APDL Eductation Resources/APDL Eductation Resources.iso/text/authors/scott/ivanhoe/CHAP20

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                 CHAPTER XX.

     When autumn nights were long and drear,
       And forest walks were dark and dim,
     How sweetly on the pilgrim's ear
       Was wont to steal the hermit's hymn

     Devotion borrows Music's tone,
       And Music took Devotion's wing;
     And, like the bird that hails the sun,
       They soar to heaven, and soaring sing.
                     _The Hermit of St Clement's Well._

  It was after three hours' good walking that the
servants of Cedric, with their mysterious guide, arrived
at a small opening in the forest, in the centre
of which grew an oak-tree of enormous magnitude,
throwing its twisted branches in every direction.
Beneath this tree four or five yeomen lay
stretched on the ground, while another, as sentinel,
walked to and fro in the moonlight shade.

  Upon hearing the sound of feet approaching,
the watch instantly gave the alarm, and the sleepers
as suddenly started up and bent their bows.
Six arrows placed on the string were pointed towards
the quarter from which the travellers approached,
when their guide, being recognised, was
welcomed with every token of respect and attachment,
and all signs and fears of a rough reception
at once subsided.

  ``Where is the Miller?'' was his first question.

  ``On the road towards Rotherham.''

  ``With how many?'' demanded the leader, for
such he seemed to be.

  ``With six men, and good hope of booty, if it
please St Nicholas.''

  ``Devoutly spoken,'' said Locksley; ``and where
is Allan-a-dale ?''

  ``Walked up towards the Watling-street, to
watch for the Prior of Jorvaulx.''

  ``That is well thought on also,'' replied the Captain;---
``and where is the Friar ?''

  ``In his cell.''

  ``Thither will I go,'' said Locksley.  ``Disperse
and seek your companions.  Collect what force you
can, for there's game afoot that must be hunted
hard, and will turn to bay.  Meet me here by daybreak.
---And stay,'' he added, ``I have forgotten
what is most necessary of the whole---Two of you
take the road quickly towards Torquilstone, the
Castle of Front-de-B<oe>uf.  A set of gallants, who
have been masquerading in such guise as our own,
are carrying a band of prisoners thither---Watch
them closely, for even if they reach the castle before
we collect our force, our honour is concerned
to punish them, and we will find means to do so.
Keep a close watch on them therefore; and dispatch
one of your comrades, the lightest of foot, to
bring the news of the yeomen thereabout.''

  They promised implicit obedience, and departed
with alacrity on their different errands.  In the
meanwhile, their leader and his two companions,
who now looked upon him with great respect, as
well as some fear, pursued their way to the Chapel
of Copmanhurst.

  When they had reached the little moonlight
glade, having in front the reverend, though ruinous
chapel, and the rude hermitage, so well suited
to ascetic devotion, Wamba whispered to Gurth,
``If this be the habitation of a thief, it makes
good the old proverb, The nearer the church the
farther from God.---And by my cockscomb,'' he
added, ``I think it be even so---Hearken but to
the black sanctus which they are singing in the
hermitage!''

  In fact the anchorite and his guest were performing,
at the full extent of their very powerful
lungs, an old drinking song, of which this was the
burden:---

     ``Come, trowl the brown bowl to me,
         Bully boy, bully boy,
       Come, trowl the brown bowl to me:
         Ho! jolly Jenkin, I spy a knave in drinking,
       Come, trowl the brown bowl to me.''

  ``Now, that is not ill sung,'' said Wamba, who
had thrown in a few of his own flourishes to help
out the chorus.  ``But who, in the saint's name,
ever expected to have heard such a jolly chant
come from out a hermit's cell at midnight!''

  ``Marry, that should I,'' said Gurth, ``for the
jolly Clerk of Copmanhurst is a known man, and
kills half the deer that are stolen in this walk.  Men
say that the keeper has complained to his official,
and that he will be stripped of his cowl and cope
altogether, if he keeps not better order.''

  While they were thus speaking, Locksley's loud
and repeated knocks had at length disturbed the
anchorite and his guest.  ``By my beads,'' said the
hermit, stopping short in a grand flourish, ``here
come more benighted guests.  I would not for my
cowl that they found us in this goodly exercise.
All men have their enemies, good Sir Sluggard;
and there be those malignant enough to construe
the hospitable refreshment which I have been offering
to you, a weary traveller, for the matter of
three short hours, into sheer drunkenness and debauchery,
vices alike alien to my profession and my
disposition.''

  ``Base calumniators!'' replied the knight; ``I
would I had the chastising of them.  Nevertheless,
Holy Clerk, it is true that all have their enemies;
and there be those in this very land whom I would
rather speak to through the bars of my helmet than
barefaced.''

  ``Get thine iron pot on thy head then, friend
Sluggard, as quickly as thy nature will permit,''
said the hermit, ``while I remove these pewter
flagons, whose late contents run strangely in mine
own pate; and to drown the clatter---for, in faith,
I feel somewhat unsteady---strike into the tune
which thou hearest me sing; it is no matter for the
words---I scarce know them myself.''

  So saying, he struck up a thundering _De profundis
clamavi_, under cover of which he removed
the apparatus of their banquet: while the knight,
laughing heartily, and arming himself all the while,
assisted his host with his voice from time to time
as his mirth permitted.

  ``What devil's matins are you after at this
hour?'' said a voice from without.

  ``Heaven forgive you, Sir Traveller!'' said the
hermit, whose own noise, and perhaps his nocturnal
potations, prevented from recognising accents which
were tolerably familiar to him---``Wend on your
way, in the name of God and Saint Dunstan,
and disturb not the devotions of me and my holy
brother.''

  ``Mad priest,'' answered the voice from without,
``open to Locksley!''

  ``All's safe---all's right,'' said the hermit to his
companion.

  ``But who is he?'' said the Black Knight; ``it
imports me much to know.''

  ``Who is he?'' answered the hermit; ``I tell
thee he is a friend.''

  ``But what friend?'' answered the knight; ``for
he may be friend to thee and none of mine?''

  ``What friend?'' replied the hermit; ``that,
now, is one of the questions that is more easily
asked than answered.  What friend?---why, he is,
now that I bethink me a little, the very same honest
keeper I told thee of a while since.''

  ``Ay, as honest a keeper as thou art a pious
hermit,'' replied the knight, ``I doubt it not.
But undo the door to him before he beat it from
its hinges.''

  The  dogs,  in  the  meantime,  which  had  made  a
dreadful baying at the commencement of the disturbance,
seemed now to recognise the voice of
him who stood without; for, totally changing their
manner, they scratched and whined at the door,
as if interceding for his admission.  The hermit
speedily unbolted his portal, and admitted Locksley,
with his two companions.

  ``Why, hermit,'' was the yeoman's first question
as soon as he beheld the knight, ``what boon companion
hast thou here ?''

  ``A brother of our order,'' replied the friar, shaking
his head; ``we have been at our orisons all
night.''

  ``He is a monk of the church militant, I think,''
answered Locksley; ``and there be more of them
abroad.  I tell thee, friar, thou must lay down the
rosary and take up the quarter-staff; we shall need
every one of our merry men, whether clerk or layman.
---But,'' he added, taking him a step aside,
``art thou mad? to give admittance to a knight
thou dost not know? Hast thou forgot our articles?''

  ``Not know him!'' replied the friar, boldly, ``I
know him as well as the beggar knows his dish.''

  ``And what is his name, then?'' demanded
Locksley.

  ``His name,'' said the hermit---``his name is Sir
Anthony of Scrabelstone---as if I would drink with
a man, and did not know his name!''

  ``Thou hast been drinking more than enough,
friar,'' said the woodsman, ``and, I fear, prating
more than enough too.''

  ``Good yeoman,'' said the knight, coming forward,
``be not wroth with my merry host.  He did
but afford me the hospitality which I would have
compelled from him if he had refused it.''

  ``Thou compel!'' said the friar; ``wait but till
have changed this grey gown for a green cassock,
and if I make not a quarter-staff ring twelve upon
thy pate, I am neither true clerk nor good woodsman.''

  While he spoke thus, he stript off his gown, and
appeared in a close black buckram doublet and
drawers, over which he speedily did on a cassock
of green, and hose of the same colour.  ``I pray
thee truss my points,'' said he to Wamba, ``and
thou shalt have a cup of sack for thy labour.''

  ``Gramercy for thy sack,'' said Wamba; ``but
think'st thou it is lawful for me to aid you to
transmew thyself from a holy hermit into a sinful
forester?''

  ``Never fear,'' said the hermit; ``I will but confess
the sins of my green cloak to my greyfriar's
frock, and all shall be well again.''

  ``Amen!'' answered the Jester; ``a broadcloth
penitent should have a sackcloth confessor, and
your frock may absolve my motley doublet into
the bargain.''

  So saying, he accommodated the friar with his
assistance in tying the endless number of points,
as the laces which attached the hose to the doublet
were then termed.

  While they were thus employed, Locksley led
the knight a little apart, and addressed him thus:---

  ``Deny it not, Sir Knight---you are he who decided
the victory to the advantage of the English
against the strangers on the second day of the
tournament at Ashby.''

  ``And what follows if you guess truly, good
yeoman?'' replied the knight.

  ``I should in that case hold you,'' replied the
yeoman, ``a friend to the weaker party.''

  ``Such is the duty of a true knight at least,'' replied
the Black Champion; ``and I would not willingly
that there were reason to think otherwise of
me.''

  ``But for my purpose,'' said the yeoman, ``thou
shouldst be as well a good Englishman as a good
knight; for that, which I have to speak of, concerns,
indeed, the duty of every honest man, but
is more especially that of a true-born native of
England.''

  ``You can speak to no one,'' replied the knight,
``to whom England, and the life of every Englishman,
can be dearer than to me.''

  ``I would willingly believe so,'' said the woodsman,
``for never had this country such need to be
supported by those who love her.  Hear me, and I
will tell thee of an enterprise, in which, if thou best
really that which thou seemest, thou mayst take
an honourable part.  A band of villains, in the disguise
of better men than themselves, have made
themselves master of the person of a noble Englishman,
called Cedric the Saxon, together with his
ward, and his friend Athelstane of Coningsburgh,
and have transported them to a castle in this forest,
called Torquilstone.  I ask of thee, as a good knight
and a good Englishman, wilt thou aid in their rescue?''

  ``I am bound by my vow to do so,'' replied the
knight; ``but I would willingly know who you are,
who request my assistance in their behalf ?''

  ``I am,'' said the forester, ``a nameless man;
but I am the friend of my country, and of my
country's friends---With this account of me you
must for the present remain satisfied, the more
especially since you yourself desire to continue unknown.
Believe, however, that my word, when
pledged, is as inviolate as if I wore golden spurs.''

  ``I willingly believe it,'' said the knight; ``I
have been accustomed to study men's countenances,
and I can read in thine honesty and resolution.  I
will, therefore, ask thee no further questions, but
aid thee in setting at freedom these oppressed captives;
which done, I trust we shall part better acquainted,
and well satisfied with each other.''

  ``So,'' said Wamba to Gurth,---for the friar
being now fully equipped, the Jester, having approached
to the other side of the hut, had heard
the conclusion of the conversation,---``So we have
got a new ally ?---l trust the valour of the knight
will be truer metal than the religion of the hermit,
or the honesty of the yeoman; for this Locksley
looks like a born deer-stealer, and the priest like a
lusty hypocrite.''

  ``Hold thy peace, Wamba,'' said Gurth; ``it
may all be as thou dost guess; but were the horned
devil to rise and proffer me his assistance to set at
liberty Cedric and the Lady Rowena, I fear I
should hardly have religion enough to refuse the
foul fiend's offer, and bid him get behind me.''

  The friar was now completely accoutred as a
yeoman, with sword and buckler, bow, and quiver,
and a strong partisan over his shoulder.  He left
his cell at the head of the party, and, having carefully
locked the door, deposited the key under the
threshold.

  ``Art thou in condition to do good service, friar,''
said Locksley, ``or does the brown bowl still run
in thy head ?''

  ``Not more than a drought of St Dunstan's
fountain will allay,'' answered the priest; ``something
there is of a whizzing in my brain, and of instability
in my legs, but you shall presently see both
pass away.''

  So saying, he stepped to the stone basin, in
which the waters of the fountain as they fell formed
bubbles which danced in the white moonlight, and
took so long a drought as if he had meant to exhaust
the spring.

  ``When didst thou drink as deep a drought of
water before, Holy Clerk of Copmanhurst?'' said
the Black Knight.

  ``Never since my wine-but leaked, and let out
its liquor by an illegal vent,'' replied the friar, ``and
so left me nothing to drink but my patron's bounty
here.''

  Then plunging his hands and head into the fountain,
he washed from them all marks of the midnight
revel.

  Thus refreshed and sobered, the jolly priest
twirled his heavy partisan round his head with
three fingers, as if he had been balancing a reed,
exclaiming at the same time, ``Where be those
false ravishers, who carry off wenches against their
will? May the foul fiend fly off with me, if I am
not man enough for a dozen of them.''

  ``Swearest thou, Holy Clerk?'' said the Black
Knight.

  ``Clerk me no Clerks,'' replied the transformed
priest; ``by Saint George and the Dragon, I am
no longer a shaveling than while my frock is on my
back---When I am cased in my green cassock, I
will drink, swear, and woo a lass, with any blithe
forester in the West Riding.''

  ``Come on, Jack Priest,'' said Locksley, ``and
be silent; thou art as noisy as a whole convent on
a holy eve, when the Father Abbot has gone to bed.
---Come on you, too, my masters, tarry not to talk
of it---I say, come on, we must collect all our forces,
and few enough we shall have, if we are to storm
the Castle of Reginald Front-de-B<oe>uf.''

  ``What! is it Front-de-B<oe>uf,'' said the Black
Knight, ``who has stopt on the king's highway the
king's liege subjects?---Is he turned thief and oppressor?''

  ``Oppressor he ever was,'' said Locksley.

  ``And for thief,'' said the priest, ``I  doubt  if
ever he were even half so honest a man as many a
thief of my acquaintance.''

  ``Move on, priest, and be silent,'' said the yeoman;
``it were better you led the way to the place
of rendezvous, than say what should be left unsaid,
both in decency and prudence.''


                CHAPTER XXI.

     Alas, how many hours and years have past,
     Since human forms have round this table sate,
     Or lamp, or taper, on its surface gleam'd!
     Methinks, I hear the sound of time long pass'd
     Still murmuring o'er us, in the lofty void
     Of these dark arches, like the ling'ring voices
     Of those who long within their graves have slept.

                                   _Orra, a Tragedy._

  While these measures were taking in behalf of
Cedric and his companions, the armed men by whom
the latter had been seized, hurried their captives
along towards the place of security, where they intended
to imprison them.  But darkness came on
fast, and the paths of the wood seemed but imperfectly
known to the marauders.  They were compelled
to make several long halts, and once or twice
to return on their road to resume the direction
which they wished to pursue.  The summer morn
had dawned upon them ere they could travel in full
assurance that they held the right path.  But confidence
returned with light, and the cavalcade now
moved rapidly forward.  Meanwhile, the following
dialogue took place between the two leaders of the
banditti.

  ``It is time thou shouldst leave us, Sir Maurice,''
said the Templar to De Bracy, ``in order to prepare
the second part of thy mystery.  Thou art next,
thou knowest, to act the Knight Deliverer.''

  ``I have thought better of it,'' said De Bracy; ``I
will not leave thee till the prize is fairly deposited
in Front-de-B<oe>uf's castle.  There will I appear before
the Lady Rowena in mine own shape, and trust
that she will set down to the vehemence of my
passion the violence of which I have been guilty.''

  ``And what has made thee change thy plan, De
Bracy?'' replied the Knight Templar.

  ``That concerns thee nothing,'' answered his
companion.

  ``I would hope, however, Sir Knight,'' said the
Templar, ``that this alteration of measures arises
from no suspicion of my honourable meaning, such
as Fitzurse endeavoured to instil into thee?''

  ``My thoughts are my own,'' answered De Bracy;
``the fiend laughs, they say, when one thief robs
another; and we know, that were he to spit fire
and brimstone instead, it would never prevent a
Templar from following his bent.''

  ``Or the leader of a Free Company,'' answered
the Templar, ``from dreading at the hands of a
comrade and friend, the injustice he does to all
mankind.''

  ``This is unprofitable and perilous recrimination,''
answered De Bracy; ``suffice it to say, I
know the morals of the Temple-Order, and I will
not give thee the power of cheating me out of the
fair prey for which I have run such risks.''

  ``Psha,'' replied the Templar, ``what hast thou
to fear?---Thou knowest the vows of our order.''

  ``Right well,'' said De Bracy, ``and also how
they are kept.  Come, Sir Templar, the laws of
gallantry have a liberal interpretation in Palestine,
and this is a case in which I will trust nothing to
your conscience.''

  ``Hear the truth, then,'' said the Templar; ``I
care not for your blue-eyed beauty.  There is in
that train one who will make me a better mate.''

  ``What! wouldst thou stoop to the waiting damsel?''
said De Bracy.

  ``No, Sir Knight,'' said the Templar, haughtily.
``To the waiting-woman will I not stoop.  I have a
prize among the captives as lovely as thine own.''

  ``By the mass, thou meanest the fair Jewess!''
said De Bracy.

  ``And if I do,'' said Bois-Guilbert, ``who shall
gainsay me?''

  ``No one that I know,'' said De Bracy, ``unless
it be your vow of celibacy, or a cheek of conscience
for an intrigue with a Jewess.''

  ``For my vow,'' said the Templar, ``our Grand
Master hath granted me a dispensation.  And for
my conscience, a man that has slain three hundred
Saracens, need not reckon up every little failing,
like a village girl at her first confession upon Good
Friday eve.''

  ``Thou knowest best thine own privileges,'' said
De Bracy.  ``Yet, I would have sworn thy thought
had been more on the old usurer's money bags, than
on the black eyes of the daughter.''

  ``I can admire both,'' answered the Templar;
``besides, the old Jew is but half-prize.  I must
share his spoils with Front-de-B<oe>uf, who will not
lend us the use of his castle for nothing.  I must
have something that I can term exclusively my own
by this foray of ours, and I have fixed on the lovely
Jewess as my peculiar prize.  But, now thou
knowest my drift, thou wilt resume thine own original
plan, wilt thou not?---Thou hast nothing,
thou seest, to fear from my interference.''

  ``No,'' replied De Bracy, ``I will remain beside
my prize.  What thou sayst is passing true, but
I like not the privileges acquired by the dispensation
of the Grand Master, and the merit acquired
by the slaughter of three hundred Saracens.  You
have too good a right to a free pardon, to render
you very scrupulous about peccadilloes.''

  While this dialogue was proceeding, Cedric was
endeavouring to wring out of those who guarded
him an avowal of their character and purpose.
``You should be Englishmen,'' said he; ``and yet,
sacred Heaven! you prey upon your countrymen as
if you were very Normans.  You should be my
neighbours, and, if so, my friends; for which of my
English neighbours have reason to be otherwise?
I tell ye, yeomen, that even those among ye who
have been branded with outlawry have had from
me protection; for I have pitied their miseries, and
curst the oppression of their tyrannic nobles.  What,
then, would you have of me? or in what can this
violence serve ye?---Ye are worse than brute beasts
in your actions, and will you imitate them in their
very dumbness?''

  It was in vain that Cedric expostulated with his
guards, who had too many good reasons for their
silence to be induced to break it either by his wrath
or his expostulations.  They continued to hurry him
along, travelling at a very rapid rate, until, at the
end of an avenue of huge trees, arose Torquilstone,
now the hoary and ancient castle of Reginald
Front-de-B<oe>uf.  It was a fortress of no great size,
consisting of a donjon, or large and high square
tower, surrounded by buildings of inferior height,
which were encircled by an inner court-yard.
Around the exterior wall was a deep moat, supplied
with water from a neighbouring rivulet.
Front-de-B<oe>uf, whose character placed him often
at feud with his enemies, had made considerable
additions to the strength of his castle, by building
towers upon the outward wall, so as to flank it at
every angle.  The access, as usual in castles of the
period, lay through an arched barbican, or outwork,
which was terminated and defended by a small turret
at each corner.

  Cedric no sooner saw the turrets of Front-de-B<oe>uf's
castle raise their grey and moss-grown battlements,
glimmering in the morning sun above the
wood by which they were surrounded, than he instantly
augured more truly concerning the cause of
his misfortune.

  ``I did injustice,'' he said, ``to the thieves and
outlaws of these woods, when I supposed such banditti
to belong to their bands; I might as justly
have confounded the foxes of these brakes with the
ravening wolves of France.  Tell me, dogs---is it
my life or my wealth that your master aims at? Is
it too much that two Saxons, myself and the noble
Athelstane, should hold land in the country which
was once the patrimony of our race?---Put us then
to death, and complete your tyranny by taking our
lives, as you began with our liberties.  If the Saxon
Cedric cannot rescue England, he is willing to die
for her.  Tell your tyrannical master, I do only
beseech him to dismiss the Lady Rowena in honour
and safety.  She is a woman, and he need not
dread her; and with us will die all who dare fight
in her cause.''

  The attendants remained as mute to this address
as to the former, and they now stood before the
gate of the castle.  De Bracy winded his horn three
times, and the archers and cross-bow men, who had
manned the wall upon seeing their approach, hastened
to lower the drawbridge, and admit them.
The prisoners were compelled by their guards to
alight, and were conducted to an apartment where
a hasty repast was offered them, of which none but
Athelstane felt any inclination to partake.  Neither
had the descendant of the Confessor much time to
do justice to the good cheer placed before them, for
their guards gave him and Cedric to understand
that they were to be imprisoned in a chamber apart
from Rowena.  Resistance was vain; and they
were compelled to follow to a large room, which,
rising on clumsy Saxon pillars, resembled those refectories
and chapter-houses which may be still seen
in the most ancient parts of our most ancient monasteries.

  The Lady Rowena was next separated from her
train, and conducted, with courtesy, indeed, but
still without consulting her inclination, to a distant
apartment.  The same alarming distinction was
conferred on Rebecca, in spite of her father's entreaties,
who offered even money, in this extremity
of distress, that she might be permitted to abide
with him.  ``Base unbeliever,'' answered one of his
guards, ``when thou hast seen thy lair, thou wilt
not wish thy daughter to partake it.'' And, without
farther discussion, the old Jew was forcibly dragged
off in a different direction from the other prisoners.
The domestics, after being carefully searched
and disarmed, were confined in another part of
the castle; and Rowena was refused even the comfort
she might have derived from the attendance of
her handmaiden Elgitha.

  The apartment in which the Saxon chiefs were
confined, for to them we turn our first attention,
although at present used as a sort of guard-room,
had formerly been the great hall of the castle.  It
was now abandoned to meaner purposes, because
the present lord, among other additions to the convenience,
security, and beauty of his baronial residence,
had erected a new and noble hall, whose
vaulted roof was supported by lighter and more
elegant pillars, and fitted up with that higher degree
of ornament, which the Normans had already
introduced into architecture.

  Cedric paced the apartment, filled with indignant
reflections on the past and on the present, while the
apathy of his companion served, instead of patience
and philosophy, to defend him against every thing
save the inconvenience of the present moment; and
so little did he feel even this last, that he was only
from time to time roused to a reply by Cedric's
animated and impassioned appeal to him.

  ``Yes,'' said Cedric, half speaking to himself,
and half addressing himself to Athelstane, ``it was
in this very hall that my father feasted with Torquil
Wolfganger, when he entertained the valiant and
unfortunate Harold, then advancing against the
Norwegians, who had united themselves to the
rebel Tosti.  It was in this hall that Harold returned
the magnanimous answer to the ambassador
of his rebel brother.  Oft have I heard my father
kindle as he told the tale.  The envoy of Tosti
was admitted, when this ample room could scarce
contain the crowd of noble Saxon leaders, who
were quaffing the blood-red wine around their monarch.''

  ``I hope,'' said Athelstane, somewhat moved by
this part of his friend's discourse, ``they will not
forget to send us some wine and refactions at noon
---we had scarce a breathing-space allowed to break
our fast, and I never have the benefit of my food
when I eat immediately after dismounting from
horseback, though the leeches recommend that
practice.''

  Cedric went on with his story without noticing
this interjectional observation of his friend.

  ``The envoy of Tosti,'' he said, ``moved up the
hall, undismayed by the frowning countenances of
all around him, until he made his obeisance before
the throne of King Harold.

  `` `What terms,' he said, `Lord King, hath thy
brother Tosti to hope, if he should lay down his
arms, and crave peace at thy hands?'

  `` `A brother's love,' cried the generous Harold,
`and the fair earldom of Northumberland.'

  `` `But should Tosti accept these terms,' continued
the envoy, ` what lands shall be assigned to his faithful
ally, Hardrada, King of Norway?'

  `` `Seven feet of English ground,' answered Harold,
fiercely, 'or, as Hardrada is said to be a giant,
perhaps we may allow him twelve inches more.'

  ``The hall rung with acclamations, and cup and
horn was filled to the Norwegian, who should be
speedily in possession of his English territory.''

  ``I could have pledged him with all my soul,''
said Athelstane, ``for my tongue cleaves to my
palate.''

  ``The baffled envoy,'' continued Cedric, pursuing
with animation his tale, though it interested not
the listener, ``retreated, to carry to Tosti and his
ally the ominous answer of his injured brother.  It
was then that the distant towers of York, and the
bloody streams of the Derwent,* beheld that direful

*    Note D.  Battle of Stamford.

conflict, in which, after displaying the most undaunted
valour, the King of Norway, and Tosti,
both fell, with ten thousand of their bravest followers.
Who would have thought that upon the proud
day when this battle was won, the very gale which
waved the Saxon banners in triumph, was filling
the Norman sails, and impelling them to the fatal
shores of Sussex?---Who would have thought that
Harold, within a few brief days, would himself possess
no more of his kingdom, than the share which
he allotted in his wrath to the Norwegian invader?
---Who would have thought that you, noble Athelstane---
that you, descended of Harold's blood, and
that I, whose father was not the worst defender of
the Saxon crown, should be prisoners to a vile Norman,
in the very hall in which our ancestors held
such high festival?''

