APDL Eductation Resources/APDL Eductation Resources.iso/text/authors/scott/ivanhoe/CHAP40

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                CHAPTER XL.

       Shadows avaunt!---Richard's himself again.
                                   _Richard III._

  When the Black Knight---for it becomes necessary
to resume the train of his adventures---left
the Trysting-tree of the generous Outlaw, he held
his way straight to a neighbouring religious house,
of small extent and revenue, called the Priory of
Saint Botolph, to which the wounded Ivanhoe had
been removed when the castle was taken, under the
guidance of the faithful Gurth, and the magnanimous
Wamba.  It is unnecessary at present to mention
what took place in the interim betwixt Wilfred
and his deliverer; suffice it to say, that after long
and grave communication, messengers were dispatched
by the Prior in several directions, and that
on the succeeding morning the Black Knight was
about to set forth on his journey, accompanied by
the jester Wamba, who attended as his guide.

  ``We will meet,'' he said to Ivanhoe, ``at Coningsburgh,
the castle of the deceased Athelstane,
since there thy father Cedric holds the funeral feast
for his noble relation.  I would see your Saxon kindred
together, Sir Wilfred, and become better acquainted
with them than heretofore.  Thou also
wilt meet me; and it shall be my task to reconcile
thee to thy father.''

  So saying, he took an affectionate farewell of
Ivanhoe, who expressed an anxious desire to attend
upon his deliverer.  But the Black Knight would
not listen to the proposal.

  ``Rest this day; thou wilt have scarce strength
enough to travel on the next.  I will have no guide
with me but honest Wamba, who can play priest
or fool as I shall be most in the humour.''

  ``And I,'' said Wamba, ``will attend you with
all my heart.  I would fain see the feasting at the
funeral of Athelstane; for, if it be not full and
frequent, he will rise from the dead to rebuke cook,
sewer, and cupbearer; and that were a sight worth
seeing.  Always, Sir Knight, I will trust your valour
with making my excuse to my master Cedric, in
case mine own wit should fail.''

  ``And how should my poor valour succeed, Sir
Jester, when thy light wit halts?---resolve me that.''

  ``Wit, Sir Knight,'' replied the Jester, ``may
do much.  He is a quick, apprehensive knave, who
sees his neighbours blind side, and knows how to
keep the lee-gage when his passions are blowing
high.  But valour is a sturdy fellow, that makes
all split.  He rows against both wind and tide, and
makes way notwithstanding; and, therefore, good
Sir Knight, while I take advantage of the fair
weather in our noble master's temper, I will expect
you to bestir yourself when it grows rough.''

  ``Sir Knight of the Fetterlock, since it is your
pleasure so to be distinguished,'' said Ivanhoe, ``I
fear me you have chosen a talkative and a troublesome
fool to be your guide.  But he knows every
path and alley in the woods as well as e'er a hunter
who frequents them; and the poor knave, as thou
hast partly seen, is as faithful as steel.''

  ``Nay,'' said the Knight, ``an he have the gift
of showing my road, I shall not grumble with him
that he desires to make it pleasant.---Fare thee
well, kind Wilfred---I charge thee not to attempt
to travel till to-morrow at earliest.''

  So saying, he extended his hand to Ivanhoe,
who pressed it to his lips, took leave of the Prior,
mounted his horse, and departed, with Wamba for
his companion.  Ivanhoe followed them with his
eyes, until they were lost in the shades of the surrounding
forest, and then returned into the convent.

  But shortly after matin-song, he requested to see
the Prior.  The old man came in haste, and enquired
anxiously after the state of his health.

  ``It is better,'' he said, ``than my fondest hope
could have anticipated; either my wound has been
slighter than the effusion of blood led me to suppose,
or this balsam hath wrought a wonderful cure
upon it.  I feel already as if I could bear my corslet;
and so much the better, for thoughts pass in
my mind which render me unwilling to remain here
longer in inactivity.''

  ``Now, the saints forbid,'' said the Prior, ``that
the son of the Saxon Cedric should leave our convent
ere his wounds were healed! It were shame
to our profession were we to suffer it.''

  ``Nor would I desire to leave your hospitable
roof, venerable father,'' said Ivanhoe, ``did I not
feel myself able to endure the journey, and compelled
to undertake it.''

  ``And what can have urged you to so sudden a
departure?'' said the Prior.

