held _nidering_,'' * (the most emphatic

*  There was nothing accounted so ignominious among the
*  Saxons as to merit this disgraceful epithet.  Even William the
*  Conqueror, hated as he was by them, continued to draw a considerable
*  army of Anglo-Saxons to his standard, by threatening
*  to stigmatize those who staid at home, as nidering.  Bartholinus,
*  I think, mentions a similar phrase which had like influence on
*  the Danes.                                                L. T.

term for abject worthlessness,) ``who should
in his own hall, and while his own wine-cup passed,
have treated, or suffered to be treated, an unoffending
guest as your highness has this day beheld me
used; and whatever was the misfortune of our fathers
on the field of Hastings, those may at least
be silent,'' here he looked at Front-de-B<oe>uf and the
Templar, ``who have within these few hours once
and again lost saddle and stirrup before the lance of
a Saxon.''

  ``By my faith, a biting jest!'' said Prince John.
``How like you it, sirs?---Our Saxon subjects rise
in spirit and courage; become shrewd in wit, and
bold in bearing, in these unsettled times---What say
ye, my lords?---By this good light, I hold it best to
take our galleys, and return to Normandy in time.''

  ``For fear of the Saxons?'' said De Bracy, laughing;
``we should need no weapon but our hunting
spears to bring these boars to bay.''

  ``A truce with your raillery, Sir Knights,'' said
Fitzurse;---``and it were well,'' he added, addressing
the Prince, ``that your highness should assure
the worthy Cedric there is no insult intended him
by jests, which must sound but harshly in the ear
of a stranger.''

  ``Insult?'' answered Prince John, resuming his
courtesy of demeanour; ``I trust it will not be
thought that I could mean, or permit any, to be offered
in my presence.  Here! I fill my cup to Cedric
himself, since he refuses to pledge his son's health.''

  The  cup  went  round amid the well-dissembled
applause of the courtiers, which, however, failed to
make the impression on the mind of the Saxon that
had been designed.  He was not naturally acute of
perception, but those too much undervalued his understanding
who deemed that this flattering compliment
would obliterate the sense of the prior insult.
He was silent, however, when the royal pledge
again passed round, ``To Sir Athelstane of Coningsburgh.''

  The knight made his obeisance, and showed his
sense of the honour by draining a huge goblet in
answer to it.

  ``And now, sirs,'' said Prince John, who began
to be warmed with the wine which he had drank,
``having done justice to our Saxon guests, we will
pray of them some requital to our courtesy.---Worthy
Thane,'' he continued, addressing Cedric, ``may
we pray you to name to us some Norman whose
mention may least sully your mouth, and to wash
down with a goblet of wine all bitterness which the
sound may leave behind it?''

  Fitzurse arose while Prince John spoke, and
gliding behind the seat of the Saxon, whispered to
him not to omit the opportunity of putting an end
to unkindness betwixt the two races, by naming
Prince John.  The Saxon replied not to this politic
insinuation, but, rising up, and filling his cup to the
brim, be addressed Prince John in these words:
``Your highness has required that I should name a
Norman deserving to be remembered at our banquet.
This, perchance, is a hard task, since it calls
on the slave to sing the praises of the master---
upon the vanquished, while pressed by all the evils
of conquest, to sing the praises of the conqueror.
Yet I will name a Norman---the first in arms and
in place---the best and the noblest of his race.  And
the lips that shall refuse to pledge me to his well-earned
fame, I term false and dishonoured, and will
so maintain them with my life.---I quaff this goblet
to the health of Richard the Lion-hearted!''

  Prince John, who had expected that his own
name would have closed the Saxon's speech, started
when that of his injured brother was so unexpectedly
introduced.  He raised mechanically the wine-cup
to his lips, then instantly set it down, to view
the demeanour of the company at this unexpected
proposal, which many of them felt it as unsafe to
oppose as to comply with.  Some of them, ancient
and experienced courtiers, closely imitated the example
of the Prince himself, raising the goblet to
their lips, and again replacing it before them.  There
were many who, with a more generous feeling, exclaimed,
``Long live King Richard! and may he
be speedily restored to us!'' And some few, among
whom were Front-de-B<oe>uf and the Templar, in
sullen disdain suffered their goblets to stand untasted
before them.  But no man ventured directly
to gainsay a pledge filled to the health of the reigning
monarch.

  Having enjoyed his triumph for about a minute,
Cedric said to his companion, ``Up, noble Athelstane!
we have remained here long enough, since
we have requited the hospitable courtesy of Prince
John's banquet.  Those who wish to know further
of our rude Saxon manners must henceforth seek
us in the homes of our fathers, since we have seen
enough of royal banquets, and enough of Norman
courtesy.''

  So saying, he arose and left the banqueting room,
followed by Athelstane, and by several other guests,
who, partaking of the Saxon lineage, held themselves
insulted by the sarcasms of Prince John and
his courtiers.

  ``By the bones of St Thomas,'' said Prince John,
as they retreated, ``the Saxon churls have borne
off the best of the day, and have retreated with triumph!''

  ``_Conclamatum est, poculatum est_,'' said Prior
Aymer; ``we have drunk and we have shouted,---
it were time we left our wine flagons.''

  ``The monk hath some fair penitent to shrive
to-night, that he is in such a hurry to depart,'' said
De Bracy.

  ``Not so, Sir Knight,'' replied the Abbot; ``but
I must move several miles forward this evening
upon my homeward journey.''

  ``They are breaking up,'' said the Prince in a
whisper to Fitzurse; ``their fears anticipate the
event, and this coward Prior is the first to shrink
from me.''

  ``Fear not, my lord,'' said Waldemar; ``I will
show him such reasons as shall induce him to join
us when we hold our meeting at York.---Sir Prior,''
he said, ``I must speak with you in private, before
you mount your palfrey.''

  The other  guests  were  now  fast  dispersing,  with
the exception of those immediately attached to,
Prince John's faction, and his retinue.

  ``This, then, is the result of your advice,'' said
the Prince, turning an angry countenance upon
Fitzurse; ``that I should be bearded at my own
board by a drunken Saxon churl, and that, on the
mere sound of my brother's name, men should fall
off from me as if I had the leprosy?''

  ``Have patience, sir,'' replied his counsellor; ``I
might retort your accusation, and blame the inconsiderate
levity which foiled my design, and misled
your own better judgment.  But this is no time
for recrimination.  De Bracy and I will instantly
go among these shuffling cowards, and convince
them they have gone too far to recede.''

  ``It will be in vain,'' said Prince John, pacing
the apartment with disordered steps, and expressing
himself with an agitation to which the wine he
had drank partly contributed---``It will be in vain
--they have seen the handwriting on the wall---
they have marked the paw of the lion in the sand
---they have heard his approaching roar shake the
wood---nothing will reanimate their courage.''

  ``Would to God,'' said Fitzurse to De Bracy,
``that aught could reanimate his own! His brother's
very name is an ague to him.  Unhappy are
the counsellors of a Prince, who wants fortitude
and perseverance alike in good and in evil!''



                 CHAPTER XV.

   And yet he thinks,---ha, ha, ha, ha,---he thinks
   I am the tool and servant of his will.
   Well, let it be; through all the maze of trouble
   His plots and base oppression must create,
   I'll shape myself a way to higher things,
   And who will say 'tis wrong?
                                   _Basil, a Tragedy_.


  No spider ever took more pains to repair the
shattered meshes of his web, than did Waldemar
Fitzurse to reunite and combine the scattered members
of Prince John's cabal.  Few of these were
attached to him from inclination, and none from
personal regard.  It was therefore necessary, that
Fitzurse should open to them new prospects of advantage,
and remind them of those which they at
present enjoyed.  To the young and wild nobles,
he held out the prospect of unpunished license and
uncontrolled revelry; to the ambitious, that of
power, and to the covetous, that of increased wealth
and extended domains.  The leaders of the mercenaries
received a donation in gold; an argument
the most persuasive to their minds, and without
which all others would have proved in vain.  Promises
were still more liberally distributed than money
by this active agent; and, in fine, nothing was
left undone that could determine the wavering, or
animate the disheartened.  The return of King
Richard he spoke of as an event altogether beyond
the reach of probability; yet, when he observed,
from the doubtful looks and uncertain answers
which he received, that this was the apprehension
by which the minds of his accomplices were most
haunted, he boldly treated that event, should it
really take place, as one which ought not to alter
their political calculations.

  ``If Richard returns,'' said Fitzurse, ``he returns
to enrich his needy and impoverished crusaders at
the expense of those who did not follow him to the
Holy Land.  He returns to call to a fearful reckoning,
those who, during his absence, have done
aught that can be construed offence or encroachment
upon either the laws of the land or the privileges
of the crown.  He returns to avenge upon
the Orders of the Temple and the Hospital, the
preference which they showed to Philip of France
during the wars in the Holy Land.  He returns,
in fine, to punish as a rebel every adherent of his
brother Prince John.  Are ye afraid of his power?''
continued the artful confident of that Prince, ``we
acknowledge him a strong and valiant knight; but
these are not the days of King Arthur, when a
champion could encounter an army.  If Richard
indeed comes back, it must be alone,---unfollowed
---unfriended.  The bones of his gallant army have
whitened the sands of Palestine.  The few of his
followers who have returned have straggled hither
like this Wilfred of Ivanhoe, beggared and broken
men.---And what talk ye of Richard's right of
birth?'' he proceeded, in answer to those who objected
scruples on that head.  ``Is Richard's title
of primogeniture more decidedly certain than that
of Duke Robert of Normandy, the Conqueror's
eldest son? And yet William the Red, and Henry,
his second and third brothers, were successively
preferred to him by the voice of the nation, Robert
had every merit which can be pleaded for Richard;
he was a bold knight, a good leader, generous to
his friends and to the church, and, to crown the
whole, a crusader and a conqueror of the Holy Sepulchre;
and yet he died a blind and miserable
prisoner in the Castle of Cardiff, because he opposed
himself to the will of the people, who chose that
he should not rule over them.  It is our right,'' he
said, `` to choose from the blood royal the prince
who is best qualified to hold the supreme power---
that is,'' said he, correcting himself, ``him whose
election will best promote the interests of the nobility.
In personal qualifications,'' he added, ``it was
possible that Prince John might be inferior to his
brother Richard; but when it was considered that
the latter returned with the sword of vengeance in
his hand, while the former held out rewards, immunities,
privileges, wealth, and honours, it could
not be doubted which was the king whom in wisdom
the nobility were called on to support.''