  ``It is sad enough,'' replied Athelstane; ``but
I trust they will hold us to a moderate ransom---
At any rate it cannot be their purpose to starve us
outright; and yet, although it is high noon, I see
no preparations for serving dinner.  Look up at the
window, noble Cedric, and judge by the sunbeams
if it is not on the verge of noon.''

  ``It may be so,'' answered Cedric; ``but I cannot
look on that stained lattice without its awakening
other reflections than those which concern the
passing moment, or its privations.  When that window
was wrought, my noble friend, our hardy fathers
knew not the art of making glass, or of staining
it---The pride of Wolfganger's father brought
an artist from Normandy to adorn his hall with this
new species of emblazonment, that breaks the golden
light of God's blessed day into so many fantastic
hues.  The foreigner came here poor, beggarly,
cringing, and subservient, ready to doff his cap to
the meanest native of the household.  He returned
pampered and proud, to tell his rapacious countrymen
of the wealth and the simplicity of the Saxon
nobles---a folly, oh, Athelstane, foreboded of old, as
well as foreseen, by those descendants of Hengist
and his hardy tribes, who retained the simplicity
of their manners.  We made these strangers our
bosom friends, our confidential servants; we borrowed
their artists and their arts, and despised the
honest simplicity and hardihood with which our
brave ancestors supported themselves, and we became
enervated by Norman arts long ere we fell
under Norman arms.  Far better was our homely
diet, eaten in peace and liberty, than the luxurious
dainties, the love of which hath delivered us as
bondsmen to the foreign conqueror!''

  ``I should,'' replied Athelstane, ``hold very humble
diet a luxury at present; and it astonishes me,
noble Cedric, that you can bear so truly in mind
the memory of past deeds, when it appeareth you
forget the very hour of dinner.''

  ``It is time lost,'' muttered Cedric apart and impatiently,
``to speak to him of aught else but that
which concerns his appetite! The soul of Hardicanute
hath taken possession of him, and he hath no
pleasure save to fill, to swill, and to call for more.
---Alas!''  said he, looking at Athelstane with compassion,
``that so dull a spirit should be lodged in
so goodly a form! Alas! that such an enterprise
as the regeneration of England should turn on a
hinge so imperfect! Wedded to Rowena, indeed,
her nobler and more generous soul may yet awake
the better nature which is torpid within him.  Yet
how should this be, while Rowena, Athelstane, and
I myself, remain the prisoners of this brutal marauder
and have been made so perhaps from a sense
of the dangers which our liberty might bring to the
usurped power of his nation?''

  While the Saxon was plunged in these painful
reflections, the door of their prison opened, and gave
entrance to a sewer, holding his white rod of office.
This important person advanced into the chamber
with a grave pace, followed by four attendants,
bearing in a table covered with dishes, the sight
and smell of which seemed to be an instant compensation
to Athelstane for all the inconvenience
he had undergone.  The persons who attended on
the feast were masked and cloaked.

  ``What mummery is this?'' said Cedric; ``think
you that we are ignorant whose prisoners we are,
when we are in the castle of your master? Tell
him,'' he continued, willing to use this opportunity
to open a negotiation for his freedom,---``Tell your
master, Reginald Front-de-B<oe>uf, that we know
no reason he can have for withholding our liberty,
excepting his unlawful desire to enrich himself at
our expense.  Tell him that we yield to his rapacity,
as in similar circumstances we should do to
that of a literal robber.  Let him name the ransom
at which he rates our liberty, and it shall be paid,
providing the exaction is suited to our means.''

  The sewer made no answer, but bowed his head.

  ``And tell Sir Reginald Front-de-B<oe>uf,'' said
Athelstane, ``that I send him my mortal defiance,
and challenge him to combat with me, on foot or
horseback, at any secure place, within eight days
after our liberation; which, if he be a true knight,
he will not,  under  these  circumstances,  venture  to
refuse or to delay.''

  ``I shall deliver to the knight your defiance,''
answered the sewer; ``meanwhile I leave you to
your food.''

  The challenge of Athelstane was delivered with
no good grace; for a large mouthful, which required
the exercise of both jaws at once, added to
a natural hesitation, considerably damped the effect
of the bold defiance it contained.  Still, however,
his speech was hailed by Cedric as an incontestible
token of reviving spirit in his companion,
whose previous indifference had begun, notwithstanding
his respect for Athelstane's descent, to
wear out his patience.  But he now cordially shook
hands with him in token of his approbation, and
was somewhat grieved when Athelstane observed,
``that he would fight a dozen such men as Front-de-B<oe>uf,
if, by so doing, he could hasten his departure
from a dungeon where they put so much
garlic into their pottage.'' Notwithstanding this
intimation of a relapse into the apathy of sensuality,
Cedric placed himself opposite to Athelstane, and
soon showed, that if the distresses of his country
could banish the recollection of food while the table
was uncovered, yet no sooner were the victuals put
there, than he proved that the appetite of his Saxon
ancestors had descended to him along with their
other qualities.

  The captives had not long enjoyed their refreshment,
however, ere their attention was disturbed
even from this most serious occupation by the blast
of a horn winded before the gate.  It was repeated
three times, with as much violence as if it had been
blown before an enchanted castle by the destined
knight, at whose summons halls and towers, barbican
and battlement, were to roll off like a morning
vapour.  The Saxons started from the table, and
hastened to the window.  But their curiosity was
disappointed; for these outlets only looked upon
the court of the castle, and the sound came from beyond
its precincts.  The summons, however, seemed
of importance, for a considerable degree of bustle
instantly took place in the castle.


               CHAPTER XXII.

      My daughter---O my ducats---O my daughter!
      ------------O my Christian ducats!
      Justice---the Law---my ducats, and my daughter!
                                   _Merchant of Venice._

  Leaving the Saxon chiefs to return to their banquet
as soon as their ungratified curiosity should
permit them to attend to the calls of their half-satiated
appetite, we have to look in upon the yet
more severe imprisonment of Isaac of York.  The
poor Jew had been hastily thrust into a dungeon-vault
of the castle, the floor of which was deep beneath
the level of the ground, and very damp, being
lower than even the moat itself.  The only light
was received through one or two loop-holes far
above the reach of the captive's hand.  These apertures
admitted, even at mid-day, only a dim and
uncertain light, which was changed for utter darkness
long before the rest of the castle had lost the
blessing of day.  Chains and shackles, which had
been the portion of former captives, from whom
active exertions to escape had been apprehended,
hung rusted and empty on the walls of the prison,
and in the rings of one of those sets of fetters there
remained two mouldering bones, which seemed to
have been once those of the human leg, as if some
prisoner had been left not only to perish there, but
to be consumed to a skeleton.

  At one end of this ghastly apartment was a large
fire-grate, over the top of which were stretched
some transverse iron bars, half devoured with rust.

  The whole appearance of the dungeon might
have appalled a stouter heart than that of Isaac,
who, nevertheless, was more composed under the
imminent pressure of danger, than he had seemed
to be while affected by terrors, of which the cause
was as yet remote and contingent.  The lovers of the
chase say that the hare feels more agony during the
pursuit of the greyhounds, than when she is struggling
in their fangs.* And thus it is probable, that

*    _Nota Bene._---We by no means warrant the accuracy of this
*    piece of natural history, which we give on the authority of the
*    Wardour MS.                                   L. T.

the Jews, by the very frequency of their fear on all
occasions, had their minds in some degree prepared
for every effort of tyranny which could be practised
upon them; so that no aggression, when it had taken
place, could bring with it that surprise which
is the most disabling quality of terror.  Neither was
it the first time that Isaac had been placed in circumstances
so dangerous.  He had therefore experience
to guide him, as well as hope, that he might
again, as formerly, be delivered as a prey from the
fowler.  Above all, he had upon his side the unyielding
obstinacy of his nation, and that unbending
resolution, with which Israelites have been
frequently known to submit to the uttermost evils
which power and violence can inflict upon them,
rather than gratify their oppressors by granting
their demands.

  In this humour of passive resistance, and with
his garment collected beneath him to keep his limbs
from the wet pavement, Isaac sat in a corner of his
dungeon, where his folded hands, his dishevelled
hair and beard, his furred cloak and high cap, seen
by the wiry and broken light, would have afforded
a study for Rembrandt, had that celebrated painter
existed at the period.  The Jew remained, without
altering his position, for nearly three hours, at the
expiry of which steps were heard on the dungeon
stair.  The bolts screamed as they were withdrawn
---the hinges creaked as the wicket opened, and
Reginald Front-de-B<oe>uf, followed by the two Saracen
slaves of the Templar, entered the prison.

  Front-de-B<oe>uf, a tall and strong man, whose
life had been spent in public war or in private feuds
and broils, and who had hesitated at no means of
extending his feudal power, had features corresponding
to his character, and which strongly expressed
the fiercer and more malignant passions of
the mind.  The scars with which his visage was
seamed, would, on features of a different cast, have
excited the sympathy and veneration due to the
marks of honourable valour; but, in the peculiar
case of Front-de-B<oe>uf, they only added to the ferocity
of his countenance, and to the dread which
his presence inspired.  This formidable baron was
clad in a leathern doublet, fitted close to his body,
which was frayed and soiled with the stains of his
armour.  He had no weapon, excepting a poniard
at his belt, which served to counterbalance the
weight of the bunch of rusty keys that hung at his
right side.

  The black slaves who attended Front-de-B<oe>uf
were stripped of their gorgeous apparel, and attired
in jerkins and trowsers of coarse linen, their sleeves
being tucked up above the elbow, like those of
butchers when about to exercise their function in
the slaughter-house.  Each had in his hand a small
pannier; and, when they entered the dungeon, they
stopt at the door until Front-de-B<oe>uf himself carefully
locked and double-locked it.  Having taken
this precaution, he advanced slowly up the apartment
towards the Jew, upon whom he kept his eye
fixed, as if he wished to paralyze him with his
glance, as some animals are said to fascinate their
prey.  It seemed indeed as if the sullen and malignant
eye of Front-de-B<oe>uf possessed some portion
of that supposed power over his unfortunate prisoner.
The Jew sate with his mouth a-gape, and
his eyes fixed on the savage baron with such earnestness
of terror, that his frame seemed literally
to shrink together, and to diminish in size while
encountering the fierce Norman's fixed and baleful
gaze.  The unhappy Isaac was deprived not only
of the power of rising to make the obeisance which
his terror dictated, but he could not even doff his
cap, or utter any word of supplication; so strongly
was he agitated by the conviction that tortures and
death were impending over him.

  On the other hand, the stately form of the Norman
appeared to dilate in magnitude, like that of
the eagle, which ruffles up its plumage when about
to pounce on its defenceless prey. He paused within
three steps of the corner in which the unfortunate
Jew had now, as it were, coiled himself up into
the smallest possible space, and made a sign for one
of the slaves to approach.  The black satellite came
forward accordingly, and, producing from his basket
a large pair of scales and several weights, he
laid them at the feet of Front-de-B<oe>uf, and again
retired to the respectful distance, at which his companion
had already taken his station.

  The motions of these men were slow and solemn,
as if there impended over their souls some preconception
of horror and of cruelty.  Front-de-B<oe>uf
himself opened the scene by thus addressing his ill-fated
captive.

  ``Most accursed dog of an accursed race,'' he
said, awaking with his deep and sullen voice the
sullen echoes of his dungeon vault, ``seest thou
these scales?''

  The unhappy Jew returned a feeble affirmative.

  ``In these very scales shalt thou weigh me out,''
said the relentless Baron, ``a thousand silver pounds,
after the just measure and weight of the Tower of
London.''

  ``Holy Abraham!'' returned the Jew, finding
voice through the very  extremity of his danger,
``heard man ever such a demand?---Who ever
heard, even in a minstrel's tale, of such a sum as a
thousand pounds of silver?---What human sight was
ever blessed with the vision of such a mass of treasure?
---Not within the walls of York, ransack my
house and that of all my tribe, wilt thou find the
tithe of that huge sum of silver that thou speakest
of.''

  ``I am reasonable,'' answered Front-de-B<oe>uf,
``and if silver be scant, I refuse not gold.  At the
rate of a mark of gold for each six pounds of silver,
thou shalt free thy unbelieving carcass from such
punishment as thy heart has never even conceived.''

  ``Have mercy on me, noble knight!'' exclaimed
Isaac; ``I am old, and poor, and helpless.  It were
unworthy to triumph over me---It is a poor deed
to crush a worm.''

  ``Old thou mayst be,'' replied the knight; ``more
shame to their folly who have suffered thee to grow
grey in usury and knavery---Feeble thou mayst be,
for when had a Jew either heart or hand---But rich
it is well known thou art.''

  ``I swear to you, noble knight,'' said the Jew
``by all which I believe, and by all which we believe
in common------''

  ``Perjure not thyself,'' said the Norman, interrupting
him, ``and let not thine obstinacy seal thy
doom, until thou hast seen and well considered the
fate that awaits thee.  Think not I speak to thee
only to excite thy terror, and practise on the base
cowardice thou hast derived from thy tribe.  I swear
to thee by that which thou dost =not= believe, by the
gospel which our church teaches, and by the keys
which are given her to bind and to loose, that my
purpose is deep and peremptory.  This dungeon is
no place for trifling.  Prisoners ten thousand times
more distinguished than thou have died within these
walls, and their fate hath never been known! But
for thee is reserved a long and lingering death, to
which theirs were luxury.''

  He again made a signal for the slaves to approach,
and spoke to them apart, in their own language;
for he also had been in Palestine, where perhaps,
he had learnt his lesson of cruelty.  The Saracens
produced from their baskets a quantity of charcoal,
a pair of bellows, and a flask of oil.  While the one
struck a light with a flint and steel, the other disposed
the charcoal in the large rusty grate which
we have already mentioned, and exercised the bellows
until the fuel came to a red glow.

  ``Seest thou, Isaac,'' said Front-de-B<oe>uf, ``the
range of iron bars above the glowing charcoal?*---

*    Note E.  The range of iron bars above that glowing
*   charcoal.

on that warm couch thou shalt lie, stripped of thy
clothes as if thou wert to rest on a bed of down.
One of these slaves shall maintain the fire beneath
thee, while the other shall anoint thy wretched
limbs with oil, lest the roast should burn.---Now,
choose betwixt such a scorching bed and the payment
of a thousand pounds of silver; for, by the
head of my father, thou hast no other option.''

  ``It is impossible,'' exclaimed the miserable Jew
---``it is impossible that your purpose can be real!
The good God of nature never made a heart capable
of exercising such cruelty!''

  ``Trust not to that, Isaac,'' said Front-de-B<oe>uf,
``it were a fatal error.  Dost thou think that I, who
have seen a town sacked, in which thousands of my
Christian countrymen perished by sword, by flood,
and by fire, will blench from my purpose for the
outcries or screams of one single wretched Jew?---
or thinkest thou that these swarthy slaves, who
have neither law, country, nor conscience, but their
master's will---who use the poison, or the stake, or
the poniard, or the cord, at his slightest wink---
thinkest thou that _they_ will have mercy, who do
not even understand the language in which it is
asked?---Be wise, old man; discharge thyself of a
portion of thy superfluous wealth; repay to the
hands of a Christian a part of what thou hast acquired
by the usury thou hast practised on those
of his religion.  Thy cunning may soon swell out
once more thy shrivelled purse, but neither leech
nor medicine can restore thy scorched hide and flesh
wert thou once stretched on these bars.  Tell down
thy ransom, I say, and rejoice that at such rate thou
canst redeem thee from a dungeon, the secrets of
which few have returned to tell.  I waste no more
words with thee---choose between thy dross and
thy flesh and blood, and as thou choosest, so shall
it be.''

  ``So may Abraham, Jacob, and all the fathers
of our people assist me,'' said Isaac, ``I cannot make
the choice, because I have not the means of satisfying
your exorbitant demand!''

  ``Seize him and strip him, slaves,'' said the
knight, ``and let the fathers of his race assist him
if they can.''

  The assistants, taking their directions more from
the Baron's eye and his hand than his tongue, once
more stepped forward, laid hands on the unfortunate
Isaac, plucked him up from the ground, and,
holding him between them, waited the hard-hearted
Baron's farther signal.  The unhappy Jew eyed
their countenances and that of Front-de-B<oe>uf, in
hope of discovering some symptoms of relenting;
but that of the Baron exhibited the same cold, half-sullen,
half-sarcastic smile which had been the prelude
to his cruelty; and the savage eyes of the Saracens,
rolling gloomily under their dark brows, acquiring
a yet more sinister expression by the whiteness
of the circle which surrounds the pupil, evinced
rather the secret pleasure which they expected from
the approaching scene, than any reluctance to be its
directors or agents.  The Jew then looked at the
glowing furnace, over which he was presently to be
stretched, and seeing no chance of his tormentor's
relenting, his resolution gave way.

  ``I will pay,'' he said, ``the thousand pounds of
silver---That is,'' he added, after a moment's pause,
``I will pay it with the help of my brethren; for
I must beg as a mendicant at the door of our synagogue
ere I make up so unheard-of a sum.---When
and where must it be delivered?''

  ``Here,'' replied Front-de-B<oe>uf, ``here it must
be delivered---weighed it must be---weighed and
told down on this very dungeon floor.---Thinkest
thou I will part with thee until thy ransom is secure?''

  ``And what is to be my surety,'' said the Jew,
``that I shall be at liberty after this ransom is
paid?''

  ``The word of a Norman noble, thou pawn-broking
slave,'' answered Front-de-B<oe>uf; ``the faith
of a Norman nobleman, more pure than the gold
and silver of thee and all thy tribe.''

  ``I crave pardon, noble lord,'' said Isaac timidly,
``but wherefore should I rely wholly on the
word of one who will trust nothing to mine?''

  ``Because thou canst not help it, Jew,'' said the
knight, sternly. ``Wert thou now in thy treasure-chamber
at York, and were I craving a loan of thy
shekels, it would be thine to dictate the time of
payment, and the pledge of security.  This is _my_
treasure-chamber.  Here I have thee at advantage,
nor will I again deign to repeat the terms on which
I grant thee liberty.''

  The Jew groaned deeply.---``Grant me,'' he said,
``at least with my own liberty, that of the companions
with whom I travel.  They scorned me as a
Jew, yet they pitied my desolation, and because
they tarried to aid me by the way, a share of my
evil hath come upon them; moreover, they may
contribute in some sort to my ransom.''

  ``If thou meanest yonder Saxon churls,'' said
Front-de-B<oe>uf, ``their ransom will depend upon
other terms than thine.  Mind thine own concerns,
Jew, I warn thee, and meddle not with those of
others.''

  ``I am, then,'' said Isaac, ``only to be set at liberty,
together with mine wounded friend?''

  ``Shall I twice recommend it,'' said Front-de-B<oe>uf,
``to a son of Israel, to meddle with his own
concerns, and leave those of others alone?---Since
thou hast made thy choice, it remains but that
thou payest down thy ransom, and that at a short
day.''

  ``Yet hear me,'' said the Jew---``for the sake
of that very wealth which thou wouldst obtain at
the expense of thy------'' Here he stopt short, afraid
of irritating the savage Norman.  But Front-de-B<oe>uf
only laughed, and himself filled up the blank
at which the Jew had hesitated. ``At the expense
of my conscience, thou wouldst say, Isaac; speak it
out---I tell thee, I am reasonable.  I can bear the
reproaches of a loser, even when that loser is a Jew.
Thou wert not so patient, Isaac, when thou didst
invoke justice against Jacques Fitzdotterel, for
calling thee a usurious blood-sucker, when thy exactions
had devoured his patrimony.''

  ``I swear by the Talmud,'' said the Jew, ``that
your valour has been misled in that matter.  Fitzdotterel
drew his poniard upon me in mine own
chamber, because I craved him for mine own silver.
The term of payment was due at the Passover.''

  ``I care not what he did,'' said Front-de-B<oe>uf;
``the question is, when shall I have mine own?---
when shall I have the shekels, Isaac?''

  ``Let my daughter Rebecca go forth to York,''
answered Isaac, ``with your safe conduct, noble
knight, and so soon as man and horse can return,
the treasure------'' Here he groaned deeply, but added,
after the pause of a few seconds,---``The treasure
shall be told down on this very floor.''

  ``Thy  daughter!''  said Front-de-B<oe>uf, as if
surprised,---``By heavens, Isaac, I would I had
known of this.  I deemed that yonder black-browed
girl had been thy concubine, and I gave her to
be a handmaiden to Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert,
after the fashion of patriarchs and heroes of the
days of old, who set us in these matters a wholesome
example.''

  The yell which Isaac raised at this unfeeling
communication made the very vault to ring, and
astounded the two Saracens so much that they let
go their hold of the Jew.  He availed himself of
his enlargement to throw himself on the pavement,
and clasp the knees of Front-de-B<oe>uf.

  ``Take all that you have asked,'' said he, ``Sir
Knight---take ten times more---reduce me to ruin
and to beggary, if thou wilt,---nay, pierce me with
thy poniard, broil me on that furnace, but spare
my daughter, deliver  her  in  safety  and  honour!---
As thou art born of woman, spare the honour of a
helpless maiden---She  is  the  image  of  my  deceased
Rachel, she is the last of six pledges of  her  love
---Will you deprive a widowed husband of his sole
remaining comfort?---Will you reduce a father to
wish that his only living child were laid beside her
dead mother, in the tomb of our fathers?''

  ``I would,'' said the Norman, somewhat relenting,
``that I had known of this before.  I thought
your race had loved nothing save their moneybags.''

  ``Think not so vilely of us, Jews though we be,''
said Isaac, eager to improve the moment of apparent
sympathy; ``the hunted fox, the tortured  wildcat
loves its young---the despised and persecuted
race of Abraham love their children!''

  ``Be it so,'' said Front-de-B<oe>uf; ``I will believe
it in future, Isaac, for thy very sake---but it
aids us not now, I cannot help what has happened,
or what is to follow; my word is passed to my comrade
in arms, nor would I break it for ten Jews and
Jewesses to boot.  Besides, why shouldst thou think
evil is to come to the girl, even if she became Bois-Guilbert's
booty?''

  ``There will, there must!'' exclaimed Isaac,
wringing his hands in agony; ``when did Templars
breathe aught but cruelty to men, and dishonour
to women!''

  ``Dog of an infidel,'' said Front-de-B<oe>uf, with
sparkling eyes, and not sorry, perhaps, to seize a
pretext for working himself into a passion, ``blaspheme
not the Holy Order of the Temple of Zion,
but take thought instead to pay me the ransom thou
hast promised, or woe betide thy Jewish throat!''

  ``Robber and villain!'' said the Jew, retorting
the insults of his oppressor with passion, which,
however impotent, he now found it impossible to
bridle, ``I will pay thee nothing---not one silver
penny will I pay thee, unless my daughter is delivered
to me in safety and honour?''

  ``Art thou in thy senses, Israelite?'' said the
Norman, sternly---``has thy flesh and blood a charm
against heated iron and scalding oil?''

  ``I care not!'' said the Jew, rendered desperate
by paternal affection; ``do thy worst.  My daughter
is my flesh and blood, dearer to me a thousand
times than those limbs which thy cruelty threatens.
No silver will I give thee, unless I were to pour it
molten down thy avaricious throat---no, not a silver
penny will I give thee, Nazarene, were it to
save thee from the deep damnation thy whole life
has merited! Take my life if thou wilt, and say,
the Jew, amidst his tortures, knew how to disappoint
the Christian.''

  ``We shall see that,'' said Front-de-B<oe>uf; ``for
by the blessed rood, which is the abomination of
thy accursed tribe, thou shalt feel the extremities
of fire and steel!---Strip him, slaves, and chain him
down upon the bars.''

  In spite of the feeble struggles of the old man,
the Saracens had already torn from him his upper
garment, and were proceeding totally to disrobe
him, when the sound of a bugle, twice winded without
the castle, penetrated even to the recesses of the
dungeon, and immediately after loud voices were
heard calling for Sir Reginald Front-de-B<oe>uf.
Unwilling to be found engaged in his hellish occupation,
the savage Baron gave the slaves a signal
to restore Isaac's garment, and, quitting the
dungeon with his attendants, he left the Jew to
thank God for his own deliverance, or to lament
over his daughter's captivity, and probable fate,
as his personal or parental feelings might prove
strongest.


               CHAPTER XXIII.

     Nay, if the gentle spirit of moving words
     Can no way change you to a milder form,
     I'll woo you, like a soldier, at arms' end,
     And love you 'gainst the nature of love, force you.
                              _Two Gentlemen of Verona._

  The apartment to which the Lady Rowena had
been introduced was fitted up with some rude attempts
at ornament and magnificence, and her being
placed there might be considered as a peculiar
mark of respect not offered to the other prisoners.
But the wife of Front-de-B<oe>uf, for whom it had
been originally furnished, was long dead, and decay
and neglect had impaired the few ornaments
with which her taste had adorned it.  The tapestry
hung down from the walls in many places, and in
others was tarnished and faded under the effects of
the sun, or tattered and decayed by age.  Desolate,
however, as it was, this was the apartment of the
castle which had been judged most fitting for the
accommodation of the Saxon heiress; and here she
was left to meditate upon her fate, until the actors
in this nefarious drama had arranged the several
parts which each of them was to perform.  This had
been settled in a council held by Front-de-B<oe>uf,
De Bracy, and the Templar, in which, after a long
and warm debate concerning the several advantages
which each insisted upon deriving from his peculiar
share in this audacious enterprise, they had at
length determined the fate of their unhappy prisoners.

  It was about the hour of noon, therefore, when
De Bracy, for whose advantage the expedition had
been first planned, appeared to prosecute his views
upon the hand and possessions of the Lady Rowena.