  ``Have you never, holy father,'' answered the
Knight, ``felt an apprehension of approaching evil,
for which you in vain attempted to assign a cause?
---Have you never found your mind darkened, like
the sunny landscape, by the sudden cloud, which
augurs a coming tempest?---And thinkest thou
not that such impulses are deserving of attention, as
being the hints of our guardian spirits, that danger
is impending?''

  ``I may not deny,'' said the Prior, crossing himself,
``that such things have been, and have been
of Heaven; but then such communications have
had a visibly useful scope and tendency.  But thou,
wounded as thou art, what avails it thou shouldst
follow the steps of him whom thou couldst not aid,
were he to be assaulted?''

  ``Prior,'' said Ivanhoe, ``thou dost mistake---I
am stout enough to exchange buffets with any who
will challenge me to such a traffic---But were it
otherwise, may I not aid him were he in danger,
by other means than by force of arms? It is but
too well known that the Saxons love not the Norman
race, and who knows what may be the issue,
if he break in upon them when their hearts are irritated
by the death of Athelstane, and their heads
heated by the carousal in which they will indulge
themselves? I hold his entrance among them at
such a moment most perilous, and I am resolved to
share or avert the danger; which, that I may the
better do, I would crave of thee the use of some
palfrey whose pace may be softer than that of my
_destrier_.''*

*  _Destrier_---war-horse.

  ``Surely,'' said the worthy churchman; ``you
shall have mine own ambling jennet, and I would
it ambled as easy for your sake as that of the Abbot
of Saint Albans.  Yet this will I say for Malkin,
for so I call her, that unless you were to borrow
a ride on the juggler's steed that paces a hornpipe
amongst the eggs, you could not go a journey
on a creature so gentle and smooth-paced.  I have
composed many a homily on her back, to the edification
of my brethren of the convent, and many
poor Christian souls.''

  ``I pray you, reverend father,'' said Ivanhoe, ``let
Malkin be got ready instantly, and bid Gurth attend
me with mine arms.''

  ``Nay, but fair sir,'' said the Prior, ``I pray you
to remember that Malkin hath as little skill in arms
as her master, and that I warrant not her enduring
the sight or weight of your full panoply. O, Malkin,
I promise you, is a beast of judgment, and will
contend against any undue weight---I did but borrow
the _Fructus Temporum_ from the priest of Saint
Bees, and I promise you she would not stir from
the gate until I had exchanged the huge volume for
my little breviary.''

  ``Trust me, holy father,'' said Ivanhoe, ``I will
not distress her with too much weight; and if she
calls a combat with me, it is odds but she has the
worst.''

  This reply was made while Gurth was buckling
on the, Knight's heels a pair of large gilded spurs,
capable of convincing any restive horse that his best
safety lay in being conformable to the will of his
rider.

  The deep and sharp rowels with which Ivanhoe's.
heels were now armed, began to make the worthy
Prior repent of his courtesy, and ejaculate,---``Nay,
but fair sir, now I bethink me, my Malkin abideth
not the spur---Better it were that you tarry for the
mare of our manciple down at the Grange, which
may be had in little more than an hour, and cannot
but be tractable, in respect that she draweth much
of our winter fire-wood, and eateth no corn.''

  ``I thank you, reverend father, but will abide by
your first offer, as I see Malkin is already led forth
to the gate.  Gurth shall carry mine armour; and
for the rest, rely on it, that as I will not overload
Malkin's back, she shall not overcome my patience.
And now, farewell!''

  Ivanhoe now descended the stairs more hastily
and easily than his wound promised, and threw himself
upon the jennet, eager to escape the importunity
of the Prior, who stuck as closely to his side
as his age and fatness would permit, now singing
the praises of Malkin, now recommending caution
to the Knight in managing her.

  ``She is at the most dangerous period for maidens
as well as mares,'' said the old man, laughing
at his own jest, ``being barely in her fifteenth year.''