  These, and many more arguments, some adapted
to the peculiar circumstances of those whom he addressed,
had the expected weight with the nobles
of Prince John's faction.  Most of them consented
to attend the proposed meeting at York, for the
purpose of making general arrangements for placing
the crown upon the head of Prince John.

  It was late at night, when, worn out and exhausted
with his various exertions, however gratified
with the result, Fitzurse, returning to the
Castle of Ashby, met with De Bracy, who had exchanged
his banqueting garments for a short green
kittle, with hose of the same cloth and colour, a
leathern cap or head-piece, a short sword, a horn
slung over his shoulder, a long bow in his hand,
and a bundle of arrows stuck in his belt.  Had
Fitzurse met this figure in an outer apartment, he
would have passed him without notice, as one of
the yeomen of the guard; but finding him in the
inner hall, he looked at him with more attention,
and recognised the Norman knight in the dress of
an English yeoman.

  ``What mummery is this, De Bracy?'' said Fitzurse,
somewhat angrily; ``is this a time for Christmas
gambols and quaint maskings, when the fate of
our master, Prince John, is on the very verge of decision?
Why hast thou not been, like me, among
these heartless cravens, whom the very name of King
Richard terrifies, as it is said to do the children of
the Saracens?'

  ``I have been attending to mine own business,''
answered De Bracy calmly, ``as you, Fitzurse, have
been minding yours.''

  ``I minding mine own business!'' echoed Waldemar;
``I have been engaged in that of Prince
John, our joint patron.''

  ``As if  thou  hadst  any  other  reason  for  that,
Waldemar,'' said De Bracy, ``than the promotion
of thine own individual interest? Come, Fitzurse,
we know each other---ambition is thy pursuit, pleasure
is mine, and they become our different ages.
Of Prince John thou thinkest as I do; that he is
too weak to be a determined monarch, too tyrannical
to be an easy monarch, too insolent and presumptuous
to be a popular monarch, and too fickle
and timid to be long a monarch of any kind.  But
he is a monarch by whom Fitzurse and De Bracy
hope to rise and thrive; and therefore you aid him
with your policy, and I with the lances of my Free
Companions.''

  ``A hopeful auxiliary,'' said Fitzurse impatiently;
``playing the fool in the very moment of utter
necessity.---What on earth dost thou purpose by
this absurd disguise at a moment so urgent?''

  ``To get me a wife,'' answered De Bracy coolly,
``after the manner of the tribe of Benjamin.''

  ``The tribe of Benjamin?'' said Fitzurse; ``I
comprehend thee not.''

  ``Wert thou not in  presence  yester-even,''  said
De Bracy, ``when we heard the Prior Aymer tell
us a tale in reply to the romance which was sung
by the Minstrel?---He told how, long since in Palestine,
a deadly feud arose between the tribe of
Benjamin and the rest of the Israelitish nation;
and how they cut to pieces wellnigh all the chivalry
of that tribe; and how they swore by our blessed
Lady, that they would not permit those who remained
to marry in their lineage; and how they
became grieved for their vow, and sent to consult
his holiness the Pope how they might be absolved
from it; and how, by the advice of the Holy Father,
the youth of the tribe of Benjamin carried off
from a superb tournament all the ladies who were
there present, and thus won them wives without
the consent either of their brides or their brides'
families.''

  ``I have heard the story,'' said Fitzurse, ``though
either the Prior or thou has made some singular
alterations in date and circumstances.''

  ``I tell thee,'' said De Bracy, ``that I mean to
purvey me a wife after the fashion of the tribe of
Benjamin; which is as much as to say, that in this
same equipment I will fall upon that herd of Saxon
bullocks, who have this night left the castle, and
carry off from them the lovely Rowena.''

  ``Art thou mad, De Bracy?'' said Fitzurse. ``Bethink
thee that, though the men be Saxons, they
are rich and powerful, and regarded with the more
respect by their countrymen, that wealth and honour
are but the lot of few of Saxon descent.''

  ``And should belong to none,'' said De Bracy;
``the work of the Conquest should be completed.''

  ``This is no time for it at least,'' said Fitzurse
``the approaching crisis renders the favour of the
multitude indispensable, and Prince John cannot
refuse justice to any one who injures their favourites.''

  ``Let him grant it, if he dare,'' said De Bracy;
``he will soon see the difference betwixt the support
of such a lusty lot of spears as mine, and that
of a heartless mob of Saxon churls.  Yet I mean
no immediate discovery of myself.  Seem I not in
this garb as bold a forester as ever blew horn? The
blame of the violence shall rest with the outlaws of
the Yorkshire forests.  I have sure spies on the
Saxon's motions---To-night they sleep in the convent
of Saint Wittol, or Withold, or whatever they
call that churl of a Saxon Saint at Burton-on-Trent.
Next day's march brings them within our reach,
and, falcon-ways, we swoop on them at once.  Presently
after I will appear in mine own shape, play
the courteous knight, rescue the unfortunate and
afflicted fair one from the hands of the rude ravishers,
conduct her to Front-de-B<oe>uf's Castle, or to
Normandy, if it should be necessary, and produce
her not again to her kindred until she be the bride
and dame of Maurice de Bracy.''

  ``A marvellously sage plan,'' said Fitzurse, ``and,
as I think, not entirely of thine own device.---Come,
be frank, De Bracy, who aided thee in the invention?
and who is to assist in the execution? for,
as I think, thine own band lies as far of as York.''

  ``Marry, if thou must needs know,'' said De
Bracy, ``it was the Templar Brian de Bois-Guilbert
that shaped out the enterprise, which the adventure
of the men of Benjamin suggested to me.
He is to aid me in the onslaught, and he and his
followers will personate the outlaws, from whom
iny valorous arm is, after changing my garb, to
rescue the lady.''

  ``By my halidome,'' said Fitzurse, ``the plan
was worthy of your united wisdom! and thy prudence,
De Bracy, is most especially manifested in
the project of leaving the lady in the hands of thy
worthy confederate.  Thou mayst, I think, succeed
in taking her from her Saxon friends, but how thou
wilt rescue her afterwards from the clutches of
Bois-Guilbert seems considerably more doubtful
---He is a falcon well accustomed to pounce on a
partridge, and to hold his prey fast.''

  ``He is a Templar,'' said De Bracy, ``and cannot
therefore rival me in my plan of wedding this
heiress;---and to attempt aught dishonourable
against the intended bride of De Bracy---By Heaven!
were he a whole Chapter of his Order in his
single person, he dared not do me such an injury!''

  ``Then since nought that I can say,'' said Fitzurse,
``will put this folly from thy imagination,
(for well I know the obstinacy of thy disposition,)
at least waste as little time as possible---let not thy
folly be lasting as well as untimely.''

  ``I tell thee,'' answered De Bracy, ``that it will
be the work of a few hours, and I shall be at York---
at the head of my daring and valorous fellows, as
ready to support any bold design as thy policy can
be to form one.---But I hear my comrades assembling,
and the steeds stamping and neighing in the
outer court.---Farewell.---I go, like a true knight,
to win the smiles of beauty.''

  ``Like a true knigbt?'' repeated Fitzurse, looking
after him; ``like a fool, I should say, or like
a child, who will leave the most serious and needful
occupation, to chase the down of the thistle that
drives past him.---But it is with such tools that I
must work;---and for whose advantage?---For that
of a Prince as unwise as he is profligate, and as
likely to be an ungrateful master as he has already
proved a rebellious son and an unnatural brother.
---But he---he, too, is but one of the tools with
which I labour; and, proud as he is, should he presume
to separate his interest from mine, this is a
secret which he shall soon learn.''

  The meditations of the statesman were here interrupted
by the voice of the Prince from an interior
apartment, calling out, ``Noble Waldemar
Fitzurse!'' and, with bonnet doffed, the future
Chancellor (for to such high preferment did the
wily Norman aspire) hastened to receive the orders
of the future sovereign.



               CHAPTER XVI.

     Far in a wild, unknown to public view,
     From youth to age a reverend hermit grew;
     The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell,
     His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well
     Remote from man, with God he pass'd his days,
     Prayer all his business---all his pleasure praise.
                                        _Parnell._


  The reader cannot have forgotten that the event
of the tournament was decided by the exertions of
an unknown knight, whom, on account of the passive
and indifferent conduct which he had manifested
on the former part of the day, the spectators
had entitled, _Le Noir Faineant_.  This knight had
left the field abruptly when the victory was achieved;
and when he was called upon to receive the
reward of his valour, he was nowhere to be found.
In the meantime, while summoned by heralds and
by trumpets, the knight was holding his course
northward, avoiding all frequented paths, and taking
the shortest road through the woodlands.  He
paused for the night at a small hostelry lying out
of the ordinary route, where, however, he obtained
from a wandering minstrel news of the event of the
tourney.

  On the next morning the knight departed early,
with the intention of making a long journey; the
condition of his horse, which he had carefully spared
during the preceding morning, being such as enabled
him to travel far without the necessity of much
repose.  Yet his purpose was baffled by the devious
paths through which he rode, so that when evening
closed upon him, he only found himself on the
frontiers of the West Riding of Yorkshire.  By
this time both horse and man required refreshment,
and it became necessary, moreover, to look out for
some place in which they might spend the night,
which was now fast approaching.

  The place where the traveller found himself
seemed unpropitious for obtaining either shelter or
refreshment, and he was likely to be reduced to the
usual expedient of knights-errant, who, on such occasions,
turned their horses to graze, and laid themselves
down to meditate on their lady-mistress, with
an oak-tree for a canopy.  But the Black Knight
either had no mistress to meditate upon, or, being
as indifferent in love as he seemed to be in war,
was not sufficiently occupied by passionate reflections
upon her beauty and cruelty, to be able to
parry the effects of fatigue and hunger, and suffer
love to act as a substitute for the solid comforts of
a bed and supper.  He felt dissatisfied, therefore,
when, looking around, he found himself deeply involved
in woods, through which indeed there were
many open glades, and some paths, but such as
seemed only formed by the numerous herds of cattle
which grazed in the forest, or by the animals of
chase, and the hunters who made prey of them.