  The interval had not entirely been bestowed in
holding council with his confederates, for De Bracy
had found leisure to decorate his person with all
the foppery of the times.  His green cassock and
vizard were now flung aside.  His long luxuriant
hair was trained to flow in quaint tresses down his
richly furred cloak.  His beard was closely shaved,
his doublet reached to the middle of his leg, and
the girdle which secured it, and at the same time
supported his ponderous sword, was embroidered
and embossed with gold work.  We have already
noticed the extravagant fashion of the shoes at this
period, and the points of Maurice de Bracy's might
have challenged the prize of extravagance with the
gayest, being turned up and twisted like the horns
of a ram.  Such was the dress of a gallant of the
period; and, in the present instance, that effect was
aided by the handsome person and good demeanour
of the wearer, whose manners partook alike of
the grace of a courtier, and the frankness of a soldier.

  He saluted Rowena by doffing his velvet bonnet,
garnished with a golden broach, representing St
Michael trampling down the Prince of Evil.  With
this, he gently motioned the lady to a seat; and, as
she still retained her standing posture, the knight
ungloved his right hand, and motioned to conduct
her thither.  But Rowena declined, by her gesture,
the proffered compliment, and replied, ``If I be in
the presence of my jailor, Sir Knight---nor will
circumstances allow me to think otherwise---it best
becomes his prisoner to remain standing till she
learns her doom.''

  ``Alas! fair Rowena,'' returned De Bracy, ``you
are in presence of your captive, not your jailor;
and it is from your fair eyes that De Bracy must
receive that doom which you fondly expect from
him.''

  ``I know you not, sir,'' said the lady, drawing
herself up with all the pride of offended rank and
beauty; ``I know you not---and the insolent familiarity
with which you apply to me the jargon
of a troubadour, forms no apology for the violence
of a robber.''

  ``To thyself, fair maid,'' answered De Bracy, in
his former tone---``to thine own charms be ascribed
whate'er I have done which passed the respect
due to her, whom I have chosen queen of my heart,
and loadstar of my eyes.''

  ``I repeat to you, Sir Knight, that I know you
not, and that no man wearing chain and spurs
ought thus to intrude himself upon the presence of
an unprotected lady.''

  ``That I am unknown to you,'' said De Bracy,
``is indeed my misfortune; yet let me hope that
De Bracy's name has not been always unspoken,
when minstrels or heralds have praised deeds of
chivalry, whether in the lists or in the battle-field.''

  ``To heralds and to minstrels, then, leave thy
praise, Sir Knight,'' replied Rowena, ``more suiting
for their mouths than for thine own; and tell
me which of them shall record in song, or in book
of tourney, the memorable conquest of this night,
a conquest obtained over an old man, followed by
a few timid hinds; and its booty, an unfortunate
maiden, transported against her will to the castle
of a robber?''

  ``You are unjust, Lady Rowena,'' said the knight,
biting his lips in some confusion, and speaking in
a tone more natural to him than that of affected
gallantry, which he had at first adopted; ``yourself
free from passion, you can allow no excuse for
the frenzy of another, although caused by your own
beauty.''

  ``I pray you, Sir Knight,'' said Rowena, ``to
cease a language so commonly used by strolling
minstrels, that it becomes not the mouth of knights
or nobles.  Certes, you constrain me to sit down,
since you enter upon such commonplace terms, of
which each vile crowder hath a stock that might
last from hence to Christmas.''

  ``Proud damsel,'' said De Bracy, incensed at
finding his gallant style procured him nothing but
contempt---``proud damsel, thou shalt be as proudly
encountered.  Know then, that I have supported
my pretensions to your hand in the way that
best suited thy character.  It is meeter for thy humour
to be wooed with bow and bill, than in set
terms, and in courtly language.''

  ``Courtesy of tongue,'' said Rowena, ``when it
is used to veil churlishness of deed, is but a knight's
girdle around the breast of a base clown.  I wonder
not that the restraint appears to gall you---
more it were for your honour to have retained the
dress and language of an outlaw, than to veil the
deeds of one under an affectation of gentle language
and demeanour.''

  ``You counsel well, lady,'' said the Norman;
``and in the bold language which best justifies bold
action I tell thee, thou shalt never leave this castle,
or thou shalt leave it as Maurice de Bracy's wife.
I am not wont to be baffled in my enterprises, nor
needs a Norman noble scrupulously to vindicate his
conduct to the Saxon maiden whom be distinguishes
by the offer of his hand.  Thou art proud,
Rowena, and thou art the fitter to be my wife.  By
what other means couldst thou be raised to high
honour and to princely place, saving by my alliance?
How else wouldst thou escape from the mean
precincts of a country grange, where Saxons herd
with the swine which form their wealth, to take thy
seat, honoured as thou shouldst be, and shalt be,
amid all in England that is distinguished by beauty,
or dignified by power?''

  ``Sir Knight,'' replied Rowena, ``the grange
which you contemn hath been my shelter from infancy;
and, trust me, when I leave it---should that
day ever arrive---it shall be with one who has not
learnt to despise the dwelling and manners in which
I have been brought up.''

  ``I guess your meaning, lady,'' said De Bracy,
``though you may think it lies too obscure for my
apprehension.  But dream not, that Richard C<oe>ur
de Lion will ever resume his throne, far less that
Wilfred of Ivanhoe, his minion, will ever lead thee
to his footstool, to be there welcomed as the bride
of a favourite.  Another suitor might feel jealousy
while he touched this string; but my firm purpose
cannot be changed by a passion so childish and so
hopeless.  Know, lady, that this rival is in my
power, and that it rests but with me to betray the
secret of his being within the castle to Front-de-B<oe>uf,
whose jealousy will be more fatal than mine.''

  ``Wilfred here?'' said Rowena, in disdain; ``that
is as true as that Front-de-B<oe>uf is his rival.''

  De Bracy looked at her steadily for an instant.

  ``Wert thou really ignorant of this?'' said he;
``didst thou not know that Wilfred of Ivanhoe travelled
in the litter of the Jew?---a meet conveyance
for the crusader, whose doughty arm was to reconquer
the Holy Sepulchre!'' And he laughed scornfully.

  ``And if he is here,'' said Rowena, compelling
herself to a tone of indifference, though trembling
with an agony of apprehension which she could
not suppress, ``in what is he the rival of Front-de-B<oe>uf?
or what has he to fear beyond a short imprisonment,
and an honourable ransom, according
to the use of chivalry?''

  ``Rowena,'' said De Bracy, ``art thou, too, deceived
by the common error of thy sex, who think
there can be no rivalry but that respecting their
own charms? Knowest thou not there is a jealousy
of ambition and of wealth, as well as of love; and
that this our host, Front-de-B<oe>uf, will push from
his road him who opposes his claim to the fair barony
of Ivanhoe, as readily, eagerly, and unscrupulously,
as if he were preferred to him by some blue-eyed
damsel? But smile on my suit, lady, and the
wounded champion shall have nothing to fear from
Front-de-B<oe>uf, whom else thou mayst mourn for,
as in the hands of one who has never shown compassion.''

  ``Save him, for the love of Heaven!'' said Rowena,
her firmness giving way under terror for her
lover's impending fate.

  ``I can---I will---it is my purpose,'' said De
Bracy; `for, when Rowena consents to be the
bride of De Bracy, who is it shall dare to put forth
a violent hand upon her kinsman---the son of her
guardian---the companion of her youth? But it is
thy love must buy his protection.  I am not romantic
fool enough to further the fortune, or avert
the fate, of one who is likely to be a successful obstacle
between me and my wishes.  Use thine influence
with me in his behalf, and he is safe,---refuse
to employ it, Wilfred dies, and thou thyself
art not the nearer to freedom.''

  ``Thy language,'' answered Rowena, ``hath in
its indifferent bluntness something which cannot be
reconciled with the horrors it seems to express.  I
believe not that thy purpose is so wicked, or thy
power so great.''

  ``Flatter thyself, then, with that belief,'' said De
Bracy, ``until time shall prove it false.  Thy lover
lies wounded in this castle---thy preferred lover.  He
is a bar betwixt Front-de-B<oe>uf and that which
Front-de-B@uf loves better than either ambition
or beauty.  What will it cost beyond the blow of a
poniard, or the thrust of a javelin, to silence his
opposition for ever? Nay, were Front-de-B<oe>uf
afraid to justify a deed so open, let the leech but
give his patient a wrong draught---let the chamberlain,
or the nurse who tends him, but pluck the
pillow from his head, and Wilfred in his present
condition, is sped without the effusion of blood.
Cedric also---''

  ``And Cedric also,'' said Rowena, repeating his
words; ``my noble---my generous guardian! I deserved
the evil I have encountered, for forgetting
his fate even in that of his son!''

  ``Cedric's fate also depends upon thy determination,''
said De Bracy; ``and I leave thee to
form it.''

  Hitherto, Rowena had sustained her part in this
trying scene with undismayed courage, but it was
because she had not considered the danger as serious
and imminent.  Her disposition was naturally
that which physiognomists consider as proper to
fair complexions, mild, timid, and gentle; but it
had been tempered, and, as it were, hardened, by
the circumstances of her education.  Accustomed
to see the will of all, even of Cedric himself, (sufficiently
arbitrary with others,) give way before her
wishes, she had acquired that sort of courage and
self-confidence which arises from the habitual and
constant deference of the circle in which we move.
She could scarce conceive the possibility of her
will being opposed, far less that of its being treated
with total disregard.

  Her haughtiness and habit of domination was,
therefore, a fictitious character, induced over that
which was natural to her, and it deserted her when
her eyes were opened to the extent of her own danger,
as well as that of her lover and her guardian;
and when she found her will, the slightest expression
of which was wont to command respect and
attention, now placed in opposition to that of a
man of a strong, fierce, and determined mind, who
possessed the advantage over her, and was resolved
to use it, she quailed before him.

  After casting her eyes around, as if to look for
the aid which was nowhere to be found, and after
a few broken interjections, she raised her hands to
heaven, and burst into a passion of uncontrolled
vexation and sorrow.  It was impossible to see so
beautiful a creature in such extremity without feeling
for her, and De Bracy was not unmoved, though
he was yet more embarrassed than touched.  He
had, in truth, gone too far to recede; and yet, in
Rowena's present condition, she could not be acted
on either by argument or threats.  He paced the
apartment to and fro, now vainly exhorting the
terrified maiden to compose herself, now hesitating
concerning his own line of conduct.

  If, thought he, I should be moved by the tears
and sorrow of this disconsolate damsel, what should
I reap but the loss of these fair hopes for which I
have encountered so much risk, and the ridicule of
Prince John and his jovial comrades? ``And yet,''
he said to himself, ``I feel myself ill framed for
the part which I am playing.  I cannot look on so
fair a face while it is disturbed with agony, or on
those eyes when they are drowned in tears.  I would
she had retained her original haughtiness of disposition,
or that I had a larger share of Front-de-B<oe>uf's
thrice-tempered hardness of heart!''

  Agitated by these thoughts, he could only bid
the unfortunate Rowena be comforted, and assure
her, that as yet she had no reason for the excess of
despair to which she was now giving way.  But in
this task of consolation De Bracy was interrupted
by the horn, ``hoarse-winded blowing far and keen,''
which had at the same time alarmed the other inmates
of the castle, and interrupted their several
plans of avarice and of license.  Of them all, perhaps,
De Bracy least regretted the interruption;
for his conference with the Lady Rowena had arrived
at a point, where he found it equally difficult
to prosecute or to resign his enterprise.

  And here we cannot but think it necessary to
offer some better proof than the incidents of an idle
tale, to vindicate the melancholy representation of
manners which has been just laid before the reader.
It is grievous to think that those valiant barons, to
whose stand against the crown the liberties of England
were indebted for their existence, should themselves
have been such dreadful oppressors, and capable
of excesses contrary not only to the laws of
England, but to those of nature and humanity.
But, alas! we have only to extract from the industrious
Henry one of those numerous passages which
he has collected from contemporary historians, to
prove that fiction itself can hardly reach the dark
reality of the horrors of the period.

  The description given by the author of the Saxon
Chronicle of the cruelties exercised in the reign of
King Stephen by the great barons and lords of castles,
who were all Normans, affords a strong proof
of the excesses of which they were capable when
their passions were inflamed.  ``They grievously
oppressed the poor people by building castles; and
when they were built, they filled them with wicked
men, or rather devils, who seized both men and
women who they imagined had any money, threw
them into prison, and put them to more cruel tortures
than the martyrs ever endured.  They suffocated
some in mud, and suspended others by the
feet, or the head, or the thumbs, kindling fires below
them.  They squeezed the heads of some with
knotted cords till they pierced their brains, while
they threw others into dungeons swarming with
serpents, snakes, and toads.'' But it would be cruel
to put the reader to the pain of perusing the remainder
of this description.*

*  Henry's Hist. edit. 1805, vol. vii. p. .146.

  As another instance of these bitter fruits of conquest,
and perhaps the strongest that can be quoted,
we may mention, that the Princess Matilda, though
a daughter of the King of Scotland, and afterwards
both Queen of England, niece to Edgar Atheling,
and mother to the Empress of Germany, the daughter,
the wife, and the mother of monarchs, was obliged,
during her early residence for education in England,
to assume the veil of a nun, as the only means
of escaping the licentious pursuit of the Norman
nobles. This excuse she stated before a great council
of the clergy of England, as the sole reason for her
having taken the religious habit.  The assembled
clergy admitted the validity of the plea,and the notoriety
of the circumstances upon which it was founded;
giving thus an indubitable and most remarkable
testimony to the existence of that disgraceful license
by which that age was stained.  It was a matter of
public knowledge, they said, that after the conquest
of King William, his Norman followers, elated by
so great a victory, acknowledged no law but their
own wicked pleasure, and not only despoiled the
conquered Saxons of their lands and their goods,
but invaded the honour of their wives and of their
daughters with the most unbridled license; and
hence it was then common for matrons and maidens
of noble families to assume the veil, and take shelter
in convents, not as called thither by the vocation of
God, but solely to preserve their honour from the
unbridled wickedness of man.

  Such and so licentious were the times, as announced
by the public declaration of the assembled
clergy, recorded by Eadmer; and we need add nothing
more to vindicate the probability of the scenes
which we have detailed, and are about to detail,
upon the more apocryphal authority of the Wardour MS.


                 CHAPTER XXIV.

     I'll woo her as the lion woos his bride.
                                      _Douglas._

  While the scenes we have described were passing
in other parts of the castle, the Jewess Rebecca
awaited her fate in a distant and sequestered turret.
Hither she had been led by two of her disguised
ravishers, and on being thrust into the little
cell, she found herself in the presence of an old
sibyl, who kept murmuring to herself a Saxon
rhyme, as if to beat time to the revolving dance
which her spindle was performing upon the floor.
The hag raised her head as Rebecca entered, and
scowled at the fair Jewess with the malignant
envy with which old age and ugliness, when united
with evil conditions, are apt to look upon youth
and beauty.

  ``Thou must up and away, old house-cricket,''
said one of the men; ``our noble master commands
it---Thou must e'en leave this chamber to a fairer
guest.''

  ``Ay,'' grumbled the hag, ``even thus is service
requited.  I have known when my bare word
would have cast the best man-at-arms among ye
out of saddle and out of service; and now must I
up and away at the command of every groom such
as thou.''

  ``Good Dame Urfried,'' said the other man,
``stand not to reason on it, but up and away.
Lords' hests must be listened to with a quick ear.
Thou hast had thy day, old dame, but thy sun has
long been set.  Thou art now the very emblem of
an old war-horse turned out on the barren heath---
thou hast had thy paces in thy time, but now a
broken amble is the best of them---Come, amble off
with thee.''

  ``Ill omens dog ye both!'' said the old woman;
``and a kennel be your burying-place! May the
evil demon Zernebock tear me limb from limb, if I
leave my own cell ere I have spun out the hemp
on my distaff!''

  ``Answer it to our lord, then, old housefiend,''
said the man, and retired; leaving Rebecca in company
with the old woman, upon whose presence
she had been thus unwillingly forced.

  ``What devil's deed have they now in the wind?''
said the old hag, murmuring to herself, yet from
time to time casting a sidelong and malignant
glance at Rebecca; ``but it is easy to guess---
Bright eyes, black locks, and a skin like paper, ere
the priest stains it with his black unguent---Ay, it
is easy to guess why they send her to this lone
turret, whence a shriek could no more be heard
than at the depth of five hundred fathoms beneath
the earth.---Thou wilt have owls for thy neighbours,
fair one; and their screams will be heard as far,
and as much regarded, as thine own.  Outlandish,
too,'' she said, marking the dress and turban of
Rebecca---``What country art thou of?---a Saracen?
or an Egyptian?---Why dost not answer?---
thou canst weep, canst thou not speak?''

  ``Be not angry, good mother,'' said Rebecca.

  ``Thou needst say no more,'' replied Urfried
``men know a fox by the train, and a Jewess by
her tongue.''

  ``For the sake of mercy,'' said Rebecca, ``tell
me what I am to expect as the conclusion of the
violence which hath dragged me hither! Is it my
life they seek, to atone for my religion? I will lay
it down cheerfully.''

  ``Thy life, minion?'' answered the sibyl; ``what
would taking thy life pleasure them?---Trust  me,
thy life is in no peril.  Such usage shalt thou  have
as was once thought good enough for a noble Saxon
maiden.  And shall a Jewess, like thee, repine because
she hath no better? Look at me---I was as
young and twice as fair as thou, when Front-de-B<oe>uf,
father of this Reginald, and his Normans,
stormed this castle.  My father and his seven sons
defended their inheritance from story to story, from
chamber to chamber---There was not a room, not
a step of the stair, that was not slippery with their
blood.  They died---they died every man; and ere
their bodies were cold, and ere their blood was
dried, I had become the prey and the scorn of the
conqueror!''

  ``Is there no help?---Are there no means of
escape?'' said Rebecca---``Richly, richly would I
requite thine aid.''

  ``Think not of it,'' said the hag; ``from hence
there is no escape but through the gates of death;
and it is late, late,'' she added, shaking her grey
head, ``ere these open to us---Yet it is comfort to
think that we leave behind us on earth those who
shall be wretched as ourselves.  Fare thee well,
Jewess!---Jew or Gentile, thy fate would be the
same; for thou hast to do with them that have
neither scruple nor pity.  Fare thee well, I say.
My thread is spun out---thy task is yet to begin.''

  ``Stay! stay! for Heaven's sake!'' said Rebecca;
``stay, though it be to curse and to revile me
---thy presence is yet some protection.''

  ``The presence of the mother of God were no
protection,'' answered the old woman. ``There
she stands,'' pointing to a rude image of the Virgin
Mary, ``see if she can avert the fate that awaits
thee.''

  She left the room as she spoke, her features
writhed into a sort of sneering laugh, which made
them seem even more hideous than their habitual
frown. She locked the door behind her, and Rebecca
might hear her curse every step for its steepness,
as slowly and with difficulty she descended
the turret-stair.

  Rebecca was  now  to  expect  a  fate  even  more
dreadful than that of Rowena; for what probability
was there that either softness or ceremony
would be used towards one of her oppressed race,
whatever shadow of these might be preserved towards
a Saxon heiress? Yet had the Jewess this
advantage, that she was better prepared by habits
of thought, and by natural strength of mind, to
encounter the dangers to which she was exposed.
Of a strong and observing character, even from her
earliest years, the pomp and wealth which her father
displayed within his walls, or which she witnessed in
the houses of other wealthy Hebrews, had not been
able to blind her to the precarious circumstances under
which they were enjoyed.  Like Damocles at
his celebrated banquet, Rebecca perpetually beheld,
amid that gorgeous display, the sword which was
suspended over the heads of her people by a single
hair. These reflections had tamed and brought down
to a pitch of sounder judgment a temper, which, under
other circumstances, might have waxed haughty,
supercilious, and obstinate.

  From her father's example and injunctions, Rebecca
had learnt to bear herself courteously towards
all who approached her.  She could not indeed
imitate his excess of subservience, because she was
a stranger to the meanness of mind, and to the constant
state of timid apprehension, by which it was
dictated; but she bore herself with a proud humility,
as if submitting to the evil circumstances in
which she was placed as the daughter of a despised
race, while she felt in her mind the consciousness
that she was entitled to hold a higher rank from
her merit, than the arbitrary despotism of religious
prejudice permitted her to aspire to.

  Thus prepared to expect adverse circumstances,
she had acquired the firmness necessary for acting
under them.  Her present situation required all
her presence of mind, and she summoned it up
accordingly.

  Her first care was to inspect the apartment; but
it afforded few hopes either of escape or protection.
It contained neither secret passage nor trap-door,
and unless where the door by which she had entered
joined the main building, seemed to be circumscribed
by the round exterior wall of the turret.
The door had no inside bolt or bar.  The single
window opened upon an embattled space surmounting
the turret, which gave Rebecca, at first sight,
some hopes of escaping; but she soon found it had
no communication with any other part of the battlements,
being an isolated bartisan, or balcony, secured,
as usual, by a parapet, with embrasures, at
which a few archers might be stationed for defending
the turret, and flanking with their shot the wall
of the castle on that side.

  There was therefore no hope but in passive fortitude,
and in that strong reliance on Heaven natural
to great and generous characters.  Rebecca,
however erroneously taught to interpret the promises
of Scripture to the chosen people of Heaven,
did not err in supposing the present to be their
hour of trial, or in trusting that the children of
Zion would be one day called in with the fulness
of the Gentiles.  In the meanwhile, all around her
showed that their present state was that of punishment
and probation, and that it was their especial
duty to suffer without sinning.  Thus prepared to
consider herself as the victim of misfortune, Rebecca
had early reflected upon her own state, and
schooled her mind to meet the dangers which she
had probably to encounter.

  The prisoner trembled, however, and changed
colour, when a step was heard on the stair, and the
door of the turret-chamber slowly opened, and a
tall man, dressed as one of those banditti to whom
they owed their misfortune, slowly entered, and
shut the door behind him; his cap, pulled down
upon his brows, concealed the upper part of his
face, and he held his mantle in such a manner as to
muffle the rest.  In this guise, as if prepared for
the execution of some deed, at the thought of which
he was himself ashamed, he stood before the affrighted
prisoner; yet, ruffian as his dress bespoke him,
he seemed at a loss to express what purpose had
brought him thither, so that Rebecca, making an
effort upon herself, had time to anticipate his explanation.
She had already unclasped two costly
bracelets and a collar, which she hastened to proffer
to the supposed outlaw, concluding naturally
that to gratify his avarice was to bespeak his favour.

  ``Take these,'' she said, ``good friend, and for
God's sake be merciful to me and my aged father!
These ornaments are of value, yet are they trifling
to what he would bestow to obtain our dismissal
from this castle, free and uninjured.''

  ``Fair flower of Palestine,'' replied the outlaw,
``these pearls are orient, but they yield in whiteness
to your teeth; the diamonds are brilliant, but
they cannot match your eyes; and ever since I have
taken up this wild trade, I have made a vow to prefer
beauty to wealth.''

  ``Do not do yourself such wrong,'' said Rebecca;
``take ransom, and have mercy!---Gold will
purchase you pleasure,---to misuse us, could only
bring thee remorse.  My father will willingly satiate
thy utmost wishes; and if thou wilt act wisely,
thou mayst purchase with our spoils thy restoration
to civil society---mayst obtain pardon for
past errors, and be placed beyond the necessity of
committing more.''

  ``It is well spoken,'' replied the outlaw in French,
finding it difficult probably to sustain, in Saxon, a
conversation which Rebecca had opened in that
language; ``but know, bright lily of the vale of
Baca! that thy father is already in the hands of
a powerful alchemist, who knows how to convert
into gold and silver even the rusty bars of a dungeon
grate.  The venerable Isaac is subjected to an
alembic, which will distil from him all he holds
dear, without any assistance from my requests or
thy entreaty.  The ransom must be paid by love
and beauty, and in no other coin will I accept it.''

  ``Thou art no outlaw,'' said Rebecca, in the
same language in which he addressed her; ``no
outlaw had refused such offers.  No outlaw in this
land uses the dialect in which thou hast spoken.
Thou art no outlaw, but a Norman---a Norman,
noble perhaps in birth---O, be so in thy actions,
and cast off this fearful mask of outrage and violence!''

  ``And thou, who canst guess so truly,'' said Brian
de Bois-Guilbert, dropping the mantle from his
face, ``art no true daughter of Israel, but in all,
save youth and beauty, a very witch of Endor.  I
am not an outlaw, then, fair rose of Sharon.  And
I am one who will be more prompt to hang thy
neck and arms with pearls and diamonds, which so
well become them, than to deprive thee of these
ornaments.''

  ``What wouldst thou have of me,'' said Rebecca,
``if not my wealth?---We can have nought in
common between us---you are a Christian---I am
a Jewess.---Our union were contrary to the laws,
alike of the church and the synagogue.''

  ``It were so, indeed,'' replied the Templar, laughing;
``wed with a Jewess? _Despardieux!_---Not
if she were the Queen of Sheba! And know, besides,
sweet daughter of Zion, that were the most
Christian king to offer me his most Christian
daughter, with Languedoc for a dowery, I could not
wed her.  It is against my vow to love any maiden,
otherwise than _par amours_, as I will love thee.  I
am a Templar.  Behold the cross of my Holy Order.''

  ``Darest thou appeal to it,'' said Rebecca, ``on
an occasion like the present?''

  ``And if I do so,'' said the Templar, ``it concerns
not thee, who art no believer in the blessed
sign of our salvation.''

  ``I believe as my fathers taught,'' said Rebecca;
``and may God forgive my belief if erroneous! But
you, Sir Knight, what is yours, when you appeal
without scruple to that which you deem most holy,
even while you are about to transgress the most
solemn of your vows as a knight, and as a man of
religion?''

  ``It is gravely and well preached, O daughter
of Sirach!'' answered the Templar; ``but, gentle
Ecclesiastics, thy narrow Jewish prejudices make
thee blind to our high privilege.  Marriage were
an enduring crime on the part of a Templar; but
what lesser folly I may practise, I shall speedily be
absolved from at the next Perceptory of our Order.
Not the wisest of monarchs, not his father, whose
examples you must needs allow are weighty, claimed
wider privileges than we poor soldiers of the
Temple of Zion have won by our zeal in its defence.
The protectors of Solomon's Temple may claim
license by the example of Solomon.''