  Ivanhoe, who had other web to weave than to
stand canvassing a palfrey's paces with its owner,
lent but a deaf ear to the Prior's grave advices and
facetious jests, and having leapt on his mare, and
commanded his squire (for such Gurth now called
himself) to keep close by his side, he followed the
track of the Black Knight into the forest, while
the Prior stood at the gate of the convent looking
after him, and ejaculating,---``Saint Mary! how
prompt and fiery be these men of war! I would I
had not trusted Malkin to his keeping, for, crippled
as I am with the cold rheum, I am undone if aught
but good befalls her.  And yet,'' said he, recollecting
himself, ``as I would not spare my own old and
disabled limbs in the good cause of Old England,
so Malkin must e'en run her hazard on the same
venture; and it may be they will think our poor
house worthy of some munificent guerdon---or, it
may be, they will send the old Prior a pacing nag.
And if they do none of these, as great men will
forget little men's service, truly I shall hold me well
repaid in having done that which is right.  And it
is now wellnigh the fitting time to summon the
brethren to breakfast in the refectory---Ah! I doubt
they obey that call more cheerily than the bells for
primes and matins.''

  So the Prior of Saint Botolph's hobbled back
again into the refectory, to preside over the stockfish
and ale, which was just serving out for the
friars' breakfast.  Pursy and important, he sat him
down at the table, and many a dark word he threw
out, of benefits to be expected to the convent, and
high deeds of service done by himself, which, at
another season, would have attracted observation.
But as the stockfish was highly salted, and the ale
reasonably powerful, the jaws of the brethren were
too anxiously employed to admit of their making
much use of their ears; nor do we read of any of
the fraternity, who was tempted to speculate upon
the mysterious hints of their Superior, except
Father Diggory, who was severely afflicted by the
toothache, so that be could only eat on one side of
his jaws.

  In the meantime, the Black Champion and his
guide were pacing at their leisure through the recesses
of the forest; the good Knight whiles humming
to himself the lay of some enamoured troubadour,
sometimes encouraging by questions the
prating disposition of his attendant, so that their
dialogue formed a whimsical mixture of song and
jest, of which we would fain give our readers some
idea.  You are then to imagine this Knight, such
as we have already described him, strong of person,
tall, broad-shouldered, and large of bone, mounted
on his mighty black charger, which seemed made
on purpose to bear his weight, so easily he paced
forward under it, having the visor of his helmet
raised, in order to admit freedom of breath, yet
keeping the beaver, or under part, closed, so that
his features could be but imperfectly distinguished.
But his ruddy embrowned cheek-bones could be
plainly seen, and the large and bright blue eyes,
that flashed from under the dark shade of the raised
visor; and the whole gesture and look of the champion
expressed careless gaiety and fearless confidence---
a mind which was unapt to apprehend danger,
and prompt to defy it when most imminent---
yet with whom danger was a familiar thought, as
with one whose trade was war and adventure.

  The Jester wore his usual fantastic habit, but
late accidents had led him to adopt a good cutting
falchion, instead of his wooden sword, with a targe
to match it; of both which weapons he had, notwithstanding
his profession, shown himself a skilful
master during the storming of Torquilstone.
Indeed, the infirmity of Wamba's brain consisted
chiefly in a kind of impatient irritability, which suffered
him not long to remain quiet in any posture,
or adhere to any certain train of ideas, although he
was for a few minutes alert enough in performing
any immediate task, or in apprehending any immediate
topic.  On horseback, therefore, he was
perpetually swinging himself backwards and forwards,
now on the horse's ears, then anon on the
very rump of the animal,---now hanging both his
legs on one side, and now sitting with his face to
the tail, moping, mowing, and making a thousand
apish gestures, until his palfrey took his freaks so
much to heart, as fairly to lay him at his length on
the green grass---an incident which greatly amused
the Knight, but compelled his companion to ride
more steadily thereafter.

  At the point of their journey at which we take
them up, this joyous pair were engaged in singing
a virelai, as it was called, in which the clown bore
a mellow burden, to the better instructed Knight
of the Fetterlock.  And thus run the ditty:---

     Anna-Marie, love, up is the sun,
     Anna-Marie, love, morn is begun,
     Mists are dispersing, love, birds singing free,
     Up in the morning, love, Anna-Marie.
     Anna-Marie, love, up in the morn,
     The hunter is winding blithe sounds on his horn,
     The echo rings merry from rock and from tree,
     'Tis time to arouse thee, love, Anna-Marie.

                  Wamba.

     O Tybalt, love, Tybalt, awake me not yet,
     Around my soft pillow while softer dreams flit,
     For what are the joys that in waking we prove,
     Compared with these visions, O, Tybalt, my love?
     Let the birds to the rise of the mist carol shrill,
     Let the hunter blow out his load horn on the hill,
     Softer sounds, softer pleasures, in slumber I prove,---
     But think not I dreamt of thee, Tybalt, my love.