  The sun, by which the knight had chiefly directed
his course, had now sunk behind the Derbyshire
hills on his left, and every effort which he
might make to pursue his journey was as likely to
lead him out of his road as to advance him on his
route.  After having in vain endeavoured to select
the most beaten path, in hopes it might lead to the
cottage of some herdsman, or the silvan lodge of
a forester, and having repeatedly found himself
totally unable to determine on a choice, the knight
resolved to trust to the sagacity of his horse; experience
having, on former occasions, made him
acquainted with the wonderful talent possessed by
these animals for extricating themselves and their
riders on such emergencies.

  The good steed, grievously fatigued with so long
a day's journey under a rider cased in mail, had no
sooner found, by the slackened reins, that he was
abandoned to his own guidance, than he seemed to
assume new strength and spirit; and whereas, formerly
he had scarce replied to the spur, otherwise
than by a groan, he now, as if proud of the confidence
reposed in him, pricked up his ears, and assumed,
of his own accord, a more lively motion.
The path which the animal adopted rather turned
off from the course pursued by the knight during
the day; but as the horse seemed confident in his
choice, the rider abandoned himself to his discretion.

  He was justified by the event; for the footpath
soon after appeared a little wider and more worn,
and the tinkle of a small bell gave the knight to understand
that he was in the vicinity of some chapel
or hermitage.

  Accordingly, he soon reached an open plat of
turf, on the opposite side of which, a rock, rising
abruptly from a gently sloping plain, offered its
grey and weatherbeaten front to the traveller.  Ivy
mantled its sides in some places, and in others oaks
and holly bushes, whose roots found nourishment in
the cliffs of the crag, waved over the precipices below,
like the plumage of the warrior over his steel
helmet, giving grace to that whose chief expression
was terror.  At the bottom of the rock, and leaning,
as it were, against it, was constructed a rude
hut, built chiefly of the trunks of trees felled in the
neighbouring forest, and secured against the weather
by having its crevices stuffed with moss mingled
with clay.  The stem of a young fir-tree lopped
of its branches, with a piece of wood tied across
near the top, was planted upright by the door, as
a rude emblem of the holy cross.  At a little distance
on the right hand, a fountain of the purest
water trickled out of the rock, and was received in
a hollow stone, which labour had formed into a
rustic basin.  Escaping from thence, the stream
murmured down the descent by a channel which
its course had long worn, and so wandered through
the little plain to lose itself in the neighbouring
wood.

  Beside this fountain were the ruins of a very
small chapel, of which the roof had partly fallen in.
The building, when entire, had never been above
sixteen feet long by twelve feet in breadth, and the
roof, low in proportion, rested upon four concentric
arches which sprung from the four corners of the
building, each supported upon a short and heavy
pillar.  The ribs of two of these arches remained,
though the roof had fallen down betwixt them;
over the others it remained entire.  The entrance
to this ancient place of devotion was under a very
low round arch, ornamented by several courses of
that zig-zag moulding, resembling shark's teeth,
which appears so often in the more ancient Saxon
architecture.  A belfry rose above the porch on
four small pillars, within which hung the green and
weatherbeaten bell, the feeble sounds of which had
been some time before heard by the Black Knight.

  The whole peaceful and quiet scene lay glimmering
in twilight before the eyes of the traveller,
giving him good assurance of lodging for the night;
since it was a special duty of those hermits who
dwelt in the woods, to exercise hospitality towards
benighted or bewildered passengers.

  Accordingly, the knight took no time to consider
minutely the particulars which we have detailed,
but thanking Saint Julian (the patron of travellers)
who had sent him good harbourage, he
leaped from his horse and assailed the door of the
hermitage with the butt of his lance, in order to
arouse attention and gain admittance.

  It was some time before he obtained any answer,
and the reply, when made, was unpropitious.

  ``Pass on, whosoever thou art,'' was the answer
given by a deep hoarse voice from within the hut,
``and disturb not the servant of God and St Dunstan
in his evening devotions.''

  ``Worthy father,'' answered the knight, ``here
is a poor wanderer bewildered in these woods, who
gives thee the opportunity of exercising thy charity
and hospitality.''

  ``Good brother,'' replied the inhabitant of the
hermitage, ``it has pleased Our Lady and St Dunstan
to destine me for the object of those virtues,
instead of the exercise thereof.  I have no provisions
here which even a dog would share with me,
and a horse of any tenderness of nurture would despise
my couch---pass therefore on thy way, and
God speed thee.''

  ``But how,'' replied the knight, ``is it possible for
me to find my way through such a wood as this,
when darkness is coming on? I pray you, reverend
father as you are a Christian, to undo your door,
and at least point out to me my road.''

  ``And I pray you, good Christian brother,'' replied
the anchorite, ``to disturb me no more.  You
have already interrupted one _pater_, two _aves_, and a
_credo_, which I, miserable sinner that I am, should,
according to my vow, have said before moonrise.''

  ``The road---the road!'' vociferated the knight,
``give me directions for the road, if I am to expect
no more from thee.''

  ``The road,'' replied the hermit, ``is easy to hit.
The path from the wood leads to a morass, and
from thence to a ford, which, as the rains have abated,
may now be passable.  When thou hast crossed
the ford, thou wilt take care of thy footing up
the left bank, as it is somewhat precipitous; and
the path, which hangs over the river, has lately, as
I learn, (for I seldom leave the duties of my chapel,)
given way in sundry places.  Thou wilt then
keep straight forward''

  ``A broken path---a precipice---a ford, and a
morass!'' said the knight interrupting him,---``Sir
Hermit, if you were the holiest that ever wore
beard or told bead, you shall scarce prevail on me
to hold this road to-night.  I tell thee, that thou,
who livest by the charity of the country---ill deserved,
as I doubt it is---hast no right to refuse
shelter to the wayfarer when in distress.  Either
open the door quickly, or, by the rood, I will beat
it down and make entry for myself.''

  ``Friend wayfarer,'' replied the hermit, ``be not
importunate; if thou puttest me to use the carnal
weapon in mine own defence, it will be e'en the
worse for you.''

  At this moment a distant noise of barking and
growling, which the traveller had for some time
heard, became extremely loud and furious, and
made the knight suppose that the hermit, alarmed
by his threat of making forcible entry, had called
the dogs who made this clamour to aid him in his
defence, out of some inner recess in which they had
been kennelled.  Incensed at this preparation on
the hermit's part for making good his inhospitable
purpose, the knight struck the door so furiously
with his foot, that posts as well as staples shook
with violence.

  The anchorite, not  caring  again  to  expose  his
door to a similar shock, now called out aloud, ``Patience,
patience---spare thy strength, good traveller,
and I will presently undo the door, though, it may
be, my doing so will be little to thy pleasure.''

  The door accordingly was opened; and the hermit,
a large, strong-built man, in his sackcloth
gown and hood, girt with a rope of rushes, stood
before the knight.  He had in one hand a lighted
torch, or link, and in the other a baton of  crab-tree,
so thick and heavy, that it might well be termed
a club.  Two large shaggy dogs, half greyhound
half mastiff, stood ready to rush upon the traveller
as soon as the door should be opened.  But when
the torch glanced upon the lofty crest and golden
spurs of the knight, who stood without, the hermit,
altering probably his original intentions, repressed
the rage of his auxiliaries, and, changing his tone
to a sort of churlish courtesy, invited the knight to
enter his hut, making excuse for his unwillingness
to open his lodge after sunset, by alleging the
multitude of robbers and outlaws who were abroad,
and who gave no honour to Our Lady or St Dunstan,
nor to those holy men who spent life in their
service.

  ``The poverty of your cell, good father,'' said the
knight, looking around him, and seeing nothing
but a bed of leaves, a crucifix rudely carved in oak,
a missal, with a rough-hewn table and two stools,
and one or two clumsy articles of furniture---``the
poverty of your cell should seem a sufficient defence
against any risk of thieves, not to mention
the aid of two trusty dogs, large and strong enough,
I think, to pull down a stag, and of course, to
match with most men.''

  ``The good keeper of the forest,'' said the hermit,
``hath allowed me the use of these animals,
to protect my solitude until the times shall mend.''

  Having said this, he fixed his torch in a twisted
branch of iron which served for a candlestick; and,
placing the oaken trivet before the embers of the
fire, which he refreshed with some dry wood, he
placed a stool upon one side of the table, and beckoned
to the knight to do the same upon the other.

  They sat down, and gazed with great gravity at
each other, each thinking in his heart that he had
seldom seen a stronger or more athletic figure than
was placed opposite to him.

  ``Reverend hermit,'' said the knight, after looking
long and fixedly at his host, ``were it not to
interrupt your devout meditations, I would pray
to know three things of your holiness; first, where
I am to put my horse?---secondly, what I can have
for supper?---thirdly, where I am to take up my
couch for the night?''

  ``I will reply to you,'' said the hermit, ``with
my finger, it being against my rule to speak by
words where signs can answer the purpose.'' So
saying, he pointed successively to two corners of
the hut.  ``Your stable,'' said he, ``is there---your
bed there; and,'' reaching down a platter with two
handfuls of parched pease upon it from the neighbouring
shelf, and placing it upon the table, he added,
``your supper is here.''

  The knight  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  leaving
the hut, brought in his horse, (which in the interim
he had fastened to a tree,) unsaddled him with
much attention, and spread upon the steed's weary
back his own mantle.

  The hermit was apparently somewhat moved to
compassion by the anxiety as well as address which
the stranger displayed in tending his horse; for,
muttering something about provender left for the
keeper's palfrey, he dragged out of a recess a bundle
of forage, which he spread before the knight's
charger, and immediately afterwards shook down a
quantity of dried fern in the corner which he had
assigned for the rider's couch.  The knight returned
him thanks for his courtesy; and, this duty done,
both resumed their seats by the table, whereon
stood the trencher of pease placed between them.
The hermit, after a long grace, which had once been
Latin, but of which original language few traces remained,
excepting here and there the long rolling
termination of some word or phrase, set example
to his guest, by modestly putting into a very large
mouth, furnished with teeth which might have
ranked with those of a boar both in sharpness and
whiteness, some three or four dried pease, a miserable
grist as it seemed for so large and able a mill.