  ``If thou readest the Scripture,'' said the Jewess,
``and the lives of the saints, only to justify thine
own license and profligacy, thy crime is like that
of him who extracts poison from the most healthful
and necessary herbs.''

  The eyes of the Templar flashed fire at this reproof---
``Hearken,'' he said, ``Rebecca; I have
hitherto spoken mildly to thee, but now my language
shall be that of a conqueror.  Thou art the
captive of my bow and spear---subject to my will
by the laws of all nations; nor will I abate an inch
of my right, or abstain from taking by violence
what thou refusest to entreaty or necessity.''

  ``Stand back,'' said Rebecca---``stand back, and
hear me ere thou offerest to commit a sin so deadly!
My strength thou mayst indeed overpower for
God made women weak, and trusted their defence
to man's generosity.  But I will proclaim thy villainy,
Templar, from one end of Europe to the
other.  I will owe to the superstition of thy brethren
what their compassion might refuse me,
Each Preceptory---each Chapter of thy Order, shall
learn, that, like a heretic, thou hast sinned with a
Jewess.  Those who tremble not at thy crime, will
hold thee accursed for having so far dishonoured
the cross thou wearest, as to follow a daughter of
my people.''

  ``Thou art keen-witted, Jewess,'' replied the
Templar, well aware of the truth of what she spoke,
and that the rules of his Order condemned in the
most positive manner, and under high penalties,
such intrigues as he now prosecuted, and that, in
some instances, even degradation had followed upon
it---``thou art sharp-witted,'' he said; ``but loud
must be thy voice of complaint, if it is heard beyond
the iron walls of this castle; within these,
murmurs, laments, appeals to justice, and screams
for help, die alike silent away.  One thing only can
save thee, Rebecca.  Submit to thy fate---embrace
our religion, and thou shalt go forth in such state,
that many a Norman lady shall yield as well in
pomp as in beauty to the favourite of the best lance
among the defenders of the Temple.''

  ``Submit to my fate!'' said Rebecca---``and,
sacred Heaven! to what fate?---embrace thy religion!
and what religion can it be that harbours
such a villain?---_thou_ the best lance of the Templars!
---Craven knight!---forsworn priest! I spit
at thee, and I defy thee.---The God of Abraham's
promise hath opened an escape to his daughter---
even from this abyss of infamy!''

  As she spoke, she threw open the latticed window
which led to the bartisan, and in an instant
after, stood on the very verge of the parapet, with
not the slightest screen between her and the tremendous
depth below.  Unprepared for such a desperate
effort, for she had hitherto stood perfectly
motionless, Bois-Guilbert had neither time to intercept
nor to stop her.  As he offered to advance,
she exclaimed, ``Remain where thou art, proud
Templar, or at thy choice advance!---one foot nearer,
and I plunge myself from the precipice; my
body shall be crushed out of the very form of humanity
upon the stones of that court-yard, ere it
become the victim of thy brutality!''

  As she spoke this, she clasped her hands and
extended them towards heaven, as if imploring
mercy on her soul before she made the final plunge.
The Templar hesitated, and a resolution which had
never yielded to pity or distress, gave way to his
admiration of her fortitude.  ``Come down,'' he
said, ``rash girl!---I swear by earth, and sea, and
sky, I will offer thee no offence.''

  ``I will not trust thee, Templar,'' said Rebecca;
thou hast taught me better how to estimate the
virtues of thine Order.  The next Preceptory would
grant thee absolution for an oath, the keeping of
which concerned nought but the honour or the dishonour
of a miserable Jewish maiden.''

  ``You do me injustice,'' exclaimed the Templar
fervently; ``I swear to you by the name which I
bear---by the cross on my bosom---by the sword on
my side---by the ancient crest of my fathers do I
swear, I will do thee no injury whatsoever! If not
for thyself, yet for thy father's sake forbear! I
will be his friend, and in this castle he will need a
powerful one.''

  ``Alas!'' said Rebecca, ``I know it but too well
---dare I trust thee?''

  ``May my arms be reversed, and my name dishonoured,''
said Brian de Bois-Guilbert, ``if thou
shalt have reason to complain of me! Many a law,
many a commandment have I broken, but my word
never.''

  ``I will then trust thee,'' said Rebecca, ``thus
far;'' and she descended from the verge of the battlement,
but remained standing close by one of the
embrasures, or _machicolles_, as they were then called.
---``Here,'' she said, ``I take my stand.  Remain
where thou art, and if thou shalt attempt to
diminish by one step the distance now between us,
thou shalt see that the Jewish maiden will rather
trust her soul with God, than her honour to the
Templar!''

  While Rebecca spoke thus, her high and firm
resolve, which corresponded so well with the expressive
beauty of her countenance, gave to her
looks, air, and manner, a dignity that seemed more
than mortal.  Her glance quailed not, her cheek
blanched not, for the fear of a fate so instant and
so horrible; on the contrary, the thought that she
had her fate at her command, and could escape at
will from infamy to death, gave a yet deeper colour
of carnation to her complexion, and a yet more
brilliant fire to her eye.  Bois-Guilbert, proud himself
and high-spirited, thought he had never beheld
beauty so animated and so commanding.

  ``Let there be peace between us, Rebecca,'' he
said.

  ``Peace, if thou wilt,'' answered Rebecca---``Peace
---but with this space between.''

  ``Thou needst no longer fear me,'' said Bois-Guilbert.

  ``I fear thee not,'' replied she; ``thanks to him
that reared this dizzy tower so high, that nought
could fall from it and live---thanks to him, and to
the God of Israel!---I fear thee not.''

  ``Thou dost me injustice,'' said the Templar;
``by earth, sea, and sky, thou dost me injustice! I
am not naturally that which you have seen me, hard,
selfish, and relentless.  It was woman that taught
me cruelty, and on woman therefore I have exercised
it; but not upon such as thou.  Hear me,
Rebecca---Never did knight take lance in his hand
with a heart more devoted to the lady of his love
than Brian de Bois-Guilbert.  She, the daughter of
a petty baron, who boasted for all his domains but
a ruinous tower, and an unproductive vineyard, and
some few leagues of the barren Landes of Bourdeaux,
her name was known wherever deeds of
arms were done, known wider than that of many a
lady's that had a county for a dowery.---Yes,'' he
continued, pacing up and down the little platform,
with an animation in which he seemed to lose all
consciousness of Rebecca's presence---``Yes, my
deeds, my danger, my blood, made the name of Adelaide
de Montemare known from the court of Castile
to that of Byzantium. And how was I requited?
---When I returned with my dear-bought honours,
purchased by toil and blood, I found her wedded
to a Gascon squire, whose name was never heard
beyond the limits of his own paltry domain! Truly
did I love her, and bitterly did I revenge me of her
broken faith! But my vengeance has recoiled on
myself.  Since that day I have separated myself
from life and its ties---My manhood must know no
domestic home---must be soothed by no affectionate
wife---My age must know no kindly hearth---
My grave must be solitary, and no offspring must
outlive me, to bear the ancient name of Bois-Guilbert.
At the feet of my Superior I have laid down
the right of self-action---the privilege of independence.
The Templar, a serf in all but the name,
can possess neither lands nor goods, and lives,
moves, and breathes, but at the will and pleasure
of another.''

  ``Alas!'' said Rebecca, ``what advantages could
compensate for such an absolute sacrifice?''

  ``The power of vengeance, Rebecca,'' replied the
Templar, ``and the prospects of ambition.''

  ``An evil recompense,'' said Rebecca, ``for the
surrender of the rights which are dearest to humanity.''

  ``Say not so, maiden,'' answered the Templar;
``revenge is a feast for the gods! And if they have
reserved it, as priests tell us, to themselves, it is because
they hold it an enjoyment too precious for the
possession of mere mortals.---And ambition? it is
a temptation which could disturb even the bliss of
heaven itself.''---He paused a moment, and then
added, ``Rebecca! she who could prefer death to
dishonour, must have a proud and a powerful soul.
Mine thou must be!---Nay, start not,'' he added,
``it must be with thine own consent, and on thine
own terms.  Thou must consent to share with me
hopes more extended than can be viewed from the
throne of a monarch!---Hear me ere you answer and
judge ere you refuse.---The Templar loses, as thou
hast said, his social rights, his power of free agency,
but he becomes a member and a limb of a mighty
body, before which thrones already tremble,---even
as the single drop of rain which mixes with the sea
becomes an individual part of that resistless ocean,
which undermines rocks and ingulfs royal armadas.
Such a swelling flood is that powerful league.
Of this mighty Order I am no mean member, but
already one of the Chief Commanders, and may
well aspire one day to hold the batoon of Grand
Master.  The poor soldiers of the Temple will not
alone place their foot upon the necks of kings---a
hemp-sandall'd monk can do that.  Our mailed
step shall ascend their throne---our gauntlet shall
wrench the sceptre from their gripe.  Not the reign
of your vainly-expected Messiah offers such power
to your dispersed tribes as my ambition may aim
at. I have sought but a kindred spirit to share it,
and I have found such in thee.''

  ``Sayest thou this to one of my people?'' answered
Rebecca.  ``Bethink thee---''

  ``Answer me not,'' said the Templar, ``by urging
the difference of our creeds; within our secret
conclaves we hold these nursery tales in derision.
Think not we long remained blind to the idiotical
folly of our founders, who forswore every delight
of life for the pleasure of dying martyrs by hunger,
by thirst, and by pestilence, and by the swords of
savages, while they vainly strove to defend a barren
desert, valuable only in the eyes of superstition.
Our Order soon adopted bolder and wider views,
and found out a better indemnification for our sacrifices.
Our immense possessions in every kingdom
of Europe, our high military fame, which
brings within our circle the flower of chivalry from
every Christian clime---these are dedicated to ends
of which our pious founders little dreamed, and
which are equally concealed from such weak spirits
as embrace our Order on the ancient principles, and
whose superstition makes them our passive tools.
But I will not further withdraw the veil of our
mysteries.  That bugle-sound announces something
which may require my presence.  Think on what I
have said.---Farewell!---I do not say forgive me
the violence I have threatened, for it was necessary
to the display of thy character.  Gold can be only
known by the application of the touchstone.  I
will soon return, and hold further conference with
thee.''

  He re-entered the turret-chamber, and descended
the stair, leaving Rebecca scarcely more terrified
at the prospect of the death to which she had been
so lately exposed, than at the furious ambition of
the bold bad man in whose power she found herself
so unhappily placed.  When she entered the
turret-chamber, her first duty was to return thanks
to the God of Jacob for the protection which he had
afforded her, and to implore its continuance for her
and for her father.  Another name glided into her
petition---it was that of the wounded Christian,
whom fate had placed in the hands of bloodthirsty
men, his avowed enemies.  Her heart indeed checked
her, as if, even in communing with the Deity
in prayer, she mingled in her devotions the recollection
of one with whose fate hers could have no
alliance---a Nazarene, and an enemy to her faith.
But the petition was already breathed, nor could
all the narrow prejudices of her sect induce Rebecca
to wish it recalled.


-----@@@@-----


                 CHAPTER XXV.

  A damn'd cramp piece of penmanship as ever I  saw  in
  my life!
                                 _She Stoops to Conquer_.

  When the Templar reached the hall of the castle,
he found De Bracy already there.  ``Your
love-suit,'' said De Bracy, ``hath, I suppose, been
disturbed, like mine, by this obstreperous summons.
But you have come later and more reluctantly, and
therefore I presume your interview has proved more
agreeable than mine.''

  ``Has your suit, then, been unsuccessfully paid
to the Saxon heiress?'' said the Templar.

  ``By the bones of Thomas a Becket,'' answered
De Bracy, ``the Lady Rowena must have heard
that I cannot endure the sight of women's tears.''

  ``Away!'' said the Templar; ``thou a leader of
a Free Company, and regard a woman's tears! A
few drops sprinkled on the torch of love, make the
flame blaze the brighter.''

  ``Gramercy for the few drops of thy sprinkling,''
replied De Bracy; ``but this damsel hath wept
enough to extinguish a beacon-light.  Never was
such wringing of hands and such overflowing of
eyes, since the days of St Niobe, of whom Prior
Aymer told us.* A water-fiend hath possessed the

*   I wish the Prior had also informed them when Niobe was
*   sainted.  Probably during that enlightened period when
*
*            ``Pan to Moses lent his pagan horn.''
*                                                 L. T.

fair Saxon.''

  ``A legion of fiends have occupied the bosom of
the Jewess,'' replied the Templar; ``for, I think
no single one, not even Apollyon himself, could
have inspired such indomitable pride and resolution.
---But where is Front-de-B<oe>uf? That horn
is sounded more and more clamorously.''

  ``He is negotiating with the Jew, I suppose,''
replied De Bracy, coolly; ``probably the howls of
Isaac have drowned the blast of the bugle.  Thou
mayst know, by experience, Sir Brian, that a Jew
parting with his treasures on such terms as our
friend Front-de-B<oe>uf is like to offer, will raise a
clamour loud enough to be heard over twenty horns
and trumpets to boot.  But we will make the vassals
call him.''

  They were soon after joined by Front-de-B<oe>uf,
who had been disturbed in his tyrannic cruelty in
the manner with which the reader is acquainted,
and had only tarried to give some necessary directions.

  ``Let us see the cause of this cursed clamour,''
said Front-de-B<oe>uf---``here is a letter, and, if I
mistake not, it is in Saxon.''

  He looked at it, turning it round and round as
if he had had really some hopes of coming at the
meaning by inverting the position of the paper, and
then handed it to De Bracy.

  ``It may be magic spells for aught I know,'' said
De Bracy, who possessed his full proportion of the
ignorance which characterised the chivalry of the
period. ``Our chaplain attempted to teach me to
write,'' he said, ``but all my letters were formed
like spear-heads and sword-blades, and so the old
shaveling gave up the task.''

  ``Give it me,'' said the Templar. ``We have
that of the priestly character, that we have some
knowledge to enlighten our valour.''

  ``Let us profit by your most reverend knowledge,
then,'' said De Bracy; ``what says the scroll?''

  ``It is a formal letter of defiance,'' answered the
Templar; ``but, by our Lady of Bethlehem, if it
be not a foolish jest, it is the most extraordinary
cartel that ever was sent across the drawbridge of
a baronial castle.''

  ``Jest!'' said Front-de-B<oe>uf, ``I would gladly
know who dares jest with me in such a matter!---
Read it, Sir Brian.''

  The Templar accordingly read it as follows:---

  ``I, Wamba, the son of Witless, Jester to a noble
and free-born man, Cedric of Rotherwood, called
the Saxon,---And I, Gurth, the son of Beowulph,
the swineherd------''

  ``Thou art mad,'' said Front-de-B<oe>uf, interrupting
the reader.

  ``By St Luke, it is so set down,'' answered the
Templar.  Then resuming his task, he went on,---
``I, Gurth, the son of Beowulph, swineherd unto
the said Cedric, with the assistance of our allies and
confederates, who make common cause with us in
this our feud, namely, the good knight, called for
the present _Le Noir Faineant_, and the stout yeoman,
Robert Locksley, called Cleave-the-wand, Do
you, Reginald Front de-B<oe>uf, and your allies and
accomplices whomsoever, to wit, that whereas you
have, without cause given or feud declared, wrongfully
and by mastery seized upon the person of our
lord and master the said Cedric; also upon the person
of a noble and freeborn damsel, the Lady Rowena
of Hargottstandstede; also upon the person of
a noble and freeborn man, Athelstane of Coningsburgh;
also upon the persons of certain freeborn
men, their _cnichts_; also upon certain serfs, their
born bondsmen; also upon a certain Jew, named
Isaac of York, together with his daughter, a Jewess,
and certain horses and mules: Which noble persons,
with their _cnichts_ and slaves, and also with
the horses and mules, Jew and Jewess beforesaid,
were all in peace with his majesty, and travelling
as liege subjects upon the king's highway; therefore
we require and demand that the said noble
persons, namely, Cedric of Rotherwood, Rowena of
Hargottstandstede, Athelstane of Coningsburgh,
with their servants, _cnichts_, and followers, also the
horses and mules, Jew and Jewess aforesaid, together
with all goods and chattels to them pertaining,
be, within an hour after the delivery hereof, delivered
to us, or to those whom we shall appoint
to receive the same, and that untouched and unharmed
in body and goods.  Failing of which, we
do pronounce to you, that we hold ye as robbers
and traitors, and will wager our bodies against ye
in battle, siege, or otherwise, and do our utmost to
your annoyance and destruction.  Wherefore may
God have you in his keeping.---Signed by us upon
the eve of St Withold's day, under the great trysting
oak in the Hart-hill Walk, the above being
written by a holy man, Clerk to God, our Lady,
and St Dunstan, in the Chapel of Copmanhurst.''

  At the bottom of this document was scrawled,
in the first place, a rude sketch of a cock's head
and comb, with a legend expressing this hieroglyphic
to be the sign-manual of Wamba, son of Witless.
Under this respectable emblem stood a cross,
stated to be the mark of Gurth, the son of Beowulph.
Then was written, in rough bold characters, the
words, _Le Noir Faineant_.  And, to conclude the
whole, an arrow, neatly enough drawn, was described
as the mark of the yeoman Locksley.

  The knights heard this uncommon document
read from end to end, and then gazed upon each
other in silent amazement, as being utterly at a
loss to know what it could portend.  De Bracy was
the first to break silence by an uncontrollable fit
of laughter, wherein he was joined, though with
more moderation, by the Templar.  Front-de-B<oe>uf,
on the contrary, seemed impatient of their ill-timed
jocularity.

  ``I give you plain warning,'' he said, ``fair sirs,
that you had better consult how to bear yourselves
under these circumstances, than give way to such
misplaced merriment.''

  ``Front-de-B<oe>uf has not recovered his temper
since his late overthrow,'' said De Bracy to the
Templar; ``he is cowed at the very idea of a cartel,
though it come but from a fool and a swineherd.''

  ``By St Michael,'' answered Front-de-B<oe>uf, ``I
would thou couldst stand the whole brunt of this
adventure thyself, De Bracy.  These fellows dared
not have acted with such inconceivable impudence,
had they not been supported by some strong bands.
There are enough of outlaws in this forest to resent
my protecting the deer.  I did but tie one
fellow, who was taken redhanded and in the fact,
to the horns of a wild stag, which gored him to
death in five minutes, and I had as many arrows
shot at me as there were launched against yonder
target at Ashby.---Here, fellow,'' he added, to one
of his attendants, ``hast thou sent out to see by
what force this precious challenge is to be supported?''

  ``There are at least two hundred men assembled
in the woods,'' answered a squire who was in
attendance.

  ``Here is a proper matter!'' said Front-de-B<oe>uf,
``this comes of lending you the use of my castle,
that cannot manage your undertaking quietly, but
you must bring this nest of hornets about my ears!''

  ``Of hornets?'' said De Bracy; ``of stingless
drones rather; a band of lazy knaves, who take to
the wood, and destroy the venison rather than labour
for their maintenance.''

  ``Stingless!'' replied  Front-de-B<oe>uf; ``fork-headed
shafts of a cloth-yard in length, and these
shot within the breadth of a French crown, are
sting enough.''

  ``For shame, Sir Knight!'' said the Templar.
``Let us summon our people, and sally forth upon
them.  One knight---ay, one man-at-arms, were
enough for twenty such peasants.''

  ``Enough, and too much,'' said De Bracy; ``I
should only be ashamed to couch lance against
them.''

  ``True,'' answered Front-de-B<oe>uf; ``were they
black Turks or Moors, Sir Templar, or the craven
peasants of France, most valiant De Bracy; but
these are English yeomen, over whom we shall
have no advantage, save what we may derive from
our arms and horses, which will avail us little in
the glades of the forest.  Sally, saidst thou? we
have scarce men enough to defend the castle.  The
best of mine are at York; so is all your band, De
Bracy; and we have scarcely twenty, besides the
handful that were engaged in this mad business.''

  ``Thou dost not fear,'' said the Templar, ``that
they can assemble in force sufficient to attempt the
castle?''

  ``Not so, Sir Brian,'' answered Front-de-B<oe>uf.
``These outlaws have indeed a daring captain; but
without machines, scaling ladders, and experienced
leaders, my castle may defy them.''

  ``Send to thy neighbours,'' said the Templar,
``let them assemble their people, and come to the
rescue of three knights, besieged by a jester and a
swineherd in the baronial castle of Reginald Front-de-B<oe>uf!''

  ``You jest, Sir Knight,'' answered the baron;
``but to whom should I send?---Malvoisin is by
this time at York with his retainers, and so are
my other allies; and so should I have been, but for
this infernal enterprise.''

  ``Then send to York, and recall our people,''
said De Bracy. ``If they abide the shaking of my
standard, or the sight of my Free Companions, I
will give them credit for the boldest outlaws ever
bent bow in green-wood.''

  ``And who shall bear such a message?'' said
Front-de-B<oe>uf; ``they will beset every path, and
rip the errand out of his bosom.---I have it,'' he
added, after pausing for a moment---``Sir Templar,
thou canst write as well as read, and if we can but
find the writing materials of my chaplain, who died
a twelvemonth since in the midst of his Christmas
carousals---''

  ``So please ye,'' said the squire, who was still in
attendance, ``I think old Urfried has them somewhere
in keeping, for love of the confessor.  He
was the last man, I have heard her tell, who ever
said aught to her, which man ought in courtesy to
address to maid or matron.''

  ``Go, search them out, Engelred,'' said Front-de-B<oe>uf;
``and then, Sir Templar, thou shalt return
an answer to this bold challenge.''

  ``I would rather do it at the sword's point than
at that of the pen,'' said Bois-Guilbert; ``but be
it as you will.''

  He sat down accordingly, and indited, in the
French language, an epistle of the following tenor:---

  ``Sir Reginald Front-de-B<oe>uf, with his noble
and knightly allies and confederates, receive no
defiances at the bands of slaves, bondsmen, or fugitives.
If the person calling himself the Black
Knight have indeed a claim to the honours of chivalry,
he ought to know that he stands degraded
by his present association, and has no right to ask
reckoning at the hands of good men of noble blood.
Touching the prisoners we have made, we do in
Christian charity require you to send a man of
religion, to receive their confession, and reconcile
them with God; since it is our fixed intention to
execute them this morning before noon, so that
their heads being placed on the battlements, shall
show to all men how lightly we esteem those who
have bestirred themselves in their rescue.  Wherefore,
as above, we require you to send a priest to
reconcile them to God, in doing which you shall
render them the last earthly service.''

  This letter being folded, was delivered to the
squire, and by him to the messenger who waited
without, as the answer to that which be had
brought.

  The yeoman having thus accomplished his mission,
returned to the head-quarters of the allies,
which were for the present established under a venerable
oak-tree, about three arrow-flights distant
from the castle.  Here Wamba and Gurth, with
their allies the Black Knight and Locksley, and
the jovial hermit, awaited with impatience an answer
to their summons.  Around, and at a distance
from them, were seen many a bold yeoman, whose
silvan dress and weatherbeaten countenances showed
the ordinary nature of their occupation.  More
than two hundred had already assembled, and others
were fast coming in.  Those whom they obeyed as
leaders were only distinguished from the others by
a feather in the cap, their dress, arms, and equipments
being in all other respects the same.

  Besides these bands, a less orderly and a worse
armed force, consisting of the Saxon inhabitants of
the neighbouring township, as well as many bondsmen
and servants from Cedric's extensive estate,
had already arrived, for the purpose of assisting in
his rescue.  Few of these were armed otherwise
than with such rustic weapons as necessity sometimes
converts to military purposes.  Boar-spears,
scythes, flails, and the like, were their chief arms;
for the Normans, with the usual policy of conquerors,
were jealous of permitting to the vanquished
Saxons the possession or the use of swords and
spears.  These circumstances rendered the assistance
of the Saxons far from being so formidable to
the besieged, as the strength of the men themselves,
their superior numbers, and the animation inspired
by a just cause, might otherwise well have made
them.  It was to the leaders of this motley army
that the letter of the Templar was now delivered.

  Reference was at first made to the chaplain for
an exposition of its contents.

  ``By the crook of St Dunstan,'' said that worthy
ecclesiastic, ``which hath brought more sheep within
the sheepfold than the crook of e'er another saint
in Paradise, I swear that I cannot expound unto
you this jargon, which, whether it be French or
Arabic, is beyond my guess.''

  He then gave the letter to Gurth, who shook
his head gruffly, and passed it to Wamba.  The
Jester looked at each of the four corners of the
paper with such a grin of affected intelligence as
a monkey is apt to assume upon similar occasions,
then cut a caper, and gave the letter to Locksley.

  ``If the long letters were bows, and the short
letters broad arrows, I might know something of
the matter,'' said the brave yeoman; ``but as the
matter stands, the meaning is as safe, for me, as the
stag that's at twelve miles distance.''

  ``I must be clerk, then,'' said the Black Knight;
and taking the letter from Locksley, he first read
it over to himself, and then explained the meaning
in Saxon to his confederates.

  ``Execute the noble Cedric!'' exclaimed Wamba;
``by the rood, thou must be mistaken, Sir
Knight.''

  ``Not I, my worthy friend,'' replied the knight,
``I have explained the words as they are here set
down.''

  ``Then, by St Thomas of Canterbury,'' replied
Gurth, ``we will have the castle, should we tear it
down with our hands!''

  ``We have nothing else to tear it with,'' replied
Wamba; ``but mine are scarce fit to make mammocks
of freestone and mortar.''

  ``'Tis but a contrivance to gain time,'' said
Locksley; ``they dare not do a deed for which I
could exact a fearful penalty.''

  ``I would,'' said the Black Knight, ``there were
some one among us who could obtain admission
into the castle, and discover how the case stands
with the besieged.  Methinks, as they require a
confessor to be sent, this holy hermit might at once
exercise his pious vocation, and procure us the information
we desire.''

  ``A plague on thee, and thy advice!'' said the
pious hermit; ``I tell thee, Sir Slothful Knight,
that when I doff my friar's frock, my priesthood,
my sanctity, my very Latin, are put off along with
it; and when in my green jerkin, I can better kill
twenty deer than confess one Christian.''