  ``A dainty song,'' said Wamba, when they had
finished their carol, ``and I swear by my bauble,
a pretty moral!---I used to sing it with Gurth, once
my playfellow, and now, by the grace of God and
his master, no less than a freemen; and we once
came by the cudgel for being so entranced by the
melody, that we lay in bed two hours after sunrise,
singing the ditty betwixt sleeping and waking---
my bones ache at thinking of the tune ever since.
Nevertheless, I have played the part of Anna-Marie,
to please you, fair sir.''

  The Jester next struck into another carol, a sort
of comic ditty, to which the Knight, catching up
the tune, replied in the like manner.

              Knight and Wamba.

  There came three merry men from south, west, and north,
    Ever more sing the roundelay;
  To win the Widow of Wycombe forth,
    And where was the widow might say them nay?

  The first was a knight, and from Tynedale he came,
    Ever more sing the roundelay;
  And his fathers, God save us, were men of great faine,
    And where was the widow might say him nay?

  Of his father the laird, of his uncle the squire,
    He boasted in rhyme and in roundelay;
  She bade him go bask by his sea-coal fire,
    For she was the widow would say him nay.

                   Wamba.

  The next that came forth, swore by blood and by nails,
    Merrily sing the roundelay;
  Hur's a gentleman, God wot, and hur's lineage was of Wales,
    And where wall the widow might say him nay?

  Sir David ap Morgan ap Griffith ap Hugh
    Ap Tudor ap Rhice, quoth his roundelay
  She said that one widow for so many was too few,
    And she bade the Welshman wend his way.

  But then next came a yeoman, a yeoman of Kent,
    Jollily singing his roundelay;
  He spoke to the widow of living and rent,
    And where was the widow could say him nay?

                    Both.

  So the knight and the squire were both left in the mire,
    There for to sing their roundelay;
  For a yeoman of Kent, with his yearly rent,
    There never was a widow could say him nay.


  ``I would, Wamba,'' said the knight, ``that our
host of the Trysting-tree, or the jolly Friar, his
chaplain, heard this thy ditty in praise of our bluff
yeoman.''

  ``So would not I,'' said Wamba---``but for the
horn that hangs at your baldric.''

  ``Ay,'' said the Knight,---``this is a pledge of
Locksley's good-will, though I am not like to need
it. Three mots on this bugle will, I am assured,
bring round, at our need, a jolly band of yonder
honest yeomen.''

  ``I would say, Heaven forefend,'' said the Jester,
``were it not that that fair gift is a pledge they
would let us pass peaceably.''

  ``Why, what meanest thou?'' said the Knight;
``thinkest thou that but for this pledge of fellowship
they would assault us?''

  ``Nay, for me I say nothing,'' said Wamba; ``for
green trees have ears as well as stone walls.  But
canst thou construe me this, Sir Knight---When is
thy wine-pitcher and thy purse better empty than
full?''

  ``Why, never, I think,'' replied the Knight.

  ``Thou never deservest to have a full one in thy
hand, for so simple an answer! Thou hadst best
empty thy pitcher ere thou pass it to a Saxon, and
leave thy money at home ere thou walk in the
greenwood.''

  ``You hold our friends for robbers, then?'' said
the Knight of the Fetterlock.

  ``You hear me not say so, fair sir,'' said Wamba;
``it may relieve a man's steed to take of his
mail when he hath a long journey to make; and,
certes, it may do good to the rider's soul to ease
him of that which is the root of evil; therefore will
I give no hard names to those who do such services.
Only I would wish my mail at home, and my purse
in my chamber, when I meet with these good fellows,
because it might save them some trouble.''

  ``_We_ are bound to pray for them, my friend,
notwithstanding the fair character thou dost afford
them.''

  ``Pray for them with all my heart,'' said Wamba;
``but in the town, not in the greenwood, like
the Abbot of Saint Bees, whom they caused to say
mass with an old hollow oak-tree for his stall.''

  ``Say as thou list, Wamba,'' replied the Knight,
``these yeomen did thy master Cedric yeomanly
service at Torquilstone.''

  ``Ay, truly,'' answered Wamba; ``but that was
in the fashion of their trade with Heaven.''

  ``Their trade, Wamba! how mean you by that?''
replied his companion.

  ``Marry, thus,'' said the Jester. ``They make
up a balanced account with Heaven, as our old cellarer
used to call his ciphering, as fair as Isaac the
Jew keeps with his debtors, and, like him, give out
a very little, and take large credit for doing so;
reckoning, doubtless, on their own behalf the seven-fold
usury which the blessed text hath promised to
charitable loans.''