  The knight, in order to follow so laudable an example,
laid aside his helmet, his corslet, and the
greater part of his armour, and showed to the hermit
a head thick-curled with yellow hair, high features,
blue eyes, remarkably bright and sparkling,
a mouth well formed, having an upper lip clothed
with mustachoes darker than his hair, and bearing
altogether the look of a bold, daring, and enterprising
man, with which his strong form well corresponded.

  The hermit, as if wishing to answer to the confidence
of his guest, threw back his cowl, and showed
a round bullet head belonging to a man in the prime
of life.  His close-shaven crown, surrounded by a
circle of stiff curled black hair, had something the
appearance of a parish pinfold begirt by its high
hedge.  The features expressed nothing of monastic
austerity, or of ascetic privations; on the contrary,
it was a bold bluff countenance, with broad black
eyebrows, a well-turned forehead, and cheeks as
round and vermilion as those of a trumpeter, from
which descended a long and curly black beard. Such.
a visage, joined to the brawny form of the holy man,
spoke rather of sirloins and haunches, than of pease
and pulse.  This incongruity did not escape the
guest.  After he had with great difficulty accomplished
the mastication of a mouthful of the dried
pease, he found it absolutely necessary to request
his pious entertainer to furnish him with some liquor;
who replied to his request by placing before
him a large can of the purest water from the fountain.

  ``It is from the well of St Dunstan,'' said he,
``in which, betwixt sun and sun, he baptized five
hundred heathen Danes and Britons---blessed be
his name!'' And applying his black beard to the
pitcher, he took a draught much more moderate in
quantity than his encomium seemed to warrant.

  ``It  seems  to  me,  reverend  father,'' said the
knight, ``that the small morsels which you eat, together
with this holy, but somewhat thin beverage,
have thriven with you marvellously.  You appear
a man more fit to win the ram at a wrestling match,
or the ring at a bout at quarter-staff, or the bucklers
at a sword-play, than to linger out your time
in this desolate wilderness, saying masses, and living
upon parched pease and cold water.''

  ``Sir Knight,'' answered the hermit, ``your
thoughts, like those of the ignorant laity, are according
to the flesh.  It has pleased Our Lady and
my patron saint to bless the pittance to which I restrain
myself, even as the pulse and water was blessed
to the children Shadrach, Meshech, and Abednego,
who drank the same rather than defile themselves
with the wine and meats which were appointed
them by the King of the Saracens.''

  ``Holy father,'' said the knight, ``upon whose
countenance it hath pleased Heaven to work such
a miracle, permit a sinful layman to crave thy
name?''

  ``Thou mayst call me,'' answered the hermit,
``the Clerk of Copmanhurst, for so I am termed in
these parts---They add, it is true, the epithet holy,
but I stand not upon that, as being unworthy of
such addition.---And now, valiant knight, may I
pray ye for the name of my honourable guest?''

  ``Truly,'' said the knight, ``Holy Clerk of Copmanhurst,
men call me in these parts the Black
Knight,---many, sir, add to it the epithet of Sluggard,
whereby I am no way ambitious to be distinguished.''

  The hermit could scarcely forbear from smiling
at his guest's reply.

  ``I see,'' said he, ``Sir Sluggish Knight, that
thou art a man of prudence and of counsel; and
moreover, I see that my poor monastic fare likes
thee not, accustomed, perhaps, as thou hast been,
to the license of courts and of camps, and the luxuries
of cities; and now I bethink me, Sir Sluggard,
that when the charitable keeper of this forest-walk
left those dogs for my protection, and also those
bundles of forage, he left me also some food, which,
being unfit for my use, the very recollection of it
had escaped me amid my more weighty meditations.''

  ``I dare be sworn he did so,'' said the knight; ``I
was convinced that there was better food in the cell,
Holy Clerk, since you first doffed your cowl.---Your
keeper is ever a jovial fellow; and none who beheld
thy grinders contending with these pease, and
thy throat flooded with this ungenial element, could
see thee doomed to such horse-provender and horse-beverage,''
(pointing to the provisions upon the
table,) `` and refrain from mending thy cheer.  Let
us see the keeper's bounty, therefore, without delay.''

  The hermit cast a wistful look upon the knight,
in which there was a sort of comic expression of
hesitation, as if uncertain how far be should act prudently
in trusting his guest.  There was, however,
as much of bold frankness in the knight's countenance
as was possible to be expressed by features.
His smile, too, had something in it irresistibly comic,
and gave an assurance of faith and loyalty, with
which his host could not refrain from sympathizing.

  After exchanging a mute glance or two, the hermit
went to the further side of the hut, and opened
a hutch, which was concealed with great care
and some ingenuity.  Out of the recesses of a dark
closet, into which this aperture gave admittance, he
brought a large pasty, baked in a pewter platter of
unusual dimensions.  This mighty dish he placed
before his guest, who, using his poniard to cut it
open, lost no time in making himself acquainted
with its contents.

  ``How long is it since the good keeper has been
here?'' said the knight to his host, after having
swallowed several hasty morsels of this reinforcement
to the hermit's good cheer.

  ``About two months,'' answered the father hastily.

  ``By the true Lord,'' answered the knight,
``every thing in your hermitage is miraculous,
Holy Clerk! for I would have been sworn that the
fat buck which furnished this venison had been running
on foot within the week.''

  The hermit was somewhat discountenanced by
this observation; and, moreover, he made but a
poor figure while gazing on the diminution of the
pasty, on which his guest was making desperate inroads;
a warfare in which his previous profession
of abstinence left him no pretext for joining.

  ``I have been in Palestine, Sir Clerk,'' said the
knight, stopping short of a sudden, ``and I bethink
me it is a custom there that every host who entertains
a guest shall assure him of the wholesomeness
of his food, by partaking of it along with him.  Far
be it from me to suspect so holy a man of aught
inhospitable; nevertheless I will be highly bound
to you would you comply with this Eastern custom.''

  ``To ease your unnecessary scruples, Sir Knight,
I will for once depart from my rule,'' replied the
hermit.  And as there were no forks in those days,
his clutches were instantly in the bowels of the
pasty.

  The ice of ceremony being once broken, it seemed
matter of rivalry between the guest and the entertainer
which should display the best appetite;
and although the former had probably fasted lonest,
yet the hermit fairly surpassed him.

  ``Holy Clerk,'' said the knight, when his hunger
was appeased, ``I would gage my good horse yonder
against a zeechin, that that same honest keeper
to whom we are obliged for the venison has left
thee a stoup of wine, or a reinlet of canary, or some
such trifle, by way of ally to this noble pasty.  This
would be a circumstance, doubtless, totally unworthy
to dwell in the memory of so rigid an anchorite;
yet, I think, were you to search yonder crypt once
more, you would find that I am right in my conjecture.''

  The hermit only replied by a grin; and returning
to the hutch, he produced a leathern bottle,
which might contain about four quarts.  He also
brought forth two large drinking cups, made out of
the horn of the urus, and hooped with silver.  Having
made this goodly provision for washing down
the supper, he seemed to think no farther ceremonious
scruple necessary on his part; but filling
both cups, and saying, in the Saxon fashion, ``_Waes
hael_, Sir Sluggish Knight!'' he emptied his own at
a draught.

  ``_Drink hael_, Holy Clerk of Copmanhurst!''
answered the warrior, and did his host reason in a
similar brimmer.

  ``Holy Clerk,'' said the stranger, after the first
cup was thus swallowed, ``I cannot but marvel that
a man possessed of such thews and sinews as thine,
and who therewithal shows the talent of so goodly
a trencher-man, should think of abiding by himself
in this wilderness. In my judgment, you are fitter
to keep a castle or a fort, eating of the fat and drinking
of the strong, than to live here upon pulse and
water, or even upon the charity of the keeper.  At
least, were I as thou, I should find myself both disport
and plenty out of the king's deer.  There is
many a goodly herd in these forests, and a buck
will never be missed that goes to the use of Saint
Dunstan's chaplain.''

  ``Sir Sluggish Knight,'' replied the Clerk, ``these
are dangerous words, and I pray you to forbear
them.  I am true hermit to the king and law, and
were I to spoil my liege's game, I should be sure
of the prison, and, an my gown saved me not, were
in some peril of hanging.''

  ``Nevertheless, were I as thou,'' said the knight,
``I would take my walk by moonlight, when foresters
and keepers were warm in bed, and ever and
anon,---as I pattered my prayers,---I would let fly
a shaft among the herds of dun deer that feed in the
glades---Resolve me, Holy Clerk, hast thou never
practised such a pastime?''

  ``Friend Sluggard,'' answered the hermit, ``thou
hast seen all that can concern thee of my housekeeping,
and something more than he deserves who
takes up his quarters by violence.  Credit me, it is
better to enjoy the good which God sends thee,
than to be impertinently curious how it comes.
Fill thy cup, and welcome; and do not, I pray thee,
by further impertinent enquiries, put me to show
that thou couldst hardly have made good thy lodging
had I been earnest to oppose thee.''

  ``By my faith,'' said the knight, ``thou makest
me more curious than ever! Thou art the most
mysterious hermit I ever met; and I will know
more of thee ere we part.  As for thy threats,
know, holy man, thou speakest to one whose trade
it is to find out danger wherever it is to be met
with.''

  `Sir Sluggish Knight, I drink to thee,'' said the
hermit; ``respecting thy valour much, but deeming
wondrous slightly of thy discretion.  If thou wilt
take equal arms with me, I will give thee, in all
friendship and brotherly love, such sufficing penance
and complete absolution, that thou shalt not for the
next twelve months sin the sin of excess of curiosity.''

  The knight pledged him, and desired him to
name his weapons.

  ``There is none,'' replied the hermit, ``from the
scissors of Delilah, and the tenpenny nail of Jael,
to the scimitar of Goliath, at which I am not a
match for thee---But, if I am to make the election,
what sayst thou, good friend, to these trinkets?''

  Thus speaking, he opened another hutch, and
took out from it a couple of broadswords and bucklers,
such as were used by the yeomanry of the
period.  The knight, who watched his motions, observed
that this second place of concealment was
furnished with two or three good long-bows, a cross-bow,
a bundle of bolts for the latter, and half-a-dozen
sheaves of arrows for the former.  A harp, and
other matters of a very uncanonical appearance,
were also visible when this dark recess was opened.