  ``I fear,'' said the Black Knight, ``I fear greatly,
there is no one here that is qualified to take
upon him, for the nonce, this same character of
father confessor?''

  All looked on each other, and were silent.

  ``I see,'' said Wamba, after a short pause, ``that
the fool must be still the fool, and put his neck in
the venture which wise men shrink from.  You
must know, my dear cousins and countrymen, that
I more russet before I wore motley, and was bred
to be a friar, until a brain-fever came upon me and
left me just wit enough to be a fool.  I trust, with
the assistance of the good hermit's frock, together
with the priesthood, sanctity, and learning which
are stitched into the cowl of it, I shall be found
qualified to administer both worldly and ghostly
comfort to our worthy master Cedric, and his companions
in adversity.''

  ``Hath he sense enough, thinkst thou?'' said the
Black Knight, addressing Gurth.

  ``I know not,'' said Gurth; ``but if he hath not,
it will be the first time he hath wanted wit to turn
his folly to account.''

  ``On with the frock, then, good fellow,'' quoth
the Knight, ``and let thy master send us an account
of their situation within the castle.  Their
numbers must be few, and it is five to one they may
be accessible by a sudden and bold attack.  Time
wears---away with thee.''

  ``And, in the meantime,'' said Locksley, ``we
will beset the place so closely, that not so much as
a fly shall carry news from thence.  So that, my
good friend,'' he continued, addressing Wamba,
``thou mayst assure these tyrants, that whatever
violence they exercise on the persons of their prisoners,
shall be most severely repaid upon their
own.''

  ``_Pax vobiscum_,'' said Wamba, who was now
muffled in his religious disguise.

  And so saying he imitated the solemn and stately
deportment of a friar, and departed to execute his
mission.


                CHAPTER XXVI.

     The hottest horse will oft be cool,
       The dullest will show fire;
     The friar will often play the fool,
       The fool will play the friar.
                           _Old Song_.

  When the Jester, arrayed in the cowl and frock
of the hermit, and having his knotted cord twisted
round his middle, stood before the portal of the
castle of Front-de-B<oe>uf, the warder demanded of
him his name and errand.

  ``_Pax vobiscum_,'' answered the Jester, ``I am a
poor brother of the Order of St Francis, who come
hither to do my office to certain unhappy prisoners
now secured within this castle.''

  ``Thou art a bold friar,'' said the warder, ``to
come hither, where, saving our own drunken confessor,
a cock of thy feather hath not crowed these
twenty years.''

  ``Yet I pray thee, do mine errand to the lord of
the castle,'' answered the pretended friar; ``trust
me it will find good acceptance with him, and the
cock shall crow, that the whole castle shall hear
him.''

  ``Gramercy,'' said the warder; ``but if I come
to shame for leaving my post upon thine errand, I
will try whether a friar's grey gown be proof against
a grey-goose shaft.''

  With this threat he left his turret, and carried
to the hall of the castle his unwonted intelligence,
that a holy friar stood before the gate and demanded
instant admission.  With no small wonder
he received his master's commands to admit the holy
man immediately; and, having previously manned
the entrance to guard against surprise, he obeyed,
without further scruple, the commands which he
had received.  The harebrained self-conceit which
had emboldened Wamba to undertake this dangerous
office, was scarce sufficient to support him when
he found himself in the presence of a man so dreadful,
and so much dreaded, as Reginald Front-de-B<oe>uf,
and he brought out his _pax vobiscum_, to which
he, in a good measure, trusted for supporting his
character, with more anxiety and hesitation than
had hitherto accompanied it.  But Front-de-B<oe>uf
was accustomed to see men of all ranks tremble in
his presence, so that the timidity of the supposed
father did not give him any cause of suspicion.

  ``Who and whence art thou, priest?'' said he.

  ``_Pax vobiscum_,'' reiterated the Jester, ``I am a
poor servant of St Francis, who, travelling through
this wilderness, have fallen among thieves, (as Scripture
hath it,) _quidam viator incidit in latrones_, which
thieves have sent me unto this castle in order to do
my ghostly office on two persons condemned by
your honourable justice.''

  ``Ay, right,'' answered Front-de-B<oe>uf; ``and
canst thou tell me, holy father, the number of those
banditti?''

  ``Gallant sir,'' answered the Jester, ``_nomen illis
legio_, their name is legion.''

  ``Tell me in plain terms what numbers there are,
or, priest, thy cloak and cord will ill protect thee.''

  ``Alas!'' said the supposed friar, ``_cor meum
eructavit_, that is to say, I was like to burst with
fear! but I conceive they may be---what of yeomen
---what of commons, at least five hundred men.''

  ``What!'' said the Templar, who came into the
hall that moment, ``muster the wasps so thick here?
it is time to stifle such a mischievous brood.'' Then
taking Front-de-B<oe>uf aside ``Knowest thou the
priest?''

  ``He is a stranger from a distant convent,'' I said
Front-de-B<oe>uf; ``I know him not.''

  ``Then trust him not with thy purpose in words,''
answered the Templar. ``Let him carry a written
order to De Bracy's company of Free Companions, to
repair instantly to their master's aid.  In the meantime,
and that the shaveling may suspect nothing,
permit him to go freely about his task of preparing
these Saxon hogs for the slaughter-house.''

  ``It shall be so,'' said Front-de-B<oe>uf.  And he
forthwith appointed a domestic to conduct Wamba
to the apartment where Cedric and Athelstane were
confined.

  The impatience of Cedric had been rather enhanced
than diminished by his confinement.  He
walked from one end of the hall to the other, with
the attitude of one who advances to charge an enemy,
or to storm the breach of a beleaguered place,
sometimes ejaculating to himself, sometimes addressing
Athelstane, who stoutly and stoically
awaited the issue of the adventure, digesting, in
the meantime, with great composure, the liberal
meal which he had made at noon, and not greatly
interesting himself about the duration of his captivity,
which he concluded, would, like all earthly
evils, find an end in Heaven's good time.

  ``_Pax vobiscum_,'' said the Jester, entering the
apartment; ``the blessing of St Dunstan, St Dennis,
St Duthoc, and all other saints whatsoever, be
upon ye and about ye.''

  ``Enter freely,'' answered Cedric to the supposed
friar; ``with what intent art thou come hither?''

  ``To bid you prepare yourselves for death,'' answered
the Jester.

  ``It is impossible!'' replied Cedric, starting.
``Fearless and wicked as they are, they dare not
attempt such open and gratuitous cruelty!''

  ``Alas!'' said the Jester,  ``to restrain them by
their sense of humanity, is the same as to stop a
runaway horse with a bridle of silk thread.  Bethink
thee, therefore, noble Cedric, and you also,
gallant Athelstane, what crimes you have committed
in the flesh; for this very day will ye be called
to answer at a higher tribunal.''

  ``Hearest thou this, Athelstane?'' said Cedric;
``we must rouse up our hearts to this last action,
since better it is we should die like men, than live
like slaves.''

  ``I am ready,'' answered Athelstane, ``to stand
the worst of their malice, and shall walk to my death
with as much composure as ever I did to my dinner.''

  ``Let us then unto our holy gear, father,'' said
Cedric.

  ``Wait yet a moment, good uncle,'' said the
Jester, in his natural tone; ``better look long before
you leap in the dark.''

  ``By my faith,'' said Cedric, ``I should know
that voice!''

  ``It is that of your trusty slave and jester,'' answered
Wamba, throwing back his cowl.  ``Had
you taken a fool's advice formerly, you would not
have been here at all.  Take a fool's advice now,
and you will not be here long.''

  ``How mean'st thou, knave?'' answered the Saxon.

  ``Even thus,'' replied Wamba; ``take thou this
frock and cord, which are all the orders I ever had,
and march quietly out of the castle, leaving me
your cloak and girdle to take the long leap in thy
stead.''

  ``Leave thee in my stead!'' said Cedric, astonished
at the proposal; ``why, they would hang
thee, my poor knave.''

  ``E'en let them do as they are permitted,'' said
Wamba; ``I trust---no disparagement to your birth
---that the son of Witless may hang in a chain with
as much gravity as the chain hung upon his ancestor
the alderman.''

  ``Well, Wamba,'' answered Cedric, ``for one
thing will I grant thy request.  And that is, if thou
wilt make the exchange of garments with Lord
Athelstane instead of me.''

  ``No, by St Dunstan,'' answered Wamba; ``there
were little reason in that.  Good right there is, that
the son of Witless should suffer to save the son of
Hereward; but little wisdom there were in his
dying for the benefit of one whose fathers were
strangers to his.''

  ``Villain,'' said Cedric, ``the fathers of Athelstane
were monarchs of England!''

  ``They might be whomsoever they pleased,'' replied
Wamba; ``but my neck stands too straight
upon my shoulders to have it twisted for their sake.
Wherefore, good my master, either take my proffer
yourself, or suffer me to leave this dungeon as
free as I entered.''

  ``Let the old tree wither,'' continued Cedric, ``so
the stately hope of the forest be preserved.  Save
the noble Athelstane, my trusty Wamba! it is the
duty of each who has Saxon blood in his veins.
Thou and I will abide together the utmost rage of
our injurious oppressors, while he, free and safe,
shall arouse the awakened spirits of our countrymen
to avenge us.''

  ``Not so, father Cedric,'' said Athelstane, grasping
his hand,---for, when roused to think or act, his
deeds and sentiments were not unbecoming his high
race---``Not so,'' he continued; ``I would rather
remain in this hall a week without food save the
prisoner's stinted loaf, or drink save the prisoner's
measure of water, than embrace the opportunity to
escape which the slave's untaught kindness has purveyed
for his master.''

  ``You are called wise men, sirs,''  said  the  Jester,
``and I a crazed fool; but, uncle Cedric, and cousin
Athelstane, the fool shall decide this controversy
for ye, and save ye the trouble of straining courtesies
any farther.  I am like John-a-Duck's mare,
that will let no man mount her but John-a-Duck.
I came to save my master, and if he will not consent---
basta---I can but go away home again.  Kind
service cannot be chucked from hand to hand like
a shuttlecock or stool-ball.  I'll hang for no man
but my own born master.''

  ``Go, then, noble Cedric,'' said Athelstane, ``neglect
not this opportunity.  Your presence without
may encourage friends to our rescue---your remaining
here would ruin us all.''

  ``And is there any prospect, then, of rescue from
without?'' said Cedric, looking to the Jester.

  ``Prospect, indeed!'' echoed Wamba; ``let me
tell you, when you fill my cloak, you are wrapped
in a general's cassock.  Five hundred men are there
without, and I was this morning one of the chief
leaders.  My fool's cap was a casque, and my bauble
a truncheon.  Well, we shall see what good they
will make by exchanging a fool for a wise man.
Truly, I fear they will lose in valour what they
may gain in discretion.  And so farewell, master,
and be kind to poor Gurth and his dog Fangs; and
let my cockscomb hang in the hall at Rotherwood,
in memory that I flung away my life for my master,
like a faithful------fool.''

  The last word came out with a sort of double expression,
betwixt jest and earnest. The tears stood
in Cedric's eyes.

  ``Thy memory shall be preserved,'' he said,
``while fidelity and affection have honour upon
earth! But that I trust I shall find the means of
saving Rowena, and thee, Athelstane, and thee, also,
my poor Wamba, thou shouldst not overbear me
in this matter.''

  The exchange of dress was now accomplished,
when a sudden doubt struck Cedric.

  ``I know no language,'' he said, ``but my own,
and a few words of their mincing Norman.  How
shall I bear myself like a reverend brother?''

  ``The spell lies in two words,'' replied Wamba---
``_Pax vobiscum_ will answer all queries.  If you
go or come, eat or drink, bless or ban, _Pax vobiscum_
carries you through it all.  It is as useful to a friar
as a broomstick to a witch, or a wand to a conjurer.
Speak it but thus, in a deep grave tone,---_Pax
vobiscum!_---it is irresistible---Watch and ward,
knight and squire, foot and horse, it acts as a charm
upon them all.  I think, if they bring me out to be
hanged to-morrow, as is much to be doubted they
may, I will try its weight upon the finisher of the
sentence.''

  ``If such prove the case,'' said the master, ``my
religious orders are soon taken---_Pax vobiscum_.  I
trust I shall remember the pass-word.---Noble
Athelstane, farewell; and farewell, my poor boy,
whose heart might make amends for a weaker head
---I will save you, or  return  and  die  with  you.  The
royal blood of our  Saxon  kings  shall  not  be  spilt
while mine beats in my veins; nor shall one hair
fall from the head of the kind knave who risked
himself for his master, if Cedric's peril can prevent
it.---Farewell.''

  ``Farewell, noble Cedric,'' said Athelstane; ``remember
it is the true part of a friar to accept refreshment,
if you are offered any.''

  ``Farewell, uncle,'' added Wamba; ``and remember
_Pax vobiscum_.''

  Thus exhorted, Cedric sallied forth upon his expedition;
and it was not long ere he had occasion
to try the force of that spell which his Jester had
recommended as omnipotent.  In a low-arched and
dusky passage, by which he endeavoured to work
his way to the hall of the castle, he was interrupted
by a female form.

  ``_Pax vobiscum!_'' said the pseudo friar, and was
endeavouring to hurry past, when a soft voice replied,
``_Et vobis---quaso, domine reverendissime,
pro misericordia vestra_.''

  ``I am somewhat deaf,'' replied Cedric, in good
Saxon, and at the same time muttered to himself,
``A curse on the fool and his _Pax vobiscum!_ I
have lost my javelin at the first cast.''

  It was, however, no unusual thing for a priest of
those days to be deaf of his Latin ear, and this the
person who now addressed Cedric knew full well.

  ``I pray you of dear love, reverend father,'' she
replied in his own language, ``that you will deign
to visit with your ghostly comfort a wounded prisoner
of this castle, and have such compassion upon
him and us as thy holy office teaches---Never shall
good deed so highly advantage thy convent.''

  ``Daughter,'' answered Cedric, much embarrassed,
``my time in this castle will not permit me to
exercise the duties of mine office---I must presently
forth---there is life and death upon my speed.''

  ``Yet, father, let me entreat you by the vow you
have taken on you,'' replied the suppliant, ``not to
leave the oppressed and endangered without counsel
or succour.''

  ``May the fiend fly away with me, and leave me
in Ifrin with the souls of Odin and of Thor!'' answered
Cedric impatiently, and would probably
have proceeded in the same tone of total departure
from his spiritual character, when the colloquy was
interrupted by the harsh voice of Urfried, the old
crone of the turret.

  ``How, minion,'' said she to the female speaker,
``is this the manner in which you requite the kindness
which permitted thee to leave thy prison-cell
yonder?---Puttest thou the reverend man to use
ungracious language to free himself from the importunities
of a Jewess?''

  ``A Jewess!'' said Cedric, availing himself of
the information to get clear of their interruption,---
``Let me pass, woman! stop me not at your peril.
I am fresh from my holy office, and would avoid
pollution.''

  ``Come this way, father,'' said the old hag, ``thou
art a stranger in this castle, and canst not leave it
without a guide.  Come hither, for I would speak
with thee.---And you, daughter of an accursed race,
go to the sick man's chamber, and tend him until
my return; and woe betide you if you again quit
it without my permission!''

  Rebecca retreated.  Her importunities had prevailed
upon Urfried to suffer her to quit the turret,
and Urfried had employed her services where
she herself would most gladly have paid them, by
the bedside of the wounded Ivanhoe.  With an
understanding awake to their dangerous situation,
and prompt to avail herself of each means of safety
which occurred, Rebecca had hoped something from
the presence of a man of religion, who, she learned
from Urfried, had penetrated into this godless castle.
She watched the return of the supposed ecclesiastic,
with the purpose of addressing him, and
interesting him in favour of the prisoners; with
what imperfect success the reader has been just
acquainted.


                 CHAPTER XXVII.

     Fond wretch! and what canst thou relate,
       But deeds of sorrow, shame, and sin?
     Thy deeds are proved---thou know'st thy fate;
       But come, thy tale---begin---begin.
     -     -     -     -     -     -     -
     But I have griefs of other kind,
       Troubles and sorrows more severe;
     Give me to ease my tortured mind,
       Lend to my woes a patient ear;
     And let me, if I may not find
       A friend to help---find one to hear.
                         _Crabbe's Hall of Justice._

  When Urfried had with clamours and menaces
driven Rebecca back to the apartment from which
she had sallied, she proceeded to conduct the unwilling
Cedric into a small apartment, the door of
which she heedfully secured.  Then fetching from
a cupboard a stoup of wine and two flagons, she
placed them on the table, and said in a tone rather
asserting a fact than asking a question, ``Thou art
Saxon, father---Deny it not,'' she continued, observing
that Cedric hastened not to reply; ``the
sounds of my native language are sweet to mine
ears, though seldom heard save from the tongues
of the wretched and degraded serfs on whom the
proud Normans impose the meanest drudgery of
this dwelling.  Thou art a Saxon, father---a Saxon,
and, save as thou art a servant of God, a freeman.
---Thine accents are sweet in mine ear.''

  ``Do not Saxon priests visit this castle, then?''
replied Cedric; ``it were, methinks, their duty to
comfort the outcast and oppressed children of the
soil.''

  ``They come not---or if they come, they better
love to revel at the boards of their conquerors,''
answered Urfried, ``than to hear the groans of their
countrymen---so, at least, report speaks of them---
of myself I can say little.  This castle, for ten
years, has opened to no priest save the debauched
Norman chaplain who partook the nightly revels of
Front-de-B<oe>uf, and he has been long gone to render
an account of his stewardship.---But thou art a
Saxon---a Saxon priest, and I have one question to
ask of thee.''

  ``I am a Saxon,'' answered Cedric, ``but unworthy,
surely, of the name of priest.  Let me begone
on my way---I swear I will return, or send
one of our fathers more worthy to hear your confession.''

  ``Stay yet a while,'' said Urfried; ``the accents
of the voice which thou hearest now will soon be
choked with the cold earth, and I would not descend
to it like the beast I have lived.  But wine
must give me strength to tell the horrors of my
tale.'' She poured out a cup, and drank it with a
frightful avidity, which seemed desirous of draining
the last drop in the goblet.  ``It stupifies,'' she
said, looking upwards as she finished her drought,
``but it cannot cheer---Partake it, father, if you
would hear my tale without sinking down upon the
pavement.'' Cedric would have avoided pledging
her in this ominous conviviality, but the sign which
she made to him expressed impatience and despair.
He complied with her request, and answered her
challenge in a large wine-cup; she then proceeded
with her story, as if appeased by his complaisance.

  ``I was not born,'' she said, ``father, the wretch
that thou now seest me.  I was free, was happy,
was honoured, loved, and was beloved.  I am now
a slave, miserable and degraded---the sport of my
masters' passions while I had yet beauty---the object
of their contempt, scorn, and hatred, since it
has passed away.  Dost thou wonder, father, that
I should hate mankind, and, above all, the race that
has wrought this change in me? Can the wrinkled
decrepit hag before thee, whose wrath must vent
itself in impotent curses, forget she was once the
daughter of the noble Thane of Torquilstone, before
whose frown a thousand vassals trembled?''

  ``Thou the daughter of Torquil Wolfganger!''
said Cedric, receding as he spoke; ``thou---thou---
the daughter of that noble Saxon, my father's friend
and companion in arms!''

  ``Thy father's friend!'' echoed Urfried; ``then
Cedric called the Saxon stands before me, for the
noble Hereward of Rotherwood had but one son,
whose name is well known among his countrymen.
But if thou art Cedric of Rotherwood, why this
religious dress?---hast thou too despaired of saving
thy country, and sought refuge from oppression in
the shade of the convent?''

  ``It matters not who I am,'' said Cedric; ``proceed,
unhappy woman, with thy tale of horror and
guilt!---Guilt there must be---there is guilt even
in thy living to tell it.''

  ``There is---there is,'' answered the wretched
woman, ``deep, black, damning guilt,---guilt, that
lies like a load at my breast---guilt, that all the
penitential fires of hereafter cannot cleanse.---Yes,
in these halls, stained with the noble and pure
blood of my father and my brethren---in these very
halls, to have lived the paramour of their murderer,
the slave at once and the partaker of his pleasures,
was to render every breath which I drew of vital
air, a crime and a curse.''

  ``Wretched woman!'' exclaimed Cedric.  ``And
while the friends of thy father---while each true
Saxon heart, as it breathed a requiem for his soul,
and those of his valiant sons, forgot not in their
prayers the murdered Ulrica---while all mourned
and honoured the dead, thou hast lived to merit
our hate and execration---lived to unite thyself
with the vile tyrant who murdered thy nearest and
dearest---who shed the blood of infancy, rather than
a male of the noble house of Torquil Wolfganger
should survive---with him hast thou lived to unite
thyself, and in the hands of lawless love!''

  ``In lawless hands, indeed, but not in those of
love!'' answered the hag; ``love will sooner visit
the regions of eternal doom, than those unhallowed
vaults.---No, with that at least I cannot reproach
myself---hatred to Front-de-B<oe>uf and his race governed
my soul most deeply, even in the hour of
his guilty endearments.''

  ``You hated him, and yet you lived,'' replied
Cedric; ``wretch! was there no poniard---no knife
---no bodkin!---Well was it for thee, since thou
didst prize such an existence, that the secrets of a
Norman castle are like those of the grave.  For had
I but dreamed of the daughter of Torquil living in
foul communion with the murderer of her father,
the sword of a true Saxon had found thee out even
in the arms of thy paramour!''

  ``Wouldst thou indeed have done this justice to
the name of Torquil?'' said Ulrica, for we may now
lay aside her assumed name of Urfried; ``thou art
then the true Saxon report speaks thee! for even
within these accursed walls, where, as thou well
sayest, guilt shrouds itself in inscrutable mystery,
even there has the name of Cedric been sounded---
and I, wretched and degraded, have rejoiced to
think that there yet breathed an avenger of our
unhappy nation.---I also have had my hours of vengeance---
I have fomented the quarrels of our foes,
and heated drunken revelry into murderous broil
---I have seen their blood flow---I have heard their
dying groans!---Look on me, Cedric---are there not
still left on this foul and faded face some traces of
the features of Torquil?''

  ``Ask me not of them, Ulrica,'' replied Cedric,
in a tone of grief mixed with abhorrence; ``these
traces form such a resemblance as arises from the
graves of the dead, when a fiend has animated the
lifeless corpse.''

  ``Be it so,'' answered Ulrica; ``yet wore these
fiendish features the mask of a spirit of light when
they were able to set at variance the elder Front-de-B<oe>uf
and his son Reginald! The darkness of
hell should hide what followed, but revenge must
lift the veil, and darkly intimate what it would raise
the dead to speak aloud.  Long had the smouldering
fire of discord glowed between the tyrant father
and his savage son---long had I nursed, in secret,
the unnatural hatred---it blazed forth in an hour of
drunken wassail, and at his own board fell my oppressor
by the hand of his own son---such are the
secrets these vaults conceal!---Rend asunder, ye
accursed arches,'' she added, looking up towards
the roof, ``and bury in your fall all who are conscious
of the hideous mystery!''

  ``And thou, creature of guilt and misery,'' said
Cedric, ``what became thy lot on the death of thy
ravisher?''

  ``Guess it, but ask it not.---Here---here I dwelt,
till age, premature age, has stamped its ghastly
features on my countenance---scorned and insulted
where I was once obeyed, and compelled to bound
the revenge which had once such ample scope, to
the efforts of petty malice of a discontented menial,
or the vain or unheeded curses of an impotent
hag---condemned to hear from my lonely turret the
sounds of revelry in which I once partook, or the
shrieks and groans of new victims of oppression.''

  ``Ulrica,'' said Cedric, ``with a heart which still,
I fear, regrets the lost reward of thy crimes, as
much as the deeds by which thou didst acquire that
meed, how didst thou dare to address thee to one
who wears this robe? Consider, unhappy woman,
what could the sainted Edward himself do for thee,
were he here in bodily presence? The royal Confessor
was endowed by heaven with power to cleanse
the ulcers of the body, but only God himself can
cure the leprosy of the soul.''

  ``Yet, turn not from me, stern prophet of wrath,''
she exclaimed, ``but tell me, if thou canst, in what
shall terminate these new and awful feelings that
burst on my solitude---Why do deeds, long since
done, rise before me in new and irresistible horrors?
What fate is prepared beyond the grave for her, to
whom God has assigned on earth a lot of such
unspeakable wretchedness? Better had I turn to
Woden, Hertha, and Zernebock---to Mista, and
to Skogula, the gods of our yet unbaptized ancestors,
than endure the dreadful anticipations which
have of late haunted my waking and my sleeping
hours!''

  ``I am no priest,'' said Cedric, turning with disgust
from this miserable picture of guilt, wretchedness,
and despair; ``I am no priest, though I wear
a priest's garment.''

  ``Priest or layman,'' answered Ulrica, ``thou art
the first I have seen for twenty years, by whom God
was feared or man regarded; and dost thou bid me
despair?''

  ``I bid thee repent,'' said Cedric.  ``Seek to
prayer and penance, and mayest thou  find acceptance!
But I cannot, I will not, longer abide with
thee.''

  ``Stay yet a moment!'' said Ulrica; ``leave me
not now, son of my father's friend, lest the demon
who has governed my life should tempt me to
avenge myself of thy hard-hearted scorn---Thinkest
thou, if Front-de-B<oe>uf found Cedric the Saxon in
his castle, in such a disguise, that thy life would be
a long one?---Already his eye has been upon thee
like a falcon on his prey.''

  ``And be it so,'' said Cedric; ``and let him tear
me with beak and talons, ere my tongue say one
word which my heart doth not warrant.  I will die
a Saxon---true in word, open in deed---I bid thee
avaunt!---touch me not, stay me not!---The sight
of Front-de-B<oe>uf himself is less odious to me than
thou, degraded and degenerate as thou art.''