  ``Give me an example of your meaning, Wamba,
---I know nothing of ciphers or rates of usage,''
answered the Knight.

  ``Why,'' said Wamba, ``an your valour be so
dull, you will please to learn that those honest fellows
balance a good deed with one not quite so
laudable; as a crown given to a begging friar with
an hundred byzants taken from a fat abbot, or a
wench kissed in the greenwood with the relief of a
poor widow.''

  ``Which of these was the good deed, which was
the felony?'' interrupted the Knight.

  ``A good gibe! a good gibe!'' said Wamba;
``keeping witty company sharpeneth the apprehension.
You said nothing so well, Sir Knight, I will
be sworn, when you held drunken vespers with the
bluff Hermit.---But to go on.  The merry-men of
the forest set off the building of a cottage with the
burning of a castle,---the thatching of a choir against
the robbing of a church,---the setting free a poor
prisoner against the murder of a proud sheriff; or,
to come nearer to our point, the deliverance of a
Saxon franklin against the burning alive of a Norman
baron.  Gentle thieves they are, in short, and
courteous robbers; but it is ever the luckiest to
meet with them when they are at the worst.''

  ``How so, Wamba?'' said the Knight.

  ``Why, then they have some compunction, and
are for making up matters with Heaven.  But when
they have struck an even balance, Heaven help
them with whom they next open the account! The
travellers who first met them after their good service
at Torquilstone would have a woful flaying.
---And yet,'' said Wamba, coming close up to the
Knight's side, ``there be companions who are far
more dangerous for travellers to meet than yonder
outlaws.''

  ``And who may they be, for you have neither
bears nor wolves, I trow?'' said the Knight.

  ``Marry, sir, but we have Malvoisin's men-at-arms,''
said Wamba; ``and let me tell you, that,
in time of civil war, a halfscore of these is worth a
band of wolves at any time.  They are now expecting
their harvest, and are reinforced with the soldiers
that escaped from Torquilstone.  So that,
should we meet with a band of them, we are like to
pay for our feats of arms.---Now, I pray you, Sir
Knight, what would you do if we met two of them?''

  ``Pin the villains to the earth with my lance,
Wamba, if they offered us any impediment.''

  ``But what if there were four of them?''

  ``They should drink of the same cup,'' answered
the Knight.

  ``What if six,'' continued Wamba, ``and we as
we now are, barely two---would you not remember
Locksley's horn?''

  ``What! sound for aid,'' exclaimed the Knight,
``against a score of such rascaille as these, whom
one good knight could drive before him, as the
wind drives the withered leaves?''

  ``Nay, then,'' said Wamba, ``I will pray you
for a close sight of that same horn that hath so
powerful a breath.''

  The Knight undid the clasp of the baldric, and
indulged his fellow-traveller, who immediately hung
the bugle round his own neck.

  ``Tra-lira-la,'' said he, whistling the notes; ``nay,
I know my gamut as well as another.''

  ``How mean you, knave?'' said the Knight;
``restore me the bugle.''

  ``Content you, Sir Knight, it is in safe keeping.
When Valour and Folly travel, Folly should bear
the horn, because she can blow the best.''

  ``Nay but, rogue,'' said the Black Knight, ``this
exceedeth thy license---Beware ye tamper not with
my patience.''

  ``Urge me not with violence, Sir Knight,'' said
the Jester, keeping at a distance from the impatient
champion, ``or Folly will show a clean pair of heels,
and leave Valour to find out his way through the
wood as best he may.''

  ``Nay, thou hast hit me there,'' said the Knight;
``and, sooth to say, I have little time to jangle with
thee.  Keep the horn an thou wilt, but let us proceed
on our journey.''

  ``You will not harm me, then?'' said Wamba.

  ``I tell thee no, thou knave!''

  ``Ay, but pledge me your knightly word for it,''
continued Wamba, as he approached with great
caution.

  ``My knightly word I pledge; only come on
with thy foolish self.''

  ``Nay, then, Valour and Folly are once more
boon companions,'' said the Jester, coming up frankly
to the Knight's side; ``but, in truth, I love not
such buffets as that you bestowed on the burly
Friar, when his holiness rolled on the green like a
king of the nine-pins.  And now that Folly wears
the horn, let Valour rouse himself, and shake his
mane; for, if I mistake not, there are company in
yonder brake that are on the look-out for us.''