  ``I promise thee, brother Clerk,'' said he, ``I
will ask thee no more offensive questions.  The contents
of that cupboard are an answer to all my enquiries;
and I see a weapon there'' (here be stooped
and took out the harp) ``on which I would more
gladly prove my skill with thee, than at the sword
and buckler.''

  ``I hope, Sir Knight,'' said the hermit, ``thou
hast given no good reason for thy surname of the
Sluggard.  I do promise thee I suspect thee grievously.
Nevertheless, thou art my guest, and I will
not put thy manhood to the proof without thine
own free will.  Sit thee down, then, and fill thy
cup; let us drink, sing, and be merry.  If thou
knowest ever a good lay, thou shalt be welcome to
a nook of pasty at Copmanhurst so long as I serve
the chapel of St Dunstan, which, please God, shall
be till I change my grey covering for one of green
turf.  But come, fill a flagon, for it will crave some
time to tune the harp; and nought pitches the
voice and sharpens the car like a cup of wine.  For
my part, I love to feel the grape at my very finger-ends
before they make the harp-strings tinkle.''*

* The Jolly Hermit.---All readers, however slightly acquainted
* with black letter, must recognise in the Clerk of Copmanhurst,
* Friar Tuck, the buxom Confessor of Robin Hood's
* gang, the Curtal Friar of Fountain's Abbey.



               CHAPTER XVII.

       At eve, within yon studious nook,
       I ope my brass-embossed book,
       Portray'd with many a holy deed
       Of martyrs crown'd with heavenly meed;
       Then, as my taper waxes dim,
       Chant, ere I sleep, my measured hymn.
         *      *      *      *
       Who but would cast his pomp away,
       To take my staff and amice grey,
       And to the world's tumultuous stage,
       Prefer the peaceful Hermitage?
                                  Warton


  Notwithstanding the prescription of the genial
hermit, with which his guest willingly complied,
he found it no easy matter to bring the harp
to harmony.

  ``Methinks, holy father,'' said he, ``the instrument
wants one string, and the rest have been somewhat
misused.''

  ``Ay, mark'st thou that?'' replied the hermit;
``that shows thee a master of the craft.  Wine and
wassail,'' he added, gravely casting up his eyes---
``all the fault of wine and wassail!---I told Allan
a-Dale, the northern minstrel, that he would damage
the harp if he touched it after the seventh cup,
but he would not be controlled---Friend, I drink to
thy successful performance.''

  So saying, he took off his cup with much gravity,
at the same time shaking his head at the intemperance
of the Scottish harper.

  The knight in the meantime, had brought the
strings into some order, and after a short prelude,
asked his host whether he would choose a _sirvente_
in the language of _oc_, or a _lai_ in the language of
_oui_, or a _virelai_, or a ballad in the vulgar English.*

*  Note C. Minstrelsy.

  ``A ballad, a ballad,'' said the hermit, ``against
all the _ocs_ and _ouis_ of France.  Downright English
am I, Sir Knight, and downright English was
my patron St Dunstan, and scorned _oc_ and _oui_, as
he would have scorned the parings of the devil's
hoof---downright English alone shall be sung in
this cell.''

  ``I will assay, then,'' said the knight, ``a ballad
composed by a Saxon glee-man, whom I knew in
Holy Land.''

  It speedily appeared, that if the knight was not
a complete master of the minstrel art, his taste for
it had at least been cultivated under the best instructors.
Art had taught him to soften the faults
of a voice which had little compass, and was naturally
rough rather than mellow, and, in short, had
done all that culture can do in supplying natural deficiencies.
His performance, therefore, might have
been termed very respectable by abler judges than
the hermit, especially as the knight threw into the
notes now a degree of spirit, and now of plaintive
enthusiasm, which gave force and energy to the
verses which he sung.

          THE CRUSADER'S RETURN.

                     1.

      High deeds achieved of knightly fame,
      From Palestine the champion came;
      The cross upon his shoulders borne,
      Battle and blast had dimm'd and torn.
      Each dint upon his batter'd shield
      Was token of a foughten field;
      And thus, beneath his lady's bower,
      He sung as fell the twilight hour:---

                     2.

      ``Joy to the fair!---thy knight behold,
      Return'd from yonder land of gold;
      No wealth he brings, nor wealth can need,
      Save his good arms and battle-steed
      His spurs, to dash against a foe,
      His lance and sword to lay him low;
      Such all the trophies of his toil,
      Such---and the hope of Tekla's smile!

                     3.

      ``Joy to the fair! whose constant knight
      Her favour fired to feats of might;
      Unnoted shall she not remain,
      Where meet the bright and noble train;
      Minstrel shall sing and herald tell---
      `Mark yonder maid of beauty well,
      'Tis she for whose bright eyes were won
      The listed field at Askalon!

                     4.

      `` `Note well her smile!---it edged the blade
      Which fifty wives to widows made,
      When, vain his strength and Mahound's spell,
      Iconium's turban'd Soldan fell.
      Seest thou her locks, whose sunny glow
      Half shows, half shades, her neck of snow?
      Twines not of them one golden thread,
      But for its sake a Paynim bled.'

                      5.

      ``Joy to the fair!---my name unknown,
      Each deed, and all its praise thine own
      Then, oh! unbar this churlish gate,
      The night dew falls, the hour is late.
      Inured to Syria's glowing breath,
      I feel the north breeze chill as death;
      Let grateful love quell maiden shame,
      And grant him bliss who brings thee fame.''

  During this performance, the hermit demeaned
himself much like a first-rate critic of the present
day at a new opera.  He reclined back upon his
seat, with his eyes half shut; now, folding his
hands and twisting his thumbs, he seemed absorbed
in attention, and anon, balancing his expanded
palms, he gently flourished them in time to the
music.  At one or two favourite cadences, he threw
in a little assistance of his own, where the knight's
voice seemed unable to carry the air so high as his
worshipful taste approved.  When the song was
ended, the anchorite emphatically declared it a good
one, and well sung.

  ``And yet,'' said he, ``I think my Saxon countrymen
had herded long enough with the Normans,
to fall into the tone of their melancholy ditties.
What took the honest knight from home? or what
could he expect but to find his mistress agreeably
engaged with a rival on his return, and his serenade,
as they call it, as little regarded as the caterwauling
of a cat in the gutter? Nevertheless, Sir Knight,
I drink this cup to thee, to the success of all true
lovers---I fear you are none,'' he added, on observing
that the knight (whose brain began to be heated
with these repeated draughts) qualified his flagon
from the water pitcher.

  ``Why,'' said the knight, ``did you not tell me
that this water was from the well of your blessed
patron, St Dunstan?''

  ``Ay, truly,'' said the hermit, ``and many a hundred
of pagans did he baptize there, but I never
heard that he drank any of it.  Every thing should
be put to its proper use in this world.  St Dunstan
knew, as well as any one, the prerogatives of a jovial
friar.''

  And so saying, he reached the harp, and entertained
his guest with the following characteristic
song, to a sort of derry-down chorus, appropriate
to an old English ditty.*

*  It may be proper to remind the reader, that the chorus of
*  ``derry down'' is supposed to be as ancient, not only as the times
*  of the Heptarchy, but as those of the Druids, and to have furnished
*  the chorus to the hymns of those venerable persons when
*  they went to the wood to gather mistletoe.


            THE BAREFOOTED FRIAR.

                     1.

  I'll give thee, good fellow, a twelvemonth or twain,
  To search Europe through, from Byzantium to Spain;
 But ne'er shall you find, should you search till you tire,
  So happy a man as the Barefooted Friar.

                     2.

  Your knight for his lady pricks forth in career,
  And is brought home at even-song prick'd through with a spear;
  I confess him in haste---for his lady desires
  No comfort on  earth  save  the  Barefooted  Friar's.

                      3.

  Your monarch?---Pshaw! many a prince has been known
 To barter his robes for our cowl and our gown,
  But which of us e'er felt the idle desire
  To exchange for a crown the grey hood of a Friar!

                       4.

  The Friar has walk'd out, and where'er he has gone,
  The land and its fatness is mark'd for his own;
  He can roam where he lists, he can stop when he tires,
  For every man's house is the Barefooted Friar's.

                        5.

  He's expected at noon, and no wight till he comes
  May profane the great chair, or the porridge of plums
  For the best of the cheer, and the seat by the fire,
  Is the undenied right of the Barefooted Friar.

                         6.

  He's expected at night, and the pasty's made hot,
  They broach the brown ale, and they fill the black pot,
  And the goodwife would wish the goodman in the mire,
  Ere he lack'd a soft pillow, the Barefooted Friar.

                         7.

  Long flourish the sandal, the cord, and the cope,
  The dread of the devil and trust of the Pope;
  For to gather life's roses, unscathed by the briar,
  Is granted alone to the Barefooted Friar.


  ``By my troth,'' said the knight, ``thou hast
sung well and lustily, and in high praise of thine
order.  And, talking of the devil, Holy Clerk, are
you not afraid that he may pay you a visit daring
some of your uncanonical pastimes?''

  ``I uncanonical!'' answered the hermit; ``I
scorn the charge---I scorn it with my heels!---I
serve the duty of my chapel duly and truly---Two
masses daily, morning and evening, primes, noons,
and vespers, _aves, credos, paters_------''

  ``Excepting moonlight nights, when the venison
is in season,'' said his guest.

  ``_Exceptis excipiendis_,'' replied the hermit, ``as
our old abbot taught me to say, when impertinent
laymen should ask me if I kept every punctilio of
mine order.''

  ``True, holy father,'' said the knight; ``but the
devil is apt to keep an eye on such exceptions; he
goes about, thou knowest, like a roaring lion.''

  ``Let him roar here if he dares,'' said the friar;
``a touch of my cord will make him roar as loud
as the tongs of St Dunstan himself did.  I never
feared man, and I as little fear the devil and his
imps.  Saint Dunstan, Saint Dubric, Saint Winibald,
Saint Winifred, Saint Swibert, Saint Willick,
not forgetting Saint Thomas a Kent, and my own
poor merits to speed, I defy every devil of them,
come cut and long tail.---But to let you into a secret,
I never speak upon such subjects, my friend,
until after morning vespers.''

  He changed the conversation; fast and furious
grew the mirth of the parties, and many a song
was exchanged betwixt them, when their revels
were interrupted by a loud knocking at the door
of the hermitage.