  ``Be it so,'' said Ulrica, no longer interrupting
him; ``go thy way, and forget, in the insolence of
thy superority, that the wretch before thee is the
daughter of thy father's friend.---Go thy way---if
I am separated from mankind by my sufferings---
separated from those whose aid I might most justly
expect---not less will I be separated from them in
my revenge!---No man shall aid me, but the ears
of all men shall tingle to hear of the deed which I
shall dare to do!---Farewell!---thy scorn has burst
the last tie which seemed yet to unite me to my
kind---a thought that my woes might claim the
compassion of my people.''

  ``Ulrica,'' said Cedric, softened by this appeal,
``hast thou borne up and endured to live through
so much guilt and so much misery, and wilt thou
now yield to despair when thine eyes are opened to
thy crimes, and when repentance were thy fitter
occupation?''

  ``Cedric,'' answered Ulrica, ``thou little knowest
the human heart.  To act as I have acted, to
think as I have thought, requires the maddening
love of pleasure, mingled with the keen appetite of
revenge, the proud consciousness of power; droughts
too intoxicating for the human heart to bear, and
yet retain the power to prevent.  Their force has
long passed away---Age has no pleasures, wrinkles
have no influence, revenge itself dies away in impotent
curses.  Then comes remorse, with all its
vipers, mixed with vain regrets for the past, and
despair for the future!---Then, when all other
strong impulses have ceased, we become like the
fiends in hell, who may feel remorse, but never repentance.
---But thy words have awakened a new
soul within me---Well hast thou said, all is possible
for those who dare to die!---Thou hast shown
me the means of revenge, and be assured I will
embrace them.  It has hitherto shared this wasted
bosom with other and with rival passions---henceforward
it shall possess me wholly, and thou thyself
shalt say, that, whatever was the life of Ulrica,
her death well became the daughter of the noble
Torquil.  There is a force without beleaguering
this accursed castle---hasten to lead them to the attack,
and when thou shalt see a red flag wave from
the turret on the eastern angle of the donjon, press
the Normans hard---they will then have enough to
do within, and you may win the wall in spite both
of bow and mangonel.---Begone, I pray thee---follow
thine own fate, and leave me to mine.''

  Cedric would have enquired farther into the purpose
which she thus darkly announced, but the stern
voice of Front-de-B<oe>uf was heard, exclaiming,
``Where tarries this loitering priest? By the scallop-shell
of Compostella, I will make a martyr of
him, if he loiters here to hatch treason among my
domestics!''

  ``What a true prophet,'' said Ulrica, ``is an evil
conscience! But heed him not---out and to thy
people---Cry your Saxon onslaught, and let them
sing their war-song of Rollo, if they will; vengeance
shall bear a burden to it.''

  As she thus spoke, she vanished through a private
door, and Reginald Front-de-B<oe>uf entered
the apartment.  Cedric, with some difficulty, compelled
himself to make obeisance to the haughty
Baron, who returned his courtesy with a slight inclination
of the head.

  ``Thy penitents, father, have made a long shrift
---it is the better for them, since it is the last they
shall ever make.  Hast thou prepared them for
death?''

  ``I found them,'' said Cedric, in such French as
he could command, ``expecting the worst, from the
moment they knew into whose power they had
fallen.''

  ``How now, Sir Friar,'' replied Front-de-B<oe>uf,
``thy speech, methinks, smacks of a Saxon tongue?''

  ``I was bred in the convent of St Withold of
Burton,'' answered Cedric.

  ``Ay?'' said the Baron; ``it had been better for
thee to have been a Norman, and better for my
purpose too; but need has no choice of messengers.
That St Withold's of Burton is a howlet's nest
worth the harrying.  The day will soon come that
the frock shall protect the Saxon as little as the
mail-coat.''

  ``God's will be done,'' said Cedric, in a voice
tremulous with passion, which Front-de-B<oe>uf imputed
to fear.

  ``I see,'' said he, ``thou dreamest already that
our men-at-arms are in thy refectory and thy ale-vaults.
But do me one cast of thy holy office, and,
come what list of others, thou shalt sleep as safe in
thy cell as a snail within his shell of proof.''

  ``Speak your commands,'' said Cedric, with suppressed
emotion.

  ``Follow me through this passage, then, that I
may dismiss thee by the postern.''

  And as he strode on his way before the supposed
friar, Front-de-B<oe>uf thus schooled him in the part
which he desired he should act.

  ``Thou seest, Sir Friar, yon herd of Saxon swine,
who have dared to environ this castle of Torquilstone---
Tell them whatever thou hast a mind of the
weakness of this fortalice, or aught else that can detain
them before it for twenty-four hours.  Meantime
bear thou this scroll---But soft---canst read,
Sir Priest?''

  ``Not a jot I,'' answered Cedric, ``save on my
breviary; and then I know the characters, because
I have the holy service by heart, praised be Our
Lady and St Withold!''

  ``The fitter messenger for my purpose.---Carry
thou this scroll to the castle of Philip de Malvoisin;
say it cometh from me, and is written by the
Templar Brian de Bois-Guilbert, and that I pray
him to send it to York with all the speed man and
horse can make.  Meanwhile, tell him to doubt
nothing, he shall find us whole and sound behind
our battlement---Shame on it, that we should be
compelled to hide thus by a pack of runagates, who
are wont to fly even at the flash of our pennons and
the tramp of our horses! I say to thee, priest, contrive
some cast of thine art to keep the knaves
where they are, until our friends bring up their
lances.  My vengeance is awake, and she is a falcon
that slumbers not till she has been gorged.''

  ``By my patron saint,'' said Cedric, with deeper
energy than became his character, ``and by every
saint who has lived and died in England, your commands
shall be obeyed! Not a Saxon shall stir from
before these walls, if I have art and influence to detain
them there.''

  ``Ha!'' said Front-de-B<oe>uf, ``thou changest thy
tone, Sir Priest, and speakest brief and bold, as if
thy heart were in the slaughter of the Saxon herd;
and yet thou art thyself of kindred to the swine?''

  Cedric was no ready practiser of the art of dissimulation,
and would at this moment have been
much the better of a hint from Wamba's more
fertile brain.  But necessity, according to the ancient
proverb, sharpens invention, and he muttered
something under his cowl concerning the men in
question being excommunicated outlaws both to
church and to kingdom.

  ``_Despardieux_,'' answered Front-de-B<oe>uf, ``thou
hast spoken the very truth---I forgot that the knaves
can strip a fat abbot, as well as if they had been
born south of yonder salt channel.  Was it not he
of St Ives whom they tied to an oak-tree, and compelled
to sing a mass while they were rifling his
mails and his wallets?---No, by our Lady---that
jest was played by Gualtier of Middleton, one of
our own companions-at-arms.  But they were
Saxons who robbed the chapel at St Bees of cup,
candlestick and chalice, were they not?''

  ``They were godless men,'' answered Cedric.

  ``Ay, and they drank out all the good wine and
ale that lay in store for many a secret carousal,
when ye pretend ye are but busied with vigils and
primes!---Priest, thou art bound to revenge such
sacrilege.''

  ``I am indeed bound to vengeance,'' murmured
Cedric; ``Saint Withold knows my heart.''

  Front-de-B<oe>uf, in the meanwhile, led the way
to a postern, where, passing the moat on a single
plank, they reached a small barbican, or exterior
defence, which communicated with the open field
by a well-fortified sallyport.

  ``Begone, then; and if thou wilt do mine errand,
and if thou return hither when it is done, thou
shalt see Saxon flesh cheap as ever was hog's in the
shambles of Sheffield.  And, hark thee, thou seemest
to be a jolly confessor---come hither after the
onslaught, and thou shalt have as much Malvoisie
as would drench thy whole convent.''

  ``Assuredly we shall meet again,'' answered Cedric.

  ``Something in hand the whilst,'' continued the
Norman; and, as they parted at the postern door,
he thrust into Cedric's reluctant hand a gold byzant,
adding, ``Remember, I will fly off both cowl
and skin, if thou failest in thy purpose.''

  ``And full leave will I give thee to do both,''
answered Cedric, leaving the postern, and striding
forth over the free field with a joyful step, ``if,
when we meet next, I deserve not better at thine
hand.''---Turning then back towards the castle, he
threw the piece of gold towards the donor, exclaiming
at the same time, ``False Norman, thy money
perish with thee!''

  Front-de-B<oe>uf heard the words imperfectly, but
the action was suspicious---``Archers,'' he called to
the warders on the outward battlements, ``send me
an arrow through yon monk's frock!---yet stay,'' he
said, as his retainers were bending their bows, ``it
avails not--we must thus far trust him since we
have no better shift.  I think he dares not betray
me---at the worst I can but treat with these Saxon
dogs whom I have safe in kennel.---Ho! Giles
jailor, let them bring Cedric of Rotherwood before
me, and the other churl, his companion---him I
mean of Coningsburgh---Athelstane there, or what
call they him? Their very names are an encumbrance
to a Norman knight's mouth, and have, as
it were, a flavour of bacon---Give me a stoup of
wine, as jolly Prince John said, that I may wash
away the relish---place it in the armoury, and thither
lead the prioners.''

  His commands were obeyed; and, upon entering
that Gothic apartment, hung with many spoils
won by his own valour and that of his father, he
found a flagon of wine on the massive oaken table,
and the two Saxon captives under the guard of
four of his dependants.  Front-de-B<oe>uf took a long
drought of wine, and then addressed his prisoners;
---for the manner in which Wamba drew the cap
over his face, the change of dress, the gloomy and
broken light, and the Baron's imperfect acquaintance
with the features of Cedric, (who avoided his
Norman neighbours, and seldom stirred beyond
his own domains,) prevented him from discovering
that the most important of his captives had made
his escape.

  ``Gallants of England,'' said Front-de-B<oe>uf,
``how relish ye your entertainment at Torquilstone?
---Are ye yet aware what your _surquedy_ and
_outrecuidance_* merit, for scoffing at the entertainment

*  _Surquedy_ and _outrecuidance_---insolence and presumption.

of a prince of the House of Anjou?---Have
ye forgotten how ye requited the unmerited hospitality
of the royal John? By God and St Dennis,
an ye pay not the richer ransom, I will hang
ye up by the feet from the iron bars of these windows,
till the kites and hooded crows have made
skeletons of you!---Speak out, ye Saxon dogs---
what bid ye for your worthless lives?---How say
you, you of Rotherwood?

  ``Not a doit I,'' answered poor Wamba---``and
for hanging up by the feet, my brain has been topsy-turvy,
they say, ever since the biggin was bound
first round my head; so turning me upside down
may peradventure restore it again.''

  ``Saint Genevieve!'' said  Front-de-B<oe>uf, ``what
have we got here?''

  And with the back of his hand he struck Cedric's
cap from the head of the Jester, and throwing open
his collar, discovered the fatal badge of servitude,
the silver collar round his neck.

  ``Giles---Clement---dogs and varlets!'' exclaimed
the furious Norman, ``what have you brought
me here?''

  ``I think I can tell you,'' said De Bracy, who
just entered the apartment. ``This is Cedric's
clown, who fought so manful a skirmish with Isaac
of York about a question of precedence.''

  ``I shall settle it for them both,'' replied Front-de-B<oe>uf;
``they shall hang on the same gallows,
unless his master and this boar of Coningsburgh will
pay well for their lives.  Their wealth is the least
they can surrender; they must also carry off with
them the swarms that are besetting the castle, subscribe
a surrender of their pretended immunities,
and live under us as serfs and vassals; too happy
if, in the new world that is about to begin, we leave
them the breath of their nostrils.---Go,'' said he to
two of his attendants, ``fetch me the right Cedric
hither, and I pardon your error for once; the rather
that you but mistook a fool for a Saxon franklin.''

  ``Ay, but,'' said Wamba, ``your chivalrous excellency
will find there are more fools than franklins
among us.''

  ``What means the knave?'' said Front-de-B<oe>uf,
looking towards his followers, who, lingering and
loath, faltered forth their belief, that if this were
not Cedric who was there in presence, they knew
not what was become of him.

  ``Saints of Heaven!'' exclaimed De Bracy, ``he
must have escaped in the monk's garments!''

  ``Fiends of hell!'' echoed Front-de-B<oe>uf, ``it
was then the boar of Rotherwood whom I ushered
to the postern, and dismissed with my own hands!
---And thou,'' he said to Wamba, ``whose folly
could overreach the wisdom of idiots yet more gross
than thyself---I will give thee holy orders---I will
shave thy crown for thee!---Here, let them tear the
scalp from his head, and then pitch him headlong
from the battlements---Thy trade is to jest, canst
thou jest now?''

  ``You deal with me better than your word, noble
knight,'' whimpered forth poor Wamba, whose
habits of buffoonery were not to be overcome even
by the immediate prospect of death; ``if you give
me the red cap you propose, out of a simple monk
you will make a cardinal.''

  ``The poor wretch,'' said De Bracy, ``is resolved
to die in his vocation.---Front-de-B<oe>uf, you shall
not slay him.  Give him to me to make sport for my
Free Companions.---How sayst thou, knave? Wilt
thou take heart of grace, and go to the wars with
me?''

  ``Ay, with my master's leave,'' said Wamba;
``for, look you, I must not slip collar'' (and he
touched that which he wore) ``without his permission.''

  ``Oh, a Norman  saw  will  soon  cut  a  Saxon  collar.''
said De Bracy.

  ``Ay, noble sir,'' said Wamba, ``and thence
goes the proverb---

         `Norman saw on English oak,
          On English neck a Norman yoke;
          Norman spoon in English dish,
          And England ruled as Normans wish;
          Blithe world to England never will be more,
          Till England's rid of all the four.' ''

  ``Thou dost well, De Bracy,' said Front-de-B<oe>uf,
``to stand there listening to a fool's jargon,
when destruction is gaping for us! Seest thou not
we are overreached, and that our proposed mode
of communicating with our friends without has
been disconcerted by this same motley gentleman
thou art so fond to brother? What views have we
to expect but instant storm?''

  ``To the battlements then,'' said De Bracy;
``when didst thou ever see me the graver for the
thoughts of battle? Call the Templar yonder, and
let him fight but half so well for his life as he has
done for his Order---Make thou to the walls thyself
with thy huge body---Let me do my poor endeavour
in my own way, and I tell thee the Saxon
outlaws may as well attempt to scale the clouds, as
the castle of Torquilstone; or, if you will treat
with the banditti, why not employ the mediation of
this worthy franklin, who seems in such deep contemplation
of the wine-flagon?---Here, Saxon,''
he continued, addressing Athelstane, and handing
the cup to him, ``rinse thy throat with that noble
liquor, and rouse up thy soul to say what thou wilt
do for thy liberty.''

  ``What a man of mould may,'' answered Athelstane,
``providing it be what a man of manhood
ought.---Dismiss me free, with my companions, and
I will pay a ransom of a thousand marks.''

  ``And wilt moreover assure us the retreat of that
scum of mankind who are swarming around the castle,
contrary to God's peace and the king's?'' said
Front-de-B<oe>uf.

  ``In so far as I can,'' answered Athelstane, ``I
will withdraw them; and I fear not but that my
father Cedric will do his best to assist me.''

  ``We are agreed then,'' said Front-de-B<oe>uf---
``thou and they are to be set at freedom, and peace
is to be on both sides, for payment of a thousand
marks.  It is a trifling ransom, Saxon, and thou
wilt owe gratitude to the moderation which accepts
of it in exchange of your persons.  But mark, this
extends not to the Jew Isaac.''

  ``Nor to the Jew Isaac's daughter,'' said the
Templar, who had now joined them

  ``Neither,'' said Front-de-B<oe>uf, ``belong to this
Saxon's company.''

  ``I were unworthy to be called Christian, if they
did,'' replied Athelstane: ``deal with the unbelievers
as ye list.''

  ``Neither does the ransom include the Lady
Rowena,'' said De Bracy.  ``It shall never be said
I was scared out of a fair prize without  striking  a
blow for it.''

  ``Neither,'' said Front-de-B<oe>uf, ``does our treaty
refer to this wretched Jester, whom I retain,
that I may make him an example to every knave
who turns jest into earnest.''

  ``The Lady Rowena,'' answered Athelstane,
with the most steady countenance, ``is my affianced
bride.  I will be drawn by wild horses before I consent
to part with her.  The slave Wamba has this
day saved the life of my father Cedric---I will lose
mine ere a hair of his head be injured.''

  ``Thy affianced bride?---The Lady Rowena the
affianced bride of a vassal like thee?'' said De
Bracy; ``Saxon, thou dreamest that the days of
thy seven kingdoms are returned again.  I tell thee,
the Princes of the House of Anjou confer not their
wards on men of such lineage as thine.''

  ``My lineage, proud Norman,'' replied Athelstane,
``is drawn from a source more pure and ancient
than that of a beggarly Frenchman, whose
living is won by selling the blood of the thieves
whom he assembles under his paltry standard.
Kings were my ancestors, strong in war and wise
in council, who every day feasted in their hall more
hundreds than thou canst number individual followers;
whose names have been sung by minstrels,
and their laws recorded by Wittenagemotes; whose
bones were interred amid the prayers of saints, and
over whose tombs minsters have been builded.''

  ``Thou hast it, De Bracy,'' said Front-de-B<oe>uf,
well pleased with the rebuff which his companion
had received; ``the Saxon hath hit thee fairly.''

  ``As fairly as a captive can strike,'' said De
Bracy, with apparent carelessness; ``for he whose
hands are tied should have his tongue at freedom.
---But thy glibness of reply, comrade,'' rejoined he,
speaking to Athelstane, ``will not win the freedom
of the Lady Rowena.''

  To this Athelstane, who had already made a
longer speech than was his custom to do on any
topic, however interesting, returned no answer.
The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of
a menial, who announced that a monk demanded
admittance at the postern gate.

  ``In the name of Saint Bennet, the prince of
these bull-beggars,'' said Front-de-B<oe>uf, ``have we
a real monk this time, or another impostor? Search
him, slaves---for an ye suffer a second impostor to
be palmed upon you, I will have your eyes torn
out, and hot coals put into the sockets.''

  ``Let me endure the extremity of your anger,
my lord,'' said Giles, ``if this be not a real shaveling.
Your squire Jocelyn knows him well, and
will vouch him to be brother Ambrose, a monk in
attendance upon the Prior of Jorvaulx.''

  ``Admit him,'' said Front-de-B<oe>uf; ``most likely
he brings us news from his jovial master.  Surely
the devil keeps holiday, and the priests are relieved
from duty, that they are strolling thus wildly
through the country.  Remove these prisoners;
and, Saxon, think on what thou hast heard.''

  ``I claim,'' said Athelstane, ``an honourable imprisonment,
with due care of my board and of my
couch, as becomes my rank, and as is due to one
who is in treaty for ransom.  Moreover, I hold
him that deems himself the best of you, bound to
answer to me with his body for this aggression on
my freedom.  This defiance hath already been sent
to thee by thy sewer; thou underliest it, and art
bound to answer me---There lies my glove.''

  ``I answer not the challenge of my prisoner,''
said Front-de-B<oe>uf; ``nor shalt thou, Maurice de
Bracy.---Giles,'' he continued, ``hang the franklin's
glove upon the tine of yonder branched antlers:
there shall it remain until he is a free man.  Should
he then presume to demand it, or to affirm he was
unlawfully made my prisoner, by the belt of Saint
Christopher, he will speak to one who hath never
refused to meet a foe on foot or on horseback, alone
or with his vassals at his back!''

  The Saxon prisoners were accordingly removed,
just as they introduced the monk Ambrose, who
appeared to be in great perturbation.

  ``This is the real _Deus vobiscum_,'' said Wamba,
as he passed the reverend brother; ``the others
were but counterfeits.''

  ``Holy Mother,'' said the monk, as he addressed
the assembled knights, ``I am at last safe and
in Christian keeping!''

  ``Safe thou art,'' replied De Bracy; ``and for
Christianity, here is the stout Baron Reginald
Front-de-B<oe>uf, whose utter abomination is a Jew;
and the good Knight Templar, Brian de Bois-Guilbert,
whose trade is to slay Saracens---If these are
not good marks of Christianity, I know no other
which they bear about them.''

  ``Ye are friends and allies of our reverend father
in God, Aymer, Prior of Jorvaulx,'' said the monk,
without noticing the tone of De Bracy's reply; ``ye
owe him aid both by knightly faith and holy charity;
for what saith the blessed Saint Augustin,
in his treatise _De Civitate Dei_------''

  ``What saith the devil!'' interrupted Front-de-B<oe>uf;
``or rather what dost thou say, Sir Priest?
We have little time to hear texts from the holy
fathers.''

  ``_Sancta Maria!_'' ejaculated Father Ambrose,
``how prompt to ire are these unhallowed laymen!
---But be it known to you, brave knights, that certain
murderous caitiffs, casting behind them fear
of God, and reverence of his church, and not regarding
the bull of the holy see, _Si quis, suadende
Diabolo_------''

  ``Brother priest,'' said the Templar, ``all this
we know or guess at---tell us plainly, is thy master,
the Prior, made prisoner, and to whom?''

  ``Surely,'' said Ambrose ``he is in the hands
of the men of Belial, infesters of these woods, and
contemners of the holy text, `Touch not mine
annointed, and do my prophets naught of evil.' ''

  ``Here is a new argument for our swords, sirs,''
said Front-de-B<oe>uf, turning to his companions;
``and so, instead of reaching us any assistance, the
Prior of Jorvaulx requests aid at our hands? a man
is well helped of these lazy churchmen when he
hath most to do!---But speak out, priest, and say
at once, what doth thy master expect from us?''

  ``So please you,'' said Ambrose, ``violent hands
having been imposed on my reverend superior,
contrary to the holy ordinance which I did already
quote, and the men of Belial having rifled his mails
and budgets, and stripped him of two hundred
marks of pure refined gold, they do yet demand of
him a large sum beside, ere they will suffer him to
depart from their uncircumcised hands. Wherefore
the reverend father in God prays you, as his dear
friends, to rescue him, either by paying down the
ransom at which they hold him, or by force of arms,
at your best discretion.''

  ``The foul fiend quell the Prior!'' said Front-de-B<oe>uf;
``his morning's drought has been a deep
one.  When did thy master hear of a Norman baron
unbuckling his purse to relieve a churchman,
whose bags are ten times as weighty as ours?---
And how can we do aught by valour to free him,
that are cooped up here by ten times our number,
and expect an assault every moment?''

  ``And that was what I was about to tell you,''
said the monk, ``had your hastiness allowed me
time.  But, God help me, I am old, and these foul
onslaughts distract an aged man's brain.  Nevertheless,
it is of verity that they assemble a camp,
and raise a bank against the walls of this castle.''

  ``To the battlements!'' cried De Bracy, ``and
let us mark what these knaves do without;'' and
so saying, he opened a latticed window which led
to a sort of bartisan or projecting balcony, and immediately
called from thence to those in the apartment---
``Saint Dennis, but the old monk hath
brought true tidings!---They bring forward mantelets
and pavisses,* and the archers muster on the

*  Mantelets were tenmporary and movable defences formed
*  of planks, under cover of which the assailants advanced to the
*  attack of fortified places of old.  Pavisses were a species of large
*  shields covering the whole person, employed on the same occasions.

skirts of the wood like a dark cloud before a hailstorm.''

  Reginald Front-de-B<oe>uf also looked out upon
the field, and immediately snatched his bugle; and,
after winding a long and loud blast, commanded
his men to their posts on the walls.

  ``De Bracy, look to the eastern side, where the
walls are lowest---Noble Bois-Guilbert, thy trade
hath well taught thee how to attack and defend,
look thou to the western side---I myself will take
post at the barbican.  Yet, do not confine your
exertions to any one spot, noble friends!---we must
this day be everywhere, and multiply ourselves,
were it possible, so as to carry by our presence
succour and relief wherever the attack is hottest.
Our numbers are few, but activity and courage may
supply that defect, since we have only to do with
rascal clowns.''

  ``But, noble knights,'' exclaimed Father Ambrose,
amidst the bustle and confusion occasioned
by the preparations for defence, ``will none of ye
hear the message of the reverend father in God
Aymer, Prior of Jorvaulx?---I beseech thee to hear
me, noble Sir Reginald!''

  ``Go patter thy petitions to heaven,'' said the
fierce Norman, ``for we on earth have no time to
listen to them.---Ho! there, Anselm I see that seething
pitch and oil are ready to pour on the heads of
these audacious traitors---Look that the cross-bowmen
lack not bolts.*---Fling abroad my banner with

*  The bolt was the arrow peculiarly fitted to the cross-bow,
*  as that of the long-bow was called a shaft.  Hence the English
*  proverb---``I will either make a shaft or bolt of it,'' signifying a
*  determination to make one use or other of the thing spoken of.

the old bull's head---the knaves shall soon find with
whom they have to do this day!''

  ``But, noble sir,'' continued the monk, persevering
in his endeavours to draw attention, ``consider
my vow of obedience, and let me discharge myself
of my Superior's errand.''

  ``Away with this prating dotard,'' said Front-de B<oe>uf,
``lock him up in the chapel, to tell his
beads till the broil be over.  It will be a new thing
to the saints in Torquilstone to hear aves and paters;
they have not been so honoured, I trow, since
they were cut out of stone.''

  ``Blaspheme not the holy saints, Sir Reginald,''
said De Bracy, ``we shall have need of their aid
to-day before yon rascal rout disband.''

  ``I expect little aid from their hand,'' said Front-de-B<oe>uf,
``unless we were to hurl them from the
battlements on the heads of the villains.  There is
a huge lumbering Saint Christopher yonder, sufficient
to bear a whole company to the earth.''

  The Templar had in the meantime been looking
out on the proceedings of the besiegers, with rather
more attention than the brutal Front-de-B<oe>uf or
his giddy companion.

  ``By the faith of mine order,'' he said, ``these
men approach with more touch of discipline than
could have been judged, however they come by it.
See ye how dexterously they avail themselves of
every cover which a tree or bush afrords, and shun
exposing themselves to the shot of our cross-bows?
I spy neither banner nor pennon among them, and
yet will I gage my golden chain, that they are led
on by some noble knight  or  gentleman,  skilful  in
the practice of wars.''