  ``What makes thee judge so?'' said the Knight.

  ``Because I have twice or thrice noticed the
glance of a motion from amongst the green leaves.
Had they been honest men, they had kept the path.
But yonder thicket is a choice chapel for the Clerks
of Saint Nicholas.''

  ``By my faith,'' said the Knight, closing his visor,
``I think thou best in the right on't.''

  And in good time did he close it, for three arrows,
flew at the same instant from the suspected
spot against his head and breast, one of which
would have penetrated to the brain, had it not been
turned aside by the steel visor.  The other two were
averted by the gorget, and by the shield which hung
around his neck.

  ``Thanks, trusty armourers,'' said the Knight.---
``Wamba, let us close with them,''---and he rode
straight to the thicket.  He was met by six or
seven men-at-arms, who ran  against him with their
lances at full career.  Three of the weapons struck
against him, and splintered with as little effect as
if they had been driven against a tower of steel.
The Black Knight's eyes seemed to flash fire even
through the aperture of his visor.  He raised himself
in his stirrups with an air of inexpressible dignity,
and exclaimed, ``What means this, my masters!''
---The men made no other reply than by
drawing their swords and attacking him on every
side, crying, ``Die, tyrant!''

  ``Ha! Saint Edward! Ha! Saint George!''
said the Black Knight, striking down a man at
every invocation; ``have we traitors here?''

  His opponents, desperate as they were, bore back
from an arm which carried death in every blow, and
it seemed as if the terror of his single strength was
about to gain the battle against such odds, when
a knight, in blue armour, who had hitherto kept
himself behind the other assailants, spurred forward
with his lance, and taking aim, not at the rider but
at the steed, wounded the noble animal mortally.

  ``That was a felon stroke!'' exclaimed the Black
Knight, as the steed fell to the earth, bearing his
rider along with him.

  And at this moment, Wamba winded the bugle,
for the whole had passed so speedily, that he had
not time to do so sooner.  The sudden sound made
the murderers bear back once more, and Wamba,
though so imperfectly weaponed, did not hesitate
to rush in and assist the Black Knight to rise.

  ``Shame on ye, false cowards!'' exclaimed he in
the blue harness, who seemed to lead the assailants,
``do ye fly from the empty blast of a horn
blown by a Jester?''

  Animated by his words, they attacked the Black
Knight anew, whose best refuge was now to place
his back against an oak, and defend himself with
his sword.  The felon knight, who had taken another
spear, watching the moment when his formidable
antagonist was most closely pressed, galloped
against him in hopes to nail him with his lance
against the tree, when his purpose was again intercepted
by Wamba.  The Jester, making up by
agility the want of strength, and little noticed by
the men-at-arms, who were busied in their more important
object, hovered on the skirts of the fight,
and effectually checked the fatal career of the Blue
Knight, by hamstringing his horse with a stroke of
his sword.  Horse and man went to the ground;
yet the situation of the Knight of the Fetterlock
continued very precarious, as he was pressed close
by several men completely armed, and began to be
fatigued by the violent exertions necessary to defend
himself on so many points at nearly the same
moment, when a grey-goose shaft suddenly stretched
on the earth one of the most formidable of his
assailants, and a band of yeomen broke forth from
the glade, headed by Locksley and the jovial Friar,
who, taking ready and effectual part in the fray,
soon disposed of the ruffians, all of whom lay on
the spot dead or mortally wounded.  The Black
Knight thanked his deliverers with a dignity they
had not observed in his former bearing, which hitherto
had seemed rather that of a blunt bold soldier,
than of a person of exalted rank.

  ``It concerns me much,'' he said, ``even before
I express my full gratitude to my ready friends, to
discover, if I may, who have been my unprovoked
enemies.---Open the visor of that Blue Knight,
Wamba, who seems the chief of these villains.''

  The Jester instantly made up to the leader of
the assassins, who, bruised by his fall, and entangled
under the wounded steed, lay incapable either
of flight or resistance.

  ``Come, valiant sir,'' said Wamba, ``I must be
your armourer as well as your equerry---I have dismounted
you, and now I will unhelm you.''

  So saying, with no very gentle hand he undid
the helmet of the Blue Knight, which, rolling to a
distance on the grass, displayed to the Knight of
the Fetterlock grizzled locks, and a countenance
he did not expect to have seen under such circumstances.