  The occasion of this interruption we can only
explain by resuming the adventures of another set
of our characters; for, like old Ariosto, we do not
pique ourselves upon continuing uniformly to keep
company with any one personage of our drama.



                 CHAPTER XVIII.

  Away! our journey lies through dell and dingle,
  Where the blithe fawn trips by its timid mother,
  Where the broad oak, with intercepting boughs,
  Chequers the sunbeam in the green-sward alley---
  Up and away!---for lovely paths are these
  To tread, when the glad Sun is on his throne
  Less pleasant, and less safe, when Cynthia's lamp
  With doubtful glimmer lights the dreary forest.
                                _Ettrick Forest._

  When Cedric the Saxon saw his son drop down
senseless in the lists at Ashby, his first impulse
was to order him into the custody and care of his
own attendants, but the words choked in his throat.
He could not bring himself to acknowledge, in presence
of such an assembly, the son whom he had
renounced and disinherited.  He ordered, however,
Oswald to keep an eye upon him; and directed
that officer, with two of his serfs, to convey Ivanhoe
to Ashby as soon as the crowd had dispersed.
Oswald, however, was anticipated in this good office.
The crowd dispersed, indeed, but the knight
was nowhere to be seen.

  It was in vain that Cedric's cupbearer looked
around for his young master---he saw the bloody
spot on which he had lately sunk down, but himself
he saw no longer; it seemed as if the fairies
had conveyed him from the spot.  Perhaps Oswald
(for the Saxons were very superstitious) might have
adopted some such hypothesis, to account for Ivanhoe's
disappearance, had he not suddenly cast his
eye upon a person attired like a squire, in whom he
recognised the features of his fellow-servant Gurth.
Anxious concerning his master's fate, and in despair
at his sudden disappearance, the translated swineherd
was searching for him everywhere, and had
neglected, in doing so, the concealment on which his
own safety depended.  Oswald deemed it his duty
to secure Gurth, as a fugitive of whose fate his master
was to judge.

  Renewing his enquiries concerning the fate of
Ivanhoe, the only information which the cupbearer
could collect from the bystanders was, that the
knight had been raised with care by certain well-attired
grooms, and placed in a litter belonging to
a lady among the spectators, which had immediately
transported him out of the press.  Oswald, on
receiving this intelligence, resolved to return to his
master for farther instructions, carrying along with
him Gurth, whom he considered in some sort as a
deserter from the service of Cedric.

  The Saxon had been under very intense and
agonizing apprehensions concerning his son; for Nature
had asserted her rights, in spite of the patriotic
stoicism which laboured to disown her.  But no
sooner was he informed that Ivanhoe was in careful,
and probably in friendly hands, than the paternal
anxiety which had been excited by the dubiety
of his fate, gave way anew to the feeling of injured
pride and resentment, at what he termed
Wilfred's filial disobedience.  ``Let him wander
his way,'' said he---``let those leech his wounds for
whose sake he encountered them.  He is fitter to
do the juggling tricks of the Norman chivalry than
to maintain the fame and honour of his English ancestry
with the glaive and brown-bill, the good old
weapons of his country.''

  ``If to maintain the honour of ancestry,'' said
Rowena, who was present, ``it is sufficient to be
wise in council and brave in execution---to be boldest
among the bold, and gentlest among the gentle,
I know no voice, save his father's------''

  ``Be silent, Lady Rowena!---on this subject only
I hear you not.  Prepare yourself for the Prince's
festival: we have been summoned thither with unwonted
circumstance of honour and of courtesy,
such as the haughty Normans have rarely used to
our race since the fatal day of Hastings.  Thither
will I go, were it only to show these proud Normans
how little the fate of a son, who could defeat
their bravest, can affect a Saxon.''

  ``Thither,'' said Rowena, ``do I =not= go; and
I pray you to beware, lest what you mean for courage
and constancy, shall be accounted hardness of
heart.''

  ``Remain at home, then, ungrateful lady,'' answered
Cedric; ``thine is the hard heart, which
can sacrifice the weal of an oppressed people to an
idle and unauthorized attachment.  I seek the noble
Athelstane, and with him attend the banquet of
John of Anjou.''

  He went accordingly to the banquet, of which
we have already mentioned the principal events.
Immediately upon retiring from the castle, the
Saxon thanes, with their attendants, took horse;
and it was during the bustle which attended their
doing so, that Cedric, for the first time, cast his
eyes upon the deserter Gurth.  The noble Saxon
had returned from the banquet, as we have seen,
in no very placid humour, and wanted but a pretext
for wreaking his anger upon some one.  ``The
gyves!'' he said, ``the gyves!---Oswald---Hundibert!---
Dogs and villains!---why leave ye the knave
unfettered?''

  Without daring to remonstrate, the companions
of Gurth bound him with a halter, as the readiest
cord which occurred.  He submitted to the operation
without remonstance, except that, darting a
reproachful look at his master, he said, ``This
comes of loving your flesh and blood better than
mine own.''

  ``To horse, and forward!'' said Cedric.

  ``It is indeed full time,'' said the noble Athelstane;
``for, if we ride not the faster, the worthy
Abbot Waltheoff's preparations for a rere-supper*

*  A rere-supper was a night-meal, and sometimes signified a
*  collation, which was given at a late hour, after the regular supper
*  had made its appearance.                  L. T.

will be altogether spoiled.''

  The travellers, however, used such speed as to
reach the convent of St Withold's before the apprehended
evil took place.  The Abbot, himself of
ancient Saxon descent, received the noble Saxons
with the profuse and exuberant hospitality of their
nation, wherein they indulged to a late, or rather
an early hour; nor did they take leave of their
reverend host the next morning until they had
shared with him a sumptuous refection.

  As the cavalcade left the court of the monastery,
an incident happened somewhat alarming to,
the Saxons, who, of all people of Europe, were most
addicted to a superstitious observance of omens,
and to whose opinions can be traced most of those
notions upon such subjects, still to be found among
our popular antiquities.  For the Normans being
a mixed race, and better informed according to the
information of the times, had lost most of the superstitious
prejudices which their ancestors had brought
from Scandinavia, and piqued themselves upon
thinking freely on such topics.

  In the present instance, the apprehension of impending
evil was inspired by no less respectable a
prophet than a large lean black dog, which, sitting
upright, howled most piteously as the foremost
riders left the gate, and presently afterwards, barking
wildly, and jumping to and fro, seemed bent
upon attaching itself to the party.

  ``I like not that music, father Cedric,'' said Athelstane;
for by this title of respect he was accustomed
to address him.

  ``Nor I either, uncle,'' said Wamba; ``I greatly
fear we shall have to pay the piper.''

  ``In my mind,'' said Athelstane, upon whose
memory the Abbot's good ale (for Burton was already
famous for that genial liquor) had made a
favourable impression,---``in my mind we had better
turn back, and abide with the Abbot until the afternoon.
It is unlucky to travel where your path
is crossed by a monk, a hare, or a howling dog,
until you have eaten your next meal.''

  ``Away!'' said Cedric, impatiently; ``the day
is already too short for our journey.  For the dog,
I know it to be the cur of the runaway slave Gurth,
a useless fugitive like its master.''

  So saying, and rising at the same time in his
stirrups, impatient at the interruption of his journey,
he launched his javelin at poor Fangs---for
Fangs it was, who, having traced his master thus
far upon his stolen expedition, had here lost him,
and was now, in his uncouth way, rejoicing at his
reappearance.  The javelin inflicted a wound upon
the animal's shoulder, and narrowly missed pinning
him to the earth; and Fangs fled howling from
the presence of the enraged thane.  Gurth's heart
swelled within him; for he felt this meditated
slaughter of his faithful adherent in a degree much
deeper than the harsh treatment he had himself
received.  Having in vain attempted to raise his
hand to his eyes, he said to Wamba, who, seeing
his master's ill humour had prudently retreated to
the rear, ``I pray thee, do me the kindness to wipe
my eyes with the skirt of thy mantle; the dust
offends me, and these bonds will not let me help
myself one way or another.''

  Wamba did him the service he required, and
they rode side by side for some time, during which
Gurth maintained a moody silence.  At length he
could repress his feelings no longer.

  ``Friend Wamba,'' said he, ``of all those who
are fools enough to serve Cedric, thou alone hast
dexterity enough to make thy folly acceptable to
him.  Go to him, therefore, and tell him that neither
for love nor fear will Gurth serve him longer.
He may strike the head from me---he may scourge
me---he may load me with irons---but henceforth
he shall never compel me either to love or to obey
him.  Go to him, then, and tell him that Gurth the
son of Beowulph renounces his service.''

  ``Assuredly,'' said Wamba, ``fool as I am, I
shall not do your fool's errand.  Cedric hath another
javelin stuck into his girdle, and thou knowest he
does not always miss his mark.''

  ``I care not,'' replied Gurth, ``how soon he makes
a mark of me.  Yesterday he left Wilfred, my young
master, in his blood.  To-day he has striven to kill
before my face the only other living creature that
ever showed me kindness.  By St Edmund, St
Dunstan, St Withold, St Edward the Confessor,
and every other Saxon saint in the calendar,'' (for
Cedric never swore by any that was not of Saxon
lineage, and all his household had the same limited
devotion,) ``I will never forgive him!''

  ``To my thinking now,'' said the Jester, who
was frequently wont to act as peace-maker in the
family, ``our master did not propose to hurt Fangs,
but only to affright him.  For, if you observed, he
rose in his stirrups, as thereby meaning to overcast
the mark; and so he would have done, but Fangs
happening to bound up at the very moment, received
a scratch, which I will be bound to heal with
a penny's breadth of tar.''

  ``If I thought so,'' said Gurth---``if I could but
think so---but no---I saw the javelin was well aimed---
I heard it whizz through the air with all the
wrathful malevolence of him who cast it, and it
quivered after it had pitched in the ground, as if
with regret for having missed its mark.  By the
hog dear to St Anthony, I renounce him!''

  And the indignant swineherd resumed his sullen
silence, which no efforts of the Jester could again
induce him to break.