  ``I espy him,'' said De Bracy; ``I see the waving
of a knight's crest, and the  gleam of  his  armour.
See yon tall man in the black mail, who is
busied marshalling the farther troop of the rascaille
yeomen---by Saint Dennis, I hold him to be the
same whom we called _Le Noir Faineant_, who overthrew
thee, Front-de-B<oe>uf, in the lists at Ashby.''

  ``So much the better,'' said Front-de-B<oe>uf,
``that he comes here to give me my revenge. Some
hilding fellow he must be, who dared not stay to
assert his claim to the tourney prize which chance
had assigned him.  I should in vain have sought
for him where knights and nobles seek their foes,
and right glad am I he hath here shown himself
among yon villain yeomanry.''

  The  demonstrations of the enemy's immediate
approach cut off all farther discourse.  Each knight
repaired to his post, and at the head of the few followers
whom they were able to muster, and who
were in numbers inadequate to defend the whole
extent of the walls, they awaited with calm determination
the threatened assault.


                 CHAPTER XXVIII.

    This wandering race, sever'd from other men,
    Boast yet their intercourse with human arts;
    The seas, the woods, the deserts, which they haunt,
    Find them acquainted with their secret treasures:
    And unregarded herbs, and flowers, and blossoms,
    Display undreamt-of powers when gather'd by them.
                                           _The Jew._

  Our history must needs retrograde for the space
of a few pages, to inform the reader of certain passages
material to his understanding the rest of this
important narrative.  His own intelligence may
indeed have easily anticipated that, when Ivanhoe
sunk down, and seemed abandoned by all the world,
it was the importunity of Rebecca which prevailed
on her father to have the gallant young warrior
transported from the lists to the house which for
the time the Jews inhabited in the suburbs of
Ashby.

  It would not have been difficult to have persuaded
Isaac to this step in any other circumstances,
for his disposition was kind and grateful.  But he
had also the prejudices and scrupulous timidity
of his persecuted people, and those were to be
conquered.

  ``Holy Abraham!'' he exclaimed, ``he is a good
youth, and my heart bleeds to see the gore trickle
down his rich embroidered hacqueton, and his corslet
of goodly price---but to carry him to our house!
---damsel, hast thou well considered?---he is a
Christian, and by our law we may not deal with
the stranger and Gentile, save for the advantage
of our commerce.''

  ``Speak not so, my dear father,'' replied Rebecca;
``we may not indeed mix with them in banquet
and in jollity; but in wounds and in misery,
the Gentile becometh the Jew's brother.''

  ``I would I knew what the Rabbi Jacob Ben
Tudela would opine on it,'' replied Isaac;---``nevertheless,
the good youth must not bleed to death.
Let Seth and Reuben bear him to Ashby.''

  ``Nay, let them place him in my litter,'' said
Rebecca; ``I will mount one of the palfreys.''

  ``That were to expose thee to the gaze of those
dogs of Ishmael and of Edom,'' whispered Isaac,
with a suspicious glance towards the crowd of
knights and squires.  But Rebecca was already busied
in carrying her charitable purpose into effect,
and listed not what he said, until Isaac, seizing the
sleeve of her mantle, again exclaimed, in a hurried
voice---``Beard of Aaron!---what if the youth perish!
---if he die in our custody, shall we not be
held guilty of his blood, and be torn to pieces by
the multitude?''

  ``He will not die, my father,'' said Rebecca,
gently extricating herself from the grasp of Isaac
``he will not die unless we abandon him; and if
so, we are indeed answerable for his blood to God
and to man.''

  ``Nay,'' said Isaac, releasing his hold, ``it grieveth
me as much to see the drops of his blood, as
if they were so many golden byzants from mine
own purse; and I well know, that the lessons of
Miriam, daughter of the Rabbi Manasses of Byzantium
whose soul is in Paradise, have made thee
skilful in the art of healing, and that thou knowest
the craft of herbs, and the force of elixirs.  Therefore,
do as thy mind giveth thee---thou art a good
damsel, a blessing, and a crown, and a song of rejoicing
unto me and unto my house, and unto the
people of my fathers.''

  The apprehensions of Isaac, however, were not
ill founded; and the generous and grateful benevolence
of his daughter exposed her, on her return
to Ashby, to the unhallowed gaze of Brian de Bois-Guilbert.
The Templar twice passed and repassed
them on the road, fixing his bold and ardent look on
the beautiful Jewess; and we have already seen the
consequences of the admiration which her charms
excited when accident threw her into the power of
that unprincipled voluptuary.

  Rebecca lost no time in causing the patient to
be transported to their temporary dwelling, and
proceeded with her own hands to examine and to
bind up his wounds.  The youngest reader of romances
and romantic ballads, must recollect how
often the females, during the dark ages, as they
are called, were initiated into the mysteries of surgery,
and how frequently the gallant knight submitted
the wounds of his person to her cure, whose
eyes had yet more deeply penetrated his heart.

  But the Jews, both male and female, possessed
and practised the medical science in all its branches,
and the monarchs and powerful barons of the time
frequently committed themselves to the charge of
some experienced sage among this despised people,
when wounded or in sickness.  The aid of the Jewish
physicians was not the less eagerly sought after,
though a general belief prevailed among the
Christians, that the Jewish Rabbins were deeply
acquainted with the occult sciences, and particularly
with the cabalistical art, which had its name
and origin in the studies of the sages of Israel.
Neither did the Rabbins disown such acquaintance
with supernatural arts, which added nothing (for
what could add aught?) to the hatred with which
their nation was regarded, while it diminished the
contempt with which that malevolence was mingled.
A Jewish magician might be the subject of equal
abhorrence with a Jewish usurer, but he could not
be equally despised.  It is besides probable, considering
the wonderful cures they are said to have
performed, that the Jews possessed some secrets of
the healing art peculiar to themselves, and which,
with the exclusive spirit arising out of their condition,
they took great care to conceal from the Christians
amongst whom they dwelt.

  The beautiful Rebecca had been heedfully brought
up in all the knowledge proper to her nation, which
her apt and powerful mind had retained, arranged,
and enlarged, in the course of a progress beyond
her years, her sex, and even the age in which she
lived.  Her knowledge of medicine and of the healing
art had been acquired under an aged Jewess,
the daughter of one of their most celebrated doctors,
who loved Rebecca as her own child, and was
believed to have communicated to her secrets, which
had been left to herself by her sage father at the
same time, and under the same circumstances. The
fate of Miriam had indeed been to fall a sacrifice
to the fanaticism of the times; but her secrets had
survived in her apt pupil.

  Rebecca, thus endowed with knowledge as with
beauty, was universally revered and admired by her
own tribe, who almost regarded her as one of those
gifted women mentioned in the sacred history. Her
father himself, out of reverence for her talents,
which involuntarily mingled itself with his unbounded
affection, permitted the maiden a greater
liberty than was usually indulged to those of her
sex by the habits of her people, and was, as we
have just seen, frequently guided by her opinion,
even in preference to his own.

  When Ivanhoe reached the habitation of Isaac,
he was still in a state of unconsciousness, owing to
the profuse loss of blood which had taken place during
his exertions in the lists.  Rebecca examined
the wound, and having applied to it such vulnerary
remedies as her art prescribed, informed her father
that if fever could be averted, of which the great
bleeding rendered her little apprehensive, and if
the healing balsam of Miriam retained its virtue,
there was nothing to fear for his guest's life, and
that he might with safety travel to York with them
on the ensuing day.  Isaac looked a little blank at
this annunciation.  His charity would willingly have
stopped short at Ashby, or at most would have left
the wounded Christian to be tended in the house
where he was residing at present, with an assurance
to the Hebrew to whom it belonged, that all expenses
should be duly discharged.  To this, however,
Rebecca opposed many reasons, of which we
shall only mention two that had peculiar weight
with Isaac.  The one was, that she would on no
account put the phial of precious balsam into the
hands of another physician even of her own tribe,
lest that valuable mystery should be discovered;
the other, that this wounded knight, Wilfred of
Ivanhoe, was an intimate favourite of Richard
C<oe>ur-de-Lion, and that, in case the monarch should
return, Isaac, who had supplied his brother John
with treasure to prosecute his rebellious purposes,
would stand in no small need of a powerful protector
who enjoyed Richard's favour.

  ``Thou art speaking but sooth, Rebecca,'' said
Isaac, giving way to these weighty arguments---``it
were an offending of Heaven to betray the secrets
of the blessed Miriam; for the good which Heaven
giveth, is not rashly to be squandered upon
others, whether it be talents of gold and shekels of
silver, or whether it be the secret mysteries of a wise
physician---assuredly they should be preserved to
those to whom Providence hath vouchsafed them.
And him whom the Nazarenes of England call the
Lion's Heart, assuredly it were better for me to
fall into the hands of a strong lion of Idumea than
into his, if he shall have got assurance of my deallng
with his brother.  Wherefore I will lend ear
to thy counsel, and this youth shall journey with
us unto York, and our house shall be as a home to
him until his wounds shall be healed.  And if he of
the Lion Heart shall return to the land, as is now
noised abroad, then shall this Wilfred of Ivanhoe
be unto me as a wall of defence, when the king's
displeasure shall burn high against thy father.  And
if he doth not return, this Wilfred may natheless
repay us our charges when he shall gain treasure
by the strength of his spear and of his sword, even
as he did yesterday and this day also.  For the
youth is a good youth, and keepeth the day which
he appointeth, and restoreth that which he borroweth,
and succoureth the Israelite, even the child of
my father's house, when he is encompassed by
strong thieves and sons of Belial.''

  It was not until evening was nearly closed that
Ivanhoe was restored to consciousness of his situation.
He awoke from a broken slumber, under the
confused impressions which are naturally attendant
on the recovery from a state of insensibility.  He
was unable for some time to recall exactly to memory
the circumstances which had preceded his fall
in the lists, or to make out any connected chain of
the events in which he had been engaged upon the
yesterday.  A sense of wounds and injury, joined
to great weakness and exhaustion, was mingled
with the recollection of blows dealt and received,
of steeds rushing upon each other, overthrowing
and overthrown---of shouts and clashing of arms,
and all the heady tumult of a confused fight.  An
effort to draw aside the curtain of his conch was in
some degree successful, although rendered difficult
by the pain of his wound.

  To his great surprise he found himself in a room
magnificently furnished, but having cushions instead
of chairs to rest upon, and in other respects
partaking so much of Oriental costume, that he
began to doubt whether he had not, during his
sleep, been transported back again to the land of
Palestine.  The impression was increased, when,
the tapestry being drawn aside, a female form,
dressed in a rich habit, which partook more of the
Eastern taste than that of Europe, glided through
the door which it concealed, and was followed by
a swarthy domestic.

  As the wounded knight was about to address
this fair apparition, she imposed silence by placing
her slender finger upon her ruby lips, while the
attendant, approaching him, proceeded to uncover
Ivanhoe's side, and the lovely Jewess satisfied herself
that the bandage was in its place, and the
wound doing well.  She performed her task with
a graceful and dignified simplicity and modesty,
which might, even in more civilized days, have
served to redeem it from whatever might seem repugnant
to female delicacy.  The idea of so young
and beautiful a person engaged in attendance on a
sick-bed, or in dressing the wound of one of a different
sex, was melted away and lost in that of a
beneficent being contributing her effectual aid to
relieve pain, and to avert the stroke of death.  Rebecca's
few and brief directions were given in the
Hebrew language to the old domestic; and he, who
had been frequently her assistant in similar cases,
obeyed them without reply.

  The accents of an unknown tongue, however
harsh they might have sounded when uttered by
another, had, coming from the beautiful Rebecca,
the romantic and pleasing effect which fancy ascribes
to the charms pronounced by some beneficent
fairy, unintelligible, indeed, to the ear, but, from
the sweetness of utterance, and benignity of aspect,
which accompanied them, touching and affecting to
the heart.  Without making an attempt at further
question, Ivanhoe suffered them in silence to take
the measures they thought most proper for his recovery;
and it was not until those were completed,
and this kind physician about to retire. that his curiosity
could no longer be suppressed.---``Gentle
maiden,'' be began in the Arabian tongue, with
which his Eastern travels had rendered him familiar,
and which he thought most likely to be understood
by the turban'd and caftan'd damsel who stood before
him---``I pray you, gentle maiden, of your
courtesy------''

  But here he was interrupted by his fair physician,
a smile which she could scarce suppress dimpling
for an instant a face, whose general expression
was that of contemplative melancholy.  ``I am of
England, Sir Knight, and speak the English tongue,
although my dress and my lineage belong to another
climate.''

  ``Noble  damsel,''---again  the Knight of Ivanhoe
began; and  again  Rebecca  hastened  to  interrupt
him.

  ``Bestow not on me, Sir Knight,'' she said, ``the
epithet of noble.  It is well you should speedily
know that your handmaiden is a poor Jewess, the
daughter of that Isaac of York, to whom you were
so lately a good and kind lord.  It well becomes
him, and those of his household, to render to you
such careful tendance as your present state necessarily
demands.''

  I know not whether the fair Rowena would have
been altogether satisfied with the species of emotion
with which her devoted knight had hitherto
gazed on the beautiful features, and fair form, and
lustrous eyes, of the lovely Rebecca; eyes whose
brilliancy was shaded, and, as it were, mellowed, by
the fringe of her long silken eyelashes, and which
a minstrel would have compared to the evening
star darting its rays through a bower of jessamine.
But Ivanhoe was too good a Catholic to retain the
same class of feelings towards a Jewess.  This
Rebecca had foreseen, and for this very purpose she
had hastened to mention her father's name and lineage;
yet---for the fair and wise daughter of Isaac
was not without a touch of female weakness---she
could not but sigh internally when the glance of
respectful admiration, not altogether unmixed with
tenderness, with which Ivanhoe had hitherto regarded
his unknown benefactress, was exchanged
at once for a manner cold, composed, and collected,
and fraught with no deeper feeling than that which
expressed a grateful sense of courtesy received from
an unexpected quarter, and from one of an inferior
race.  It was not that Ivanhoe's former carriage expressed
more than that general devotional homage
which youth always pays to beauty; yet it was
mortifying that one word should operate as a spell
to remove poor Rebecca, who could not be supposed
altogether ignorant of her title to such homage,
into a degraded class, to whom it could not be honourably
rendered.

  But the gentleness and candour of Rebecca's
nature imputed no fault to Ivanhoe for sharing in
the universal prejudices of his age and religion.  On
the contrary the fair Jewess, though sensible her
patient now regarded her as one of a race of reprobation,
with whom it was disgraceful to hold any
beyond the most necessary intercourse, ceased not
to pay the same patient and devoted attention to
his safety and convalescence.  She informed him of
the necessity they were under of removing to York,
and of her father's resolution to transport him thither,
and tend him in his own house until his health
should be restored.  Ivanhoe expressed great repugnance
to this plan, which he grounded on unwillingness
to give farther trouble to his benefactors.

  ``Was there not,'' he said, ``in Ashby, or near
it, some Saxon franklin, or even some wealthy peasant,
who would endure the burden of a wounded
countryman's residence with him until he should
be again able to bear his armour?---Was there no
convent of Saxon endowment, where he could be
received?---Or could he not be transported as far as
Burton, where he was sure to find hospitality with
Waltheoff, the Abbot of St Withold's, to whom
he was related?''

  ``Any, the worst of these harbourages,'' said
Rebecca, with a melancholy smile, ``would unquestionably
be more fitting for your residence than the
abode of a despised Jew; yet, Sir Knight, unless
you would dismiss your physician, you cannot
change your lodging.  Our nation, as you well
know, can cure wounds, though we deal not in inflicting
them; and in our own family, in particular,
are secrets which have been handed down since the
days of Solomon, and of which you have already
experienced the advantages.  No Nazarene---I
crave your forgiveness, Sir Knight---no Christian
leech, within the four seas of Britain, could enable
you to bear your corslet within a month.''

  ``And how soon wilt thou enable me to brook
it?'' said Ivanhoe, impatiently.

  ``Within eight days, if thou wilt be patient and
conformable to my directions,'' replied Rebecca.

  ``By Our Blessed Lady,'' said Wilfred, ``if it
be not a sin to name her here, it is no time for me
or any true knight to be bedridden; and if thou
accomplish thy promise, maiden, I will pay thee
with my casque full of crowns, come by them as I
may.''

  ``I will accomplish my promise,'' said Rebecca,
and thou shalt bear thine armour on the eighth
day from hence, if thou will grant me but one boon
in the stead of the silver thou dost promise me.''

  `If it be within my power, and such as a true
Christian knight may yield to one of thy people,''
replied Ivanhoe, ``I will grant thy boon blithely
and thankfully.''

  ``Nay,'' answered Rebecca, ``I will but pray of
thee to believe henceforward that a Jew may do
good service to a Christian, without desiring other
guerdon than the blessing of the Great Father who
made both Jew and Gentile.''

  ``It were sin to doubt it, maiden,'' replied Ivanhoe;
``and I repose myself on thy skill without
further scruple or question, well trusting you will
enable me to bear my corslet on the eighth day.
And now, my kind leech, let me enquire of the news
abroad.  What of the noble Saxon Cedric and his
household?---what of the lovely Lady---'' He
stopt, as if unwilling to speak Rowena's name in
the house of a Jew---``Of her, I mean, who was
named Queen of the tournament?''

  ``And who was selected by you, Sir Knight, to
hold that dignity, with judgment which was admired
as much as your valour,'' replied Rebecca.

  The blood which Ivanhoe had lost did not prevent
a flush from crossing his cheek, feeling that
he had incautiously betrayed a deep interest in
Rowena by the awkward attempthbe had made to
conceal it.''

  ``It was less of her I would speak,'' said he,
``than of Prince John; and I would fain know
somewhat of a faithful squire, and why he now attends
me not?''

  ``Let me use my authority as a leech,'' answered
Rebecca, ``and enjoin you to keep silence, and
avoid agitating reflections, whilst I apprize you of
what you desire to know.  Prince John hath broken
off the tournament, and set forward in all haste towards
York, with the nobles, knights, and churchmen
of his party, after collecting such sums as they
could wring, by fair means or foul, from those who
are esteemed the wealthy of the land.  It is said be
designs to assume his brother's crown.''

  ``Not without a blow struck in its defence,''
said Ivanhoe, raising himself upon the couch, ``if
there were but one true subject in England I will
fight for Richard's title with the best of them---
ay, one or two, in his just quarrel!''

  ``But that you may be able to do so,'' said Rebecca
touching his shoulder with her hand, ``you
must now observe my directions, and remain quiet.''

  ``True, maiden,'' said Ivanhoe, ``as quiet as
these disquieted times will permit---And of Cedric
and his household?''

  ``His steward came but brief while since,'' said
the Jewess, ``panting with haste, to ask my father
for certain monies, the price of wool the growth of
Cedric's flocks, and from him I learned that Cedric
and Athelstane of Coningsburgh had left Prince
John's lodging in high displeasure, and were about
to set forth on their return homeward.''

  ``Went any lady with them to the banquet?''
said Wilfred.

  ``The Lady Rowena,'' said Rebecca, answering
the question with more precision than it had been
asked---``The Lady Rowena went not to the
Prince's feast, and, as the steward reported to us,
she  is  now  on  her  journey back  to  Rotherwood,
with her guardian Cedric. And touching  your
faithful squire Gurth------''

  ``Ha!'' exclaimed the knight, ``knowest thou
his name?---But thou dost,'' he immediately added,
``and well thou mayst, for it was from thy
hand, and, as I am now convinced, from thine own
generosity of spirit, that he received but yesterday
a hundred zecchins.''

  ``Speak not of that,'' said Rebecca, blushing
deeply; ``I see how easy it is for the tongue to
betray what the heart would gladly conceal.''

  ``But this sum of gold,'' said Ivanhoe, gravely,
``my honour is concerned in repaying it to your
father.''

  ``Let it be as thou wilt,'' said Rebecca, ``when
eight days have passed away; but think not, and
speak not now, of aught that may retard thy recovery.''

  ``Be it so, kind maiden,'' said Ivanhoe; ``I were
most ungrateful to dispute thy commands.  But
one word of the fate of poor Gurth, and I have done
with questioning thee.''

  ``I grieve to tell thee, Sir Knight,'' answered
the Jewess, `` that he is in custody by the order of
Cedric.''---And then observing the distress which
her communication gave to Wilfred, she instantly
added, ``But the steward Oswald said, that if nothing
occurred to renew his master's displeasure
against him, he was sure that Cedric would pardon
Gurth, a faithful serf, and one who stood high
in favour, and who had but committed this error
out of the love which he bore to Cedric's son.  And
he said, moreover, that he and his comrades, and
especially Wamba the Jester, were resolved to
warn Gurth to make his escape by the way, in case
Cedric's ire against him could not be mitigated.''

  ``Would to God they may keep their purpose!''
said Ivanhoe; ``but it seems as if I were destined
to bring ruin on whomsoever hath shown kindness
to me.  My king, by whom I was honoured and
distinguished, thou seest that the brother most
indebted to him is raising his arms to grasp his
crown;---my regard hath brought restraint and
trouble on the fairest of her sex;---and now my
father in his mood may slay this poor bondsman
but for his love and loyal service to me!---Thou
seest, maiden, what an ill-fated wretch thou dost
labour to assist; be wise, and let me go, ere the
misfortunes which track my footsteps like slot-hounds,
shall involve thee also in their pursuit.''

  ``Nay,'' said Rebecca, ``thy weakness and thy
grief, Sir Knight, make thee miscalculate the purposes
of Heaven.  Thou hast been restored to thy
country when it most needed the assistance of a
strong hand and a true heart, and thou hast humbled
the pride of thine enemies and those of thy
king, when their horn was most highly exalted .
and for the evil which thou hast sustained, seest
thou not that Heaven has raised thee a helper and
a physician, even among the most despised of the
land?---Therefore, be of good courage, and trust
that thou art preserved for some marvel which thine
arm shall work before this people.  Adieu---and
having taken the medicine which I shall send thee
by the hand of Reuben, compose thyself again to
rest, that thou mayest be the more able to endure
the journey on the succeeding day.''

  Ivanhoe was convinced by the reasoning, and
obeyed the directions, of Rebecca.  The drought
which Reuben administered was of a sedative and
narcotic quality, and secured the patient sound and
undisturbed slumbers.  In the morning his kind
physician found him entirely free from feverish
symptoms, and fit to undergo the fatigue of a
journey.

  He was deposited in the horse-litter which had
brought him from the lists, and every precaution
taken for his travelling with ease.  In one circumstance
only even the entreaties of Rebecca were
unable to secure sufficient attention to the accommodation
of the wounded knight.  Isaac, like the
enriched traveller of Juvenal's tenth satire, had
ever the fear of robbery before his eyes, conscious
that he would be alike accounted fair game by the
marauding Norman noble, and by the Saxon outlaw.
He therefore journeyed at a great rate, and
made short halts, and shorter repasts, so that he
passed by Cedric and Athelstane who had several
hours the start of him, but who had been delayed
by their protracted feasting at the convent of Saint
Withold's.  Yet such was the virtue of Miriam's
balsam, or such the strength of Ivanhoe's constitution,
that he did not sustain from the hurried journey
that inconvenience which his kind physician
had apprehended.

  In another point of view, however, the Jew's
haste proved somewhat more than good speed.  The
rapidity with which he insisted on travelling, bred
several disputes between him and the party whom
he had hired to attend him as a guard.  These men
were Saxons, and not free by any means from the
national love of ease and good living which the
Normans stigmatized as laziness and gluttony.  Reversing
Shylock's position, they had accepted the
employment in hopes of feeding upon the wealthy
Jew, and were very much displeased when they
found themselves disappointed, by the rapidity with
which he insisted on their proceeding.  They remonstrated
also upon the risk of damage to their
horses by these forced marches. Finally, there arose
betwixt Isaac and his satellites a deadly feud, concerning
the quantity of wine and ale to be allowed
for consumption at each meal.  And thus it happened,
that when the alarm of danger approached,
and that which Isaac feared was likely to come upon
him, he was deserted by the discontented mercenaries
on whose protection he had relied, without
using the means necessary to secure their attachment.

  In this deplorable condition the Jew, with his
daughter and her wounded patient, were found by
Cedric, as has already been noticed, and soon afterwards
fell into the power of De Bracy and his confederates.
Little notice was at first taken of the
horse-litter, and it might have remained behind but
for the curiosity of De Bracy, who looked into it
under the impression that it might contain the object
of his enterprise, for Rowena had not unveiled
herself.  But De Bracy's astonishment was considerable,
when he discovered that the litter contained
a wounded man, who, conceiving himself to have
fallen into the power of Saxon outlaws, with whom
his name might be a protection for himself and his
friends, frankly avowed himself to be Wilfred of
Ivanhoe.

  The ideas of chivalrous honour, which, amidst his
wildness and levity, never utterly abandoned De
Bracy, prohibited him from doing the knight any
injury in his defenceless condition, and equally interdicted
his betraying him to Front-de-B<oe>uf, who
would have had no scruples to put to death, under
any circumstances, the rival claimant of the fief of
Ivanhoe.  On the other hand, to liberate a suitor
preferred by the Lady Rowena, as the events of the
tournament, and indeed Wilfred's previous banishment
from his father's house, had made matter of
notoriety, was a pitch far above the flight of De
Bracy's generosity.  A middle course betwixt good
and evil was all which he found himself capable of
adopting, and he commanded two of his own squires
to keep close by the litter, and to suffer no one to
approach it.  If questioned, they were directed by
their master to say, that the empty litter of the
Lady Rowena was employed to transport one of
their comrades who had been wounded in the scuffle.
On arriving at Torquilstone, while the Knight Templar
and the lord of that castle were each intent
upon their own schemes, the one on the Jew's treasure,
and the other on his daughter, De Bracy's
squires conveyed Ivanhoe, still under the name of
a wounded comrade, to a distant apartment.  This
explanation was accordingly returned by these men
to Front-de-B<oe>uf, when he questioned them why
they did not make for the battlements upon the
alarm.