  Meanwhile Cedric and Athelstane, the leaders
of the troop, conversed together on the state of the
land, on the dissensions of the royal family, on the
feuds and quarrels among the Norman nobles, and
on the chance which there was that the oppressed
Saxons might be able to free themselves from the
yoke of the Normans, or at least to elevate themselves
into national consequence and independence,
during the civil convulsions which were likely to
ensue.  On this subject Cedric was all animation.
The restoration of the independence of his race was
the idol of his heart, to which he had willingly sacrificed
domestic happiness and the interests of his
own son.  But, in order to achieve this great revolution
in favour of the native English, it was necessary
that they should be united among themselves,
and act under an acknowledged head.  The
necessity of choosing their chief from the Saxon
blood-royal was not only evident in itself, but had
been made a solemn condition by those whom
Cedric had intrusted with his secret plans and
hopes.  Athelstane had this quality at least;  and
though he had few mental accomplishments or talents
to recommend him as a leader, he had still a
goodly person, was no coward, had been accustomed
to martial exercises, and seemed willing to defer
to the advice of counsellors more wise than himself.
Above all, he was known to be liberal and hospitable,
and believed to be good-natured.  But whatever
pretensions Athelstane had to be considered
as head of the Saxon confederacy, many of that
nation were disposed to prefer to his the title of the
Lady Rowena, who drew her descent from Alfred,
and whose father having been a chief renowned for
wisdom, courage, and generosity, his memory was
highly honoured by his oppressed countrymen.

  It would have been no difficult thing for Cedric,
had he been so disposed, to have placed himself at
the head of a third party, as formidable at least as
any of the others.  To counterbalance their royal
descent, he had courage, activity, energy, and,
above all, that devoted attachment to the cause
which had procured him the epithet of The Saxon,
and his birth was inferior to none, excepting
only that of Athelstane and his ward.  These qualities,
however, were unalloyed by the slightest
shade of selfishness; and, instead of dividing yet
farther his weakened nation by forming a faction
of his own, it was a leading part of Cedric's plan
to extinguish that which already existed, by promoting
a marriage betwixt Rowena and Athelstane.
An obstacle occurred to this his favourite project,
in the mutual attachment of his ward and his son
and hence the original cause of the banishment of
Wilfred from the house of his father.

  This stern measure Cedric had adopted, in hopes
that, during Wilfred's absence, Rowena might relinquish
her preference, but in this hope he was
disappointed; a disappointment which might be
attributed in part to the mode in which his ward
had been educated.  Cedric, to whom the name of
Alfred was as that of a deity, had treated the sole
remaining scion of that great monarch with a degree
of observance, such as, perhaps, was in those
days scarce paid to an acknowledged princess.
Rowena's will had been in almost all cases a law
to his household; and Cedric himself, as if determined
that her sovereignty should be fully acknowledged
within that little circle at least, seemed to
take a pride in acting as the first of her subjects.
Thus trained in the exercise not only of free will,
but despotic authority, Rowena was, by her previous
education, disposed both to resist and to resent
any attempt to control her affections, or dispose
of her hand contrary to her inclinations, and to assert
her independence in a case in which even those
females who have been trained up to obedience and
subjection, are not infrequently apt to dispute the
authority of guardians and parents.  The opinions
which she felt strongly, she avowed boldly; and
Cedric, who could not free himself from his habitual
deference to her opinions, felt totally at a loss
how to enforce his authority of guardian.

  It was in vain that he attempted to dazzle her
with the prospect of a visionary throne.  Rowena,
who possessed strong sense, neither considered his
plan as practicable, nor as desirable, so far as she
was concerned, could it have been achieved.  Without
attempting to conceal her avowed preference of
Wilfred of Ivanhoe, she declared that, were that
favoured knight out of question, she would rather
take refuge in a convent, than share a throne with
Athelstane, whom, having always despised, she
now began, on account of the trouble she received
on his account, thoroughly to detest.

  Nevertheless, Cedric, whose opinions of women's
constancy was far from strong, persisted in using
every means in his power to bring about the proposed
match, in which he conceived he was rendering
an important service to the Saxon cause.  The
sudden and romantic appearance of his son in the
lists at Ashby, he had justly regarded as almost a
death's blow to his hopes.  His paternal affection,
it is true, had for an instant gained the victory over
pride and patriotism; but both had returned in full
force, and under their joint operation, he was now
bent upon making a determined effort for the
union of Athelstane and Rowena, together with
expediting those other measures which seemed necessary
to forward the restoration of Saxon independence.

  On this last subject, he was now labouring with
Athelstane, not without having reason, every now
and then, to lament, like Hotspur, that he should
have moved such a dish of skimmed milk to so honourable
an action.  Athelstane, it is true, was vain
enough, and loved to have his ears tickled with
tales of his high descent, and of his right by inheritance
to homage and sovereignty.  But his petty
vanity was sufficiently gratified by receiving this
homage at the hands of his immediate attendants,
and of the Saxons who approached him.  If he had
the courage to encounter danger, he at least hated
the trouble of going to seek it; and while he agreed
in the general principles laid down by Cedric concerning
the claim of the Saxons to independence,
and was still more easily convinced of his own title
to reign over them when that independence should
be attained, yet when the means of asserting these
rights came to be discussed, he was still ``Athelstane
the Unready,'' slow, irresolute, procrastinating,
and unenterprising.  The warm and impassioned
exhortations of Cedric had as little effect upon
his impassive temper, as red-hot balls alighting in
the water, which produce a little sound and smoke,
and are instantly extinguished.

  If, leaving this task, which might be compared
to spurring a tired jade, or to hammering upon cold
iron, Cedric fell back to his ward Rowena, he received
little more satisfaction from conferring with
her.  For, as his presence interrupted the discourse
between the lady and her favourite attendant upon
the gallantry and fate of Wilfred, Elgitha, failed not
to revenge both her mistress and herself, by recurring
to the overthrow of Athelstane in the lists, the
most disagreeable subject which could greet the ears
of Cedric.  To this sturdy Saxon, therefore, the
day's journey was fraught with all manner of displeasure
and discomfort; so that he more than once
internally cursed the tournament, and him who had
proclaimed it, together with his own folly in ever
thinking of going thither.

  At noon, upon the motion of Athelstane, the
travellers paused in a woodland shade by a fountain,
to repose their horses and partake of some
provisions, with which the hospitable Abbot had
loaded a sumpter mule.  Their repast was a pretty
long one; and these several interruptions rendered
it impossible for them to hope to reach Rotherwood
without travelling all night, a conviction
which induced them to proceed on their way at a
more hasty pace than they had hitherto used.



                CHAPTER XIX.

     A train of armed men, some noble dame
     Escorting, (so their scatter'd words discover'd,
     As unperceived I hung upon their rear,)
     Are close at hand, and mean to pass the night
     Within the castle.
                                  _Orra, a Tragedy._


  The travellers had now reached the verge of the
wooded country, and were about to plunge into its
recesses, held dangerous at that time from the number
of outlaws whom oppression and poverty had
driven to despair, and who occupied the forests in
such large bands as could easily bid defiance to the
feeble police of the period.  From these rovers,
however, notwithstanding the lateness of the hour
Cedric and Athelstane accounted themselves secure,
as they had in attendance ten servants, besides
Wamba and Gurth, whose aid could not be
counted upon, the one being a jester and the other
a captive.  It may be added, that in travelling thus
late through the forest, Cedric and Athelstane relied
on their descent and character, as well as their
courage.  The outlaws, whom the severity of the
forest laws had reduced to this roving and desperate
mode of life, were chiefly peasants and yeomen
of Saxon descent, and were generally supposed to
respect the persons and property of their countrymen.

  As the travellers journeyed on their way, they
were alarmed by repeated cries for assistance; and
when they rode up to the place from whence they
came, they were surprised to find a horse-litter
placed upon the ground, beside which sat a young
woman, richly dressed in the Jewish fashion, while
an old man, whose yellow cap proclaimed him to
belong to the same nation, walked up and down
with gestures expressive of the deepest despair,
and wrung his hands, as if affected by some strange
disaster.

  To the enquiries of Athelstane and Cedric, the
old Jew could for some time only answer by invoking
the protection of all the patriarchs of the Old
Testament successively against the sons of Ishmael,
who were coming to smite them, hip and thigh,
with the edge of the sword.  When he began to
come to himself out of this agony of terror, Isaac
of York (for it was our old friend) was at length
able to explain, that he had hired a body-guard of
six men at Ashby, together with mules for carrying
the litter of a sick friend.  This party had undertaken
to escort him as far as Doncaster.  They
had come thus far in safety; but having received
information from a wood-cutter that there was a
strong band of outlaws lying in wait in the woods
before them, Isaac's mercenaries had not only taken
flight, but had carried off with them the horses
which bore the litter and left the Jew and his daughter
without the means either of defence or of retreat,
to be plundered, and probably murdered, by
the banditti, who they expected every moment
would bring down upon them. ``Would it but please
your valours,'' added Isaac, in a tone of deep humiliation,
``to permit the poor Jews to travel under
your safeguard, I swear by the tables of our law,
that never has favour been conferred upon a child
of Israel since the days of our captivity, which shall
be more gratefully acknowledged.''

  ``Dog of a Jew!'' said Athelstane, whose memory
was of that petty kind which stores up trifles
of all kinds, but particularly trifling offences, ``dost
not remember how thou didst beard us in the gallery
at the tilt-yard? Fight or flee, or compound
with the outlaws as thou dost list, ask neither aid
nor company from us; and if they rob only such as
thee, who rob all the world, I, for mine own sbare,
shall hold them right honest folk.''

  Cedric did not assent to the severe proposal of
his companion.  ``We shall do better,'' said be, ``to
leave them two of our attendants and two horses to
convey them back to the next village.  It will diminish
our strength but little; and with your good
sword, noble Athelstane, and the aid of those who
remain, it will be light work for us to face twenty
of those runagates.''

  Rowena, somewhat alarmed by the mention of
outlaws in force, and so near them, strongly seconded
the proposal of her guardian.  But Rebecca
suddenly quitting her dejected posture,  and making
her way through the attendants to the palfrey of
the Saxon lady, knelt down, and, after the Oriental
fashion in addressing superiors, kissed the hem
of Rowena's garment.  Then rising, and throwing
back her veil, she implored her in the great name
of the God whom they both worshipped, and by
that revelation of the Law upon Mount Sinai, in
which they both believed, that she would have compassion
upon them, and suffer them to go forward
under their safeguard.  ``It is not for myself that
I pray this favour,'' said Rebecca; ``nor is it even
for that poor old man.  I know, that to wrong and
to spoil our nation is a light fault, if not a merit,
with the Christians; and what is it to us whether
it be done in the city, in the desert, or in the field?
But it is in the name of one dear to many, and dear
even to you, that I beseech you to let this sick person
be transported with care and tenderness under
your protection.  For, if evil chance him, the last
moment of your life would be embittered with regret
for denying that which I ask of you.''

  The noble and solemn air with which Rebecca
made this appeal, gave it double weight with the
fair Saxon.

  ``The man is old and feeble,'' she said to her
guardian, ``the maiden young and beautiful, their
friend sick and in peril of his life---Jews though
they be, we cannot as Christians leave them in this
extremity.  Let them unload two of the sumpter-mules,
and put the baggage behind two of the serfs.
The mules may transport the litter, and we have
led horses for the old man and his daughter.''

  Cedric readily assented to what she proposed,
and Athelstane only added the condition, ``that
they should travel in the rear of the whole party,
where Wamba,'' he said, ``might attend them with
his shield of boar's brawn.''

  ``I have left my shield in the tilt-yard,'' answered
the Jester, ``as has been the fate of many a better
knight than myself.''

  Athelstane coloured deeply, for such had been
his own fate on the last day of the tournament;
while Rowena, who was pleased in the same proportion,
as if to make amends for the brutal jest of
her unfeeling suitor, requested Rebecca to ride by
her side.

  ``It were not fit I should do so,'' answered Rebecca,
with proud humility, ``where my society
might be held a disgrace to my protectress.''

  By this time the change of baggage was hastily
achieved; for the single word ``outlaws'' rendered
every one sufficiently alert, and the approach of
twilight made the sound yet more impressive.
Amid the bustle, Gurth was taken from horseback,
in the course of which removal he prevailed upon
the Jester to slack the cord with which his arms
were bound.  It was so negligently refastened, perhaps
intentionally, on the part of Wamba, that
Gurth found no difficulty in freeing his arms altogether
from bondage, and then, gliding into the
thicket, he made his escape from the party.

  The bustle had been considerable, and it was
some time before Gurth was missed; for, as he was
to be placed for the rest of the journey behind a
servant, every one supposed that some other of his
companions had him under his custody, and when
it began to be whispered among them that Gurth
had actually disappeared, they were under such immediate
expectation of an attack from the outlaws,
that it was not held convenient to pay much attention
to the circumstance.

  The path upon which the party travelled was
now so narrow, as not to admit, with any sort of
convenience, above two riders abreast, and began
to descend into a dingle, traversed by a brook whose
banks were broken, swampy, and overgrown with
dwarf willows.  Cedric and Athelstane, who were
at the head of their retinue, saw the risk of being
attacked at this pass; but neither of them having
had much practice in war, no better mode of preventing
the danger occurred to them than that they
should hasten through the defile as fast as possible.
Advancing, therefore, without much order, they
had just crossed the brook with a part of their followers,
when they were assailed in front, flank, and
rear at once, with an impetuosity to which, in their
confused and ill-prepared condition, it was impossible
to offer effectual resistance.  The shout of ``A
white dragon!---a white dragon!---Saint George
for merry England!'' war-cries adopted by the assailants,
as belonging to their assumed character of
Saxon outlaws, was heard on every side, and on
every side enemies appeared with a rapidity of advance
and attack which seemed to multiply their
numbers.

  Both the Saxon chiefs were made prisoners at
the same moment, and each under circumstances
expressive of his character.  Cedric, the instant that
an enemy appeared, launched at him his remaining
javelin, which, taking better effect than that which
he had hurled at Fangs, nailed the man against an
oak-tree that happened to be close behind him.
Thus far successful, Cedric spurred his horse against
a second, drawing his sword at the same time, and
striking with such inconsiderate fury, that his weapon
encountered a thick branch which hung over
him, and he was disarmed by the violence of his
own blow.  He was instantly made prisoner, and
pulled from his horse by two or three of the banditti
who crowded around him.  Athelstane shared
his captivity, his bridle having been seized, and he
himself forcibly dismounted, long before he could
draw his weapon, or assume any posture of effectual
defence.

  The attendants, embarrassed with baggage, surprised
and terrified at the fate of their masters, fell
an easy prey to the assailants; while the Lady
Rowena, in the centre of the cavalcade, and the
Jew and his daughter in the rear, experienced the
same misfortune.

  Of all the train none escaped except Wamba,
who showed upon the occasion much more courage
than those who pretended to greater sense.  He
possessed himself of a sword belonging to one of
the domestics, who was just drawing it with a tardy
and irresolute hand, laid it about him like a lion,
drove back several who approached him, and made
a brave though ineffectual attempt to succour his
master.  Finding himself overpowered, the Jester
at length threw himself from his horse, plunged
into the thicket, and, favoured by the general confusion,
escaped from the scene of action.

  Yet the valiant Jester, as soon as he found himself
safe, hesitated more than once whether he
should not turn back and share the captivity of a
master to whom he was sincerely attached.

  ``I have heard men talk of the blessings of freedom,''
he said to himself, ``but I wish any wise man
would teach me what use to make of it now that I
have it.''

  As he pronounced these words aloud, a voice
very near him called out in a low and cautious tone,
``Wamba!'' and, at the same time, a dog, which
be recognised to be Fangs, jumped up and fawned
upon him.  ``Gurth!'' answered Wamba, with the
same caution, and the swineherd immediately stood
before him.

  ``What is the matter?'' said he eagerly; ``what
mean these cries, and that clashing of swords?''

  ``Only a trick of the times,'' said Wamba; ``they
are all prisoners.''

  ``Who are prisoners?'' exclaimed Gurth, impatiently.

  ``My lord, and my lady, and Athelstane, and
Hundibert, and Oswald.''

  ``In the name of God!'' said Gurth, ``how came
they prisoners?---and to whom?''

  ``Our master was too ready to fight,'' said the
Jester; ``and Athelstane was not ready enough,
and no other person was ready at all.  And they
are prisoners to green cassocks, and black visors.
And they lie all tumbled about on the green, like
the crab-apples that you shake down to your swine.
And I would laugh at it,'' said the honest Jester,
``if I could for weeping.'' And he shed tears of
unfeigned sorrow.

  Gurth's countenance kindled---``Wamba,'' he
said, ``thou hast a weapon, and thy heart was ever
stronger than thy brain,---we are only two---but a
sudden attack from men of resolution will do much
---follow me!''

  ``Whither?---and for what purpose?'' said the
Jester.

  ``To rescue Cedric.''

  ``But you have renounced his service but now,''
said Wamba.

  ``That,'' said Gurth, ``was but while he was fortunate---
follow me!''

  As the Jester was about to obey, a third person
suddenly made his appearance, and commanded
them both to halt.  From his dress and arms,
Wamba would have conjectured him to be one of
those outlaws who had just assailed his master; but,
besides that he wore no mask, the glittering baldric
across his shoulder, with the rich bugle-horn which
it supported, as well as the calm and commanding
expression of his voice and manner, made him, notwithstanding
the twilight, recognise Locksley the
yeoman, who had been victorious, under such disadvantageous
circumstances, in the contest for the
prize of archery.

  ``What is the meaning of all this,'' said he, ``or
who is it that rifle, and ransom, and make prisoners,
in these forests?''

  ``You may look at their cassocks close by,'' said
Wamba, ``and see whether they be thy children's
coats or no---for they are as like thine own, as one
green pea-cod is to another.''

  ``I will learn that presently,'' answered Locksley;
``and I charge ye, on peril of your lives, not
to stir from the place where ye stand, until I have
returned.  Obey me, and it shall be the better for
you and your masters.---Yet stay, I must render
myself as like these men as possible.''

  So saying he unbuckled his baldric with the
bugle, took a feather from his cap, and gave them
to Wamba; then drew a vizard from his pouch,
and, repeating his charges to them to stand fast,
went to execute his purposes of reconnoitring.

  ``Shall we stand fast, Gurth?'' said Wamba;
``or shall we e'en give him leg-bail? In my foolish
mind, he had all the equipage of a thief too much
in readiness, to be himself a true man.''

  ``Let him be the devil,'' said Gurth, ``an he will.
We can be no worse of waiting his return.  If he
belong to that party, he must already have given
them the alarm, and it will avail nothing either to
fight or fly.  Besides, I have late experience, that
errant thieves are not the worst men in the world
to have to deal with.''

  The yeoman returned in the course of a few
minutes.

  ``Friend Gurth,'' he said, ``I have mingled
among yon men, and have learnt to whom they belong,
and whither they are bound.  There is, I think,
no chance that they will proceed to any actual
violence against their prisoners.  For three men to
attempt them at this moment, were little else than
madness; for they are good men of war, and have,
as such, placed sentinels to give the alarm when
any one approaches.  But I trust soon to gather
such a force, as may act in defiance of all their precautions;
you are both servants, and, as I think,
faithful servants, of Cedric the Saxon, the friend
of the rights of Englishmen.  He shall not want
English hands to help him in this extremity.  Come
then with me, until I gather more aid.''

  So saying, he walked through the wood at a
great pace, followed by the jester and the swineherd.
It was not consistent with Wamba's humour
to travel long in silence.

  ``I think,'' said he, looking at the baldric and
bugle which he still carried, ``that I saw the arrow
shot which won this gay prize, and that not so long
since as Christmas.''

  ``And I,'' said Gurth, ``could take it on my
halidome, that I have heard the voice of the good
yeoman who won it, by night as well as by day,
and that the moon is not three days older since I
did so.''

  ``Mine honest friends,'' replied the yeoman,
``who, or what I am, is little to the present purpose;
should I free your master, you will have reason
to think me the best friend you have ever had
in your lives.  And whether I am known by one
name or another---or whether I can draw a bow as
well or better than a cow-keeper, or whether it is
my pleasure to walk in sunshine or by moonlight,
are matters, which, as they do not concern you, so
neither need ye busy yourselves respecting them.''

  ``Our heads are in the lion's mouth,'' said Wamba,
in a whisper to Gurth, ``get them out how we
can.''

  ``Hush---be silent,'' said Gurth.  ``Offend him
not by thy folly, and I trust sincerely that all will
go well.''