  ``A wounded companion!'' he replied in great
wrath and astonishment. ``No wonder that churls
and yeomen wax so presumptuous as even to lay
leaguer before castles, and that clowns and swineherds
send defiances to nobles, since men-at-arms
have turned sick men's nurses, and Free Companions
are grown keepers of dying folk's curtains,
when the castle is about to be assailed.---To the
battlements, ye loitering villains!'' he exclaimed,
raising his stentorian voice till the arches around
rung again, ``to the battlements, or I will splinter
your bones with this truncheon!''

  The men sulkily replied, ``that they desired
nothing better than to go to the battlements, providing
Front-de-B<oe>uf would bear them out with
their master, who had commanded them to tend
the dying man.''

  ``The dying man, knaves!'' rejoined the Baron;
``I promise thee we shall all  be dying men an we
stand not to it the more stoutly.  But I will relieve
the guard upon this caitiff companion of yours.---
Here, Urfried---hag---fiend of a Saxon witch---
hearest me not?---tend me this bedridden fellow
since he must needs be tended, whilst these knaves
use their weapons.---Here be two arblasts, comrades,
with windlaces and quarrells*---to the barbican with

*   The arblast was a cross-bow, the windlace the machine
*   used in bending that weapon, and the quarrell, so called from
*   its square or diamond-shaped head, was the bolt adapted to it.

you, and see you drive each bolt through a Saxon
brain.''

  The men, who, like most of their description,
were fond of enterprise and detested inaction, went
joyfully to the scene of danger as they were commanded,
and thus the charge of Ivanhoe was transferred
to Urfried, or Ulrica.  But she, whose brain
was burning with remembrance of injuries and with
hopes of vengeance, was readily induced to devolve
upon Rebecca the care of her patient.


              CHAPTER XXIX.

   Ascend the watch-tower yonder, valiant soldier,
   Look on the field, and say how goes the battle.
                         Schiller's _Maid of Orleans_.

  A moment of peril is often also a moment of open-hearted
kindness and affection.  We are thrown
off our guard by the general agitation of our feelings,
and betray the intensity of those, which, at
more tranquil periods, our prudence at least conceals,
if it cannot altogether suppress them.  In
finding herself once more by the side of Ivanhoe,
Rebecca was astonished at the keen sensation of
pleasure which she experienced, even at a time
when all around them both was danger, if not despair.
As she felt his pulse, and enquired after his
health, there was a softness in her touch and in her
accents implying a kinder interest than she would
herself have been pleased to have voluntarily expressed.
Her voice faltered and her hand trembled,
and it was only the cold question of Ivanhoe, ``Is
it you, gentle maiden?'' which recalled her to herself,
and reminded her the sensations which she felt
were not and could not be mutual.  A sigh escaped,
but it was scarce audible; and the questions which
she asked the knight concerning his state of health
were put in the tone of calm friendship.  Ivanhoe
answered her hastily that he was, in point of health,
as well, and better than he could have expected---
``Thanks,'' he said, ``dear Rebecca, to thy helpful
skill.''

  ``He calls me _dear_ Rebecca,'' said the maiden
to herself, ``but it is in the cold and careless tone
which ill suits the word.  His war-horse---his hunting
hound, are dearer to him than the despised
Jewess!''

  ``My mind, gentle maiden,'' continued Ivanhoe,
``is more disturbed by anxiety, than my body with
pain.  From the speeches of those men who were
my warders just now, I learn that I am a prisoner,
and, if I judge aright of the loud hoarse voice which
even now dispatched them hence on some military
duty, I am in the castle of Front-de-B<oe>uf---If so,
how will this end, or how can I protect Rowena
and my father?''

  ``He names not the Jew or Jewess,'' said Rebecca
internally; ``yet what is our portion in him,
and how justly am I punished by Heaven for letting
my thoughts dwell upon him!'' She hastened
after this brief self-accusation to give Ivanhoe what
information she could; but it amounted only to
this, that the Templar Bois-Guilbert, and the Baron
Front-de-B<oe>uf, were commanders within the
castle; that it was beleaguered from without, but
by whom she knew not.  She added, that there was
a Christian priest within the castle who might be
possessed of more information.

  ``A Christian priest!'' said the knight, joyfully;
``fetch him hither, Rebecca, if thou canst---say a
sick man desires his ghostly counsel---say what thou
wilt, but bring him---something I must do or attempt,
but how can I determine until I know how
matters stand without?''

  Rebecca in compliance with the wishes of Ivanhoe,
made that attempt to bring Cedric into the
wounded Knight's chamber, which was defeated as
we have already seen by the interference of Urfried,
who had also been on the watch to intercept the
supposed monk.  Rebecca retired to communicate
to Ivanhoe the result of her errand.

  They had not much leisure to regret the failure
of this source of intelligence, or to contrive by what
means it might be supplied; for the noise within
the castle, occasioned by the defensive preparations
which had been considerable for some time, now
increased into tenfold bustle and clamour.  The
heavy, yet hasty step of the men-at-arms, traversed
the battlements or resounded on the narrow and
winding passages and stairs which led to the various
bartisans and points of defence.  The voices of the
knights were heard, animating their followers, or
directing means of defence, while their commands
were often drowned in the clashing of armour, or
the clamorous shouts of those whom they addressed.
Tremendous as these sounds were, and yet more
terrible from the awful event which they presaged,
there was a sublimity mixed with them, which
Rebecca's high-toned mind could feel even in that
moment of terror.  Her eye kindled, although the
blood fled from her cheeks; and there was a strong
mixture of fear, and of a thrilling sense of the sublime,
as she repeated, half whispering to herself,
half speaking to her companion, the sacred text,---
``The quiver rattleth---the glittering spear and the
shield---the noise of the captains and the shouting!''

  But Ivanhoe was like the war-horse of that sublime
passage, glowing with impatience at his inactivity,
and with his ardent desire to mingle in the
affray of which these sounds were the introduction.
``If I could but drag myself,'' he said, ``to yonder
window, that I might see how this brave game is
like to go---If I had but bow to shoot a shaft, or
battle-axe to strike were it but a single blow for our
deliverance!---It is in vain---it is in vain---I am
alike nerveless and weaponless!''

  ``Fret not thyself, noble knight,'' answered Rebecca,
``the sounds have ceased of a sudden---it may
be they join not battle.''

  ``Thou knowest nought of it,'' said Wilfred,
impatiently; ``this dead pause only shows that the
men are at their posts on the walls, and expecting
an instant attack; what we have heard was but
the instant muttering of the storm---it will burst
anon in all its fury.---Could I but reach yonder
window!''

  ``Thou wilt but injure thyself by the attempt,
noble knight,'' replied his attendant.  Observing
his extreme solicitude, she firmly added, ``I myself
will stand at the lattice, and describe to you as I
can what passes without.''

  ``You must not---you shall not!'' exclaimed
Ivanhoe; ``each lattice, each aperture, will be soon
a mark for the archers; some random shaft---''

  ``It shall be welcome!'' murmured Rebecca, as
with firm pace she ascended two or three steps,
which led to the window of which they spoke.

  ``Rebecca, dear Rebecca!'' exclaimed Ivanhoe,
``this is no maiden's pastime---do not expose thyself
to wounds and death, and render me for ever
miserable for having given the occasion; at least,
cover thyself with yonder ancient buckler, and show
as little of your person at the lattice as may be.''

  Following with wonderful promptitude the directions
of Ivanhoe, and availing herself of the protection
of the large ancient shield, which she placed
against the lower part of the window, Rebecca,
with tolerable security to herself, could witness part
of what was passing without the castle, and report
to Ivanhoe the preparations which the assailants
were making for the storm.  Indeed the situation
which she thus obtained was peculiarly favourable
for this purpose, because, being placed on an angle
of the main building, Rebecca could not only see
what passed beyond the precincts of the castle, but
also commanded a view of the outwork likely to
be the first object of the meditated assault.  It
was an exterior fortification of no great height  or
strength, intended to protect the postern-gate,
through which Cedric had been recently dismissed
by Front-de-B<oe>uf.  The castle moat divided this
species of barbican from the rest of the fortress, so
that, in case of its being taken, it was easy to cut
off the communication with the main building, by
withdrawing the temporary bridge.  In the outwork
was a sallyport corresponding to the postern
of the castle, and the whole was surrounded by a
strong palisade.  Rebecca could observe, from the
number of men placed for the defence of this post,
that the besieged entertained apprehensions for its
safety; and from the mustering of the assailants in
a direction nearly opposite to the outwork, it seemed
no less plain that it had been selected as a vulnerable
point of attack.

  These appearances she hastily communicated to
Ivanhoe, and added, ``The skirts of the wood seem
lined with archers, although only a few are advanced
from its dark shadow.''

  ``Under what banner?'' asked Ivanhoe.

  ``Under no ensign of war which I can observe,''
answered Rebecca.

  ``A singular novelty,'' muttered the knight, ``to
advance to storm such a castle without pennon or
banner displayed!---Seest thou who they be that
act as leaders?''

  ``A knight, clad in sable armour, is the most
conspicuous,'' said the Jewess; ``he alone is armed
from head to heel, and seems to assume the direction
of all around him.''

  ``What device does he bear on his shield?'' replied
Ivanhoe.

  ``Something resembling a bar of iron, and a padlock
painted blue on the black shield.''*

*  The author has been here upbraided with false heraldry, as
*  having charged metal upon metal.  It should be remembered,
*  however, that heraldry had only its first rude origin during the
*  crusades, and that all the minuti<ae> of its fantastic science were
*  the work of time, and introduced at a much later period.  Those
*  who think otherwise must suppose that the Goddess of _Armoirers_,
*  like the Goddess of Arms, sprung into the world completely
*  equipped in all the gaudy trappings of the department she
*  presides over.


  ``A fetterlock and shacklebolt azure,'' said Ivanhoe;
``I know not who may bear the device, but
well I  ween  it  might  now  be  mine  own.  Canst  thou
not see the motto?''

  ``Scarce the device itself at this distance,'' replied
Rebecca; ``but when the sun glances fair upon his
shield, it shows as I tell you.''

  ``Seem  there  no  other  leaders?''  exclaimed  the
anxious enquirer.

  ``None of mark and distinction that I can behold
from this station,'' said Rebecca; ``but, doubtless,
the other side of the castle is also assailed.  They
appear even now preparing to advance---God of
Zion, protect us!---What a dreadful sight!---Those
who advance first bear huge shields and defences
made of plank; the others follow, bending their
bows as they come on.---They raise their bows!---
God of Moses, forgive the creatures thou hast
made!''

  Her description was here suddenly interrupted
by the signal for assault, which was given by the
blast of a shrill bugle, and at once answered by a
flourish of the Norman trumpets from the battlements,
which, mingled with the deep and hollow
clang of the nakers, (a species of kettle-drum,) retorted
in notes of defiance the challenge of the enemy.
The shouts of both parties augmented the
fearful din, the assailants crying, ``Saint George
for merry England!'' and the Normans answering
them with loud cries of ``_En avant De Bracy!
---Beauseant! Beau-seant!---Front-de-B<oe>uf <a`> la
rescousse!'' according to the war-cries of their different
commanders.

  It was not, however, by clamour that the contest
was to be decided, and the desperate efforts of the
assailants were met by an equally vigorous defence
on the part of the besieged.  The archers, trained
by their woodland pastimes to the most effective
use of the long-bow, shot, to use the appropriate
phrase of the time, so ``wholly together,'' that no
point at which a defender could show the least part
of his person, escaped their cloth-yard shafts.  By
this heavy discharge, which continued as thick and
sharp as hail, while, notwithstanding, every arrow
had its individual aim, and flew by scores together
against each embrasure and opening in the parapets,
as well as at every window where a defender either
occasionally had post, or might be suspected to be
stationed,---by this sustained discharge, two or three
of the arrison were slain, and several others wounded.
But, confident in their armour of proof, and in
the cover which their situation afforded, the followers
of Front-de-B<oe>uf, and his allies, showed an obstinacy
in defence proportioned to the fury of the
attack and replied with the discharge of their large
cross-bows, as well as with their long-bows, slings,
and other missile weapons, to the close and continued
shower of arrows; and, as the assailants were
necessarily but indifferently protected, did considerably
more damage than they received at their hand.
The whizzing of shafts and of missiles, on both
sides, was only interrupted by the shouts which
arose when either side inflicted or sustained some
notable loss.

  ``And I must lie here like a bedridden monk,''
exclaimed Ivanhoe, ``while the game that gives me
freedom or death is played out by the hand of
others!---Look from the window once again, kind
maiden, but beware that you are not marked by
the archers beneath---Look out once more, and tell
me if they yet advance to the storm.''

  With patient courage, strengthened by the interval
which she had employed in mental devotion,
Rebecca again took post at the lattice, sheltering
herself, however, so as not to be visible from beneath.

  ``What dost thou see, Rebecca?'' again demanded
the wounded knight.

  ``Nothing but the cloud of arrows flying so thick
as to dazzle mine eyes, and to hide the bowmen
who shoot them.''

  ``That cannot endure,'' said Ivanhoe; ``if they
press not right on to carry the castle by pure force
of arms, the archery may avail but little against
stone walls and bulwarks.  Look for the Knight
of the Fetterlock, fair Rebecca, and see how he
bears himself; for as the leader is, so will his followers
be.''

  ``I see him not,'' said Rebecca.

  ``Foul craven!'' exclaimed Ivanhoe; ``does he
blench from the helm when the wind blows highest?''

  ``He blenches not! he blenches not!'' said Rebecca,
``I see him now; he leads a body of men
close under the outer barrier of the barbican.*---

*  Every Gothic castle and city had, beyond the outer-walls,
*  a fortification composed of palisades, called the barriers, which
*  were often the scene of severe skirmishes, as these must necessarily
*  be carried before the walls themselves could be approached.
*  Many of those valiant feats of arms which adorn the chivalrous
*  pages of Froissart took place at the barriers of besieged
*  places.

They pull down the piles and palisades; they hew
down the barriers with axes.---His high black plume
floats abroad over the throng, like a raven over the
field of the slain.---They have made a breach in the
barriers---they rush in---they are thrust back!---
Front-de-B<oe>uf heads the defenders; I see his gigantic
form above the press.  They throng again to
the breach, and the pass is disputed hand to hand,
and man to man.  God of Jacob! it is the meeting
of two fierce tides---the conflict of two oceans moved
by adverse winds!''

  She turned her head from the lattice, as if unable
longer to endure a sight so terrible.

  ``Look forth again, Rebecca,'' said Ivanhoe,
mistaking the cause of her retiring; ``the archery
must in some degree have ceased, since they are
now fighting hand to hand.---Look again, there is
now less danger.''

  Rebecca again looked forth, and almost immediately
exclaimed, ``Holy prophets of the law!
Front-de-B<oe>uf and the Black Knight fight hand to
hand on the breach, amid the roar of their followers,
who watch the progress of the strife---Heaven
strike with the cause of the oppressed and of the
captive!'' She then uttered a loud shriek, and exclaimed,
``He is down!---he is down!''

  ``Who is down?'' cried Ivanhoe; ``for our dear
Lady's sake, tell me which has fallen?''

  ``The Black Knight,'' answered Rebecca, faintly;
then instantly again shouted with joyful eagerness---
``But no---but no!---the name of the Lord
of Hosts be blessed!---he is on foot again, and
fights as if there were twenty men's strength in his
single arm---His sword is broken---he snatches an
axe from a yeoman---he presses Front-de-B<oe>uf
with blow on blow---The giant stoops and totters
like an oak under the steel of the woodman---he
falls---he falls!''

  ``Front-de-B<oe>uf?'' exclaimed Ivanhoe.

  ``Front-de-B<oe>uf!'' answered the Jewess; ``his
men rush to the rescue, headed by the haughty
Templar---their united force compels the champion
to pause---They drag Front-de-B<oe>uf within the
walls.''

  ``The assailants have won the barriers, have they
not?'' said Ivanhoe.

  ``They have---they have!'' exclaimed Rebecca---
``and they press the besieged hard upon the outer
wall; some plant ladders, some swarm like bees,
and endeavour to ascend upon the shoulders of each
other---down go stones, beams, and trunks of trees
upon their heads, and as fast as they bear the
wounded to the rear, fresh men supply their places
in the assault---Great God! hast thou given men
thine own image, that it should be thus cruelly defaced
by the hands of their brethren!''

  ``Think not of that,'' said Ivanhoe; ``this is no
time for such thoughts---Who yield?---who push
their way?''

  ``The ladders are thrown down,'' replied Rebecca,
shuddering; ``the soldiers lie grovelling under
them like crushed reptiles---The besieged have the
better.''

  ``Saint George strike for us!'' exclaimed the
knight; ``do the false yeomen give way?''

  ``No!'' exclaimed Rebecca, ``they bear themselves
right yeomanly---the Black Knight approaches
the postern with his huge axe---the thundering
blows which he deals, you may hear them
above all the din and shouts of the battle---Stones
and beams are hailed down on the bold champion---
he regards them no more than if they were thistle-down
or feathers!''

  ``By Saint John of Acre,'' said Ivanhoe, raising
himself joyfully on his couch, ``methought there
was but one man in England that might do such a
deed!''

  ``The postern gate shakes,'' continued Rebecca;
``it crashes---it is splintered by his blows---they
rush in---the outwork is won---Oh, God!---they
hurl the defenders from the battlements---they
throw them into the moat---O men, if ye be indeed
men, spare them that can resist no longer!''

  ``The bridge---the bridge which communicates
with the castle---have they won that pass?'' exclaimed
Ivanhoe.

  ``No,'' replied Rebecca, ``The Templar has destroyed
the plank on which they crossed---few of
the defenders escaped with him into the castle---
the shrieks and cries which you hear tell the fate
of the others---Alas!---I see it is still more difficult
to look upon victory than upon battle.''

  ``What do they now, maiden?'' said Ivanhoe;
``look forth yet again---this is no time to faint at
bloodshed.''

  ``It is over for the time,'' answered Rebecca; ``our
friends strengthen themselves within the outwork
which they have mastered, and it affords them so
good a shelter from the foemen's shot, that the garrison
only bestow a few bolts on it from interval to
interval, as if rather to disquiet than effectually to
injure them.''

  ``Our friends,'' said Wilfred, ``will surely not
abandon an enterprise so gloriously begun and so
happily attained.---O no! I will put my faith in the
good knight whose axe hath rent heart-of-oak and
bars of iron.---Singular,'' he again muttered to himself,
``if there be two who can do a deed of such
_derring-do!_*---a fetterlock, and a shacklebolt on

*  _Derring-do_---desperate courage.

a field sable---what may that mean?---seest thou
nought else, Rebecca, by which the Black Knight
may be distinguished?''

  ``Nothing,'' said the Jewess; ``all about him is
black as the wing of the night raven.  Nothing can
I spy that can mark him further---but having once
seen him put forth his strength in battle, methinks
I could know him again among a thousand warriors.
He rushes to the fray as if he were summoned to
a banquet.  There is more than mere strength,
there seems as if the whole soul and spirit of the
champion were given to every blow which he deals
upon his enemies.  God assoilzie him of the sin of
bloodshed!---it is fearful, yet magnificent, to behold
bow the arm and heart of one man can triumph
over hundreds.''

  ``Rebecca,'' said Ivanhoe, ``thou hast painted a
hero; surely they rest but to refresh their force, or
to provide the means of crossing the moat---Under
such a leader as thou hast spoken this knight to be,
there are no craven fears, no cold-blooded delays,
no yielding up a gallant emprize; since the difficulties
which render it arduous render it also glorious.
I swear by the honour of my house---I vow by the
name of my bright lady-love, I would endure ten
years' captivity to fight one day by that good
knight's side in such a quarrel as this!''

  ``Alas,'' said Rebecca, leaving her station at the
window, and approaching the couch of the wounded
knight, ``this impatient yearning after action---
this struggling with and repining at your present
weakness, will not fail to injure your returning
health---How couldst thou hope to inflict wounds
on others, ere that be healed which thou thyself
hast received?''

  ``Rebecca,'' he replied, ``thou knowest not how
impossible it is for one trained to actions of chivalry
to remain passive as a priest, or a woman,
when they are acting deeds of honour around him.
The love of battle is the food upon which we live
---the dust of the _m<e^>l<e'>e_ is the breath of our nostrils!
We live not---we wish not to live---longer
than while we are victorious and renowned---Such,
maiden, are the laws of chivalry to which we are
sworn, and to which we offer all that we hold dear.''

  ``Alas!'' said the fair Jewess, ``and what is it,
valiant knight, save an offering of sacrifice to a demon
of vain glory, and a passing through the fire
to Moloch?---What remains to you as the prize of
all the blood you have spilled---of all the travail
and pain you have endured---of all the tears which
your deeds have caused, when death hath broken
the strong man's spear, and overtaken the speed of
his war-horse?''

  ``What remains?'' cried Ivanhoe; ``Glory,
maiden, glory! which gilds our sepulchre and embalms
our name.''

  ``Glory?'' continued Rebecca; ``alas, is the
rusted mail which hangs as a hatchment over the
champion's dim and mouldering tomb---is the defaced
sculpture of the inscription which the ignorant
monk can hardly read to the enquiring pilgrim
---are these sufficient rewards for the sacrifice of
every kindly affection, for a life spent miserably
that ye may make others miserable? Or is there
such virtue in the rude rhymes of a wandering bard,
that domestic love, kindly affection, peace and happiness,
are so wildly bartered, to become the hero
of those ballads which vagabond minstrels sing to
drunken churls over their evening ale?''

  ``By the soul of Hereward?'' replied the knight
impatiently, ``thou speakest, maiden, of thou knowest
not what.  Thou wouldst quench the pure light
of chivalry, which alone distinguishes the noble
from the base, the gentle knight from the churl and
the savage; which rates our life far, far beneath
the pitch of our honour; raises us victorious over
pain, toil, and suffering, and teaches us to fear no,
evil but disgrace.  Thou art no Christian, Rebecca;
and to thee are unknown those high feelings which
swell the bosom of a noble maiden when her lover
hath done some deed of emprize which sanctions
his flame. Chivalry!---why, maiden, she is the nurse
of pure and high affection---the stay of the oppressed,
the redresser of grievances, the curb of the
power of the tyrant---Nobility were but an empty
name without her, and liberty finds the best protection
in her lance and her sword.''

  ``I am, indeed,'' said Rebecca, ``sprung from a
race whose courage was distinguished in the defence
of their own land, but who warred not, even while
yet a nation, save at the command of the Deity, or
in defending their country from oppression.  The
sound of the trumpet wakes Judah no longer, and
her despised children are now but the unresisting
victims of hostile and military oppression.  Well
hast thou spoken, Sir Knight,---until the God of
Jacob shall raise up for his chosen people a second
Gideon, or a new Maccabeus, it ill beseemeth the
Jewish damsel to speak of battle or of war.''

  The high-minded maiden concluded the argument
in a tone of sorrow, which deeply expressed
her sense of the degradation of her people, embittered
perhaps by the idea that Ivanhoe considered
her as one not entitled to interfere in a case of
honour, and incapable of entertaining or expressing
sentiments of honour and generosity.

  ``How little he knows this bosom,'' she said, ``to
imagine that cowardice or meanness of soul must
needs be its guests, because I have censured the
fantastic chivalry of the Nazarenes! Would to
heaven that the shedding of mine own blood, drop
by drop, could redeem the captivity of Judah! Nay,
would to God it could avail to set free my father,
and this his benefactor, from the chains of the oppressor!
The proud Christian should then see whether
the daughter of God's chosen people dared not
to die as bravely as the vainest Nazarene maiden,
that boasts her descent from some petty chieftain
of the rude and frozen north!''

  She then looked towards the couch of the wounded
knight.

  ``He sleeps,'' she said; ``nature exhausted by
sufferance and the waste of spirits, his wearied
frame embraces the first moment of temporary relaxation
to sink into slumber.  Alas! is it a crime
that I should look upon him, when it may be for
the last time?---When yet but a short space, and
those fair features will be no longer animated by
the bold and buoyant spirit which forsakes them not
even in sleep!---When the nostril shall be distended,
the mouth agape, the eyes fixed and bloodshot;
and when the proud and noble knight may be trodden
on by the lowest caitiff of this accursed castle,
yet stir not when the heel is lifted up against him!
---And my father!---oh, my father! evil is it with
his daughter, when his grey hairs are not remembered
because of the golden locks of youth!---
What know I but that these evils are the messengers
of Jehovah's wrath to the unnatural child, who
thinks of a stranger's captivity before a parent's?
who forgets the desolation of Judah, and looks upon
the comeliness of a Gentile and a stranger?---
But I will tear this folly from my heart, though
every fibre bleed as I rend it away!''

  She wrapped herself closely in her veil, and sat
down at a distance from the couch of the wounded
knight, with her back turned towards it, fortifying,
or endeavouring to fortify her mind, not only against
the impending evils from without, but also against
those treacherous feelings which assailed her from
within.


          Addition to Note attached to page **.

  In corroboration of what is above stated in Note at page **, it
may be observed, that the arms, which were assumed by Godfrey
of Boulogne himself, after the conquest of Jerusalem, was
a cross counter patent cantoned with four little crosses or, upon
a field azure, displaying thus metal upon metal.  The heralds
have tried to explain this undeniable fact in different modes---
but Ferne gallantly contends, that a prince of Godfrey's qualities
should not be bound by the ordinary rules.  The Scottish
Nisbet, and the same Ferne, insist that the chiefs of the Crusade
must have assigned to Godfrey this extraordinary and unwonted
coat-of-arms, in order to induce those who should behold them
to make enquiries; and hence give them the name of _arma inquirenda_.
But with reverence to these grave authorities, it
seems unlikely that the assembled princes of Europe should
have adjudged to Godfrey a coat armorial so much contrary to
the general rule, if such rule had then existed; at any rate, it
proves that metal upon metal, now accounted a solecism in heraldry,
was admitted in other cases similar to that in the text.
See Ferne's _Blazon of Gentrie_, p. 238.  Edition 1586.  Nisbet's
_Heraldry_, vol. i. p. 113.  Second Edition.