  ``Waldemar Fitzurse!'' he said in astonishment;
``what could urge one of thy rank and seeming
worth to so foul an undertaking? ''

  ``Richard,'' said the captive Knight, looking up
to him, ``thou knowest little of mankind, if thou
knowest not to what ambition and revenge can lead
every child of Adam.''

  ``Revenge?'' answered the Black Knight; ``I
never wronged thee---On me thou hast nought to
revenge.''

  ``My daughter, Richard, whose alliance thou
didst scorn---was that no injury to a Norman,
whose blood is noble as thine own?''

  ``Thy daughter?'' replied the Black Knight;
``a proper cause of enmity, and followed up to a
bloody issue!---Stand back, my masters, I would
speak to him alone.---And now, Waldemar Fitzurse,
say me the truth---confess who set thee on
this traitorous deed.''

  ``Thy father's son,'' answered Waldemar, ``who,
in so doing, did but avenge on thee thy disobedience
to thy father.''

  Richard's eyes sparkled with indignation, but  his
better nature overcame it.  He pressed his hand
against his brow, and remained an instant gazing
on the face of the humbled baron, in whose features
pride was contending with shame.

  ``Thou dost not ask thy life, Waldemar,'' said the
King.

  ``He that is in the lion's clutch,'' answered Fitzurse,
``knows it were needless.''

  ``Take it, then, unasked,'' said Richard; ``the
lion preys not on prostrate carcasses.---Take thy life,
but with this condition, that in three days thou
shalt leave England, and go to hide thine infamy in
thy Norman castle, and that thou wilt never mention
the name of John of Anjou as connected with
thy felony.  If thou art found on English ground
after the space I have allotted thee, thou diest---or
if thou breathest aught that can attaint the honour
of my house, by Saint George! not the altar itself
shall be a sanctuary.  I will hang thee out to feed
the ravens, from the very pinnacle of thine own
castle.---Let this knight have a steed, Locksley, for
I see your yeomen have caught those which were
running loose, and let him depart unharmed.''

  ``But that I judge I listen to a voice whose behests
must not be disputed,'' answered the yeoman,
``I would send a shaft after the skulking villain
that should spare him the labour of a long journey.''

  ``Thou bearest an English heart, Locksley,''
said the Black Knight, ``and well dost judge thou
art the more bound to obey my behest---I am Richard
of England!''

  At these words, pronounced in a tone of majesty
suited to the high rank, and no less distinguished
character of C<oe>ur-de-Lion, the yeomen at once
kneeled down before him, and at the same time
tendered their allegiance, and implored pardon for
their offences.

  ``Rise, my friends,'' said Richard, in a gracious
tone, looking on them with a countenance in which
his habitual good-humour had already conquered
the blaze of hasty resentment, and whose features
retained no mark of the late desperate conflict, excepting
the flush arising from exertion,---``Arise,''
he said, ``my friends!---Your misdemeanours,
whether in forest or field, have been atoned by the
loyal services you rendered my distressed subjects
before the walls of Torquilstone, and the rescue
you have this day afforded to your sovereign.  Arise,
my liegemen, and be good subjects in future.---And
thou, brave Locksley---''

  ``Call me no longer Locksley, my Liege, but
know me under the name, which, I fear, fame hath
blown too widely not to have reached even your
royal ears---I am Robin Hood of Sherwood Forest.''*

*   From the ballads of Robin Hood, we learn that this celebrated
*   outlaw, when in disguise, sometimes assumed the name of
*   Locksley, from a village where he was born, but where situated
*   we are not distinctly told.

  ``King of Outlaws, and Prince of good fellows!''
said the King, ``who hath not heard a name that
has been borne as far as Palestine? But be assured,
brave Outlaw, that no deed done in our absence,
and in the turbulent times to which it hath
given rise, shall be remembered to thy disadvantage.''

  ``True says the proverb,'' said Wamba, interposing
his word, but with some abatement of his
usual petulance,---

           `When the cat is away,
            The mice will play.' ''

  ``What, Wamba, art thou there?'' said Richard;
``I have been so long of hearing thy voice, I thought
thou hadst taken flight.''

  ``I take flight!'' said Wamba; ``when do you
ever find Folly separated from Valour? There lies
the trophy of my sword, that good grey gelding,
whom I heartily wish upon his legs again, conditioning
his master lay there houghed in his place.
It is true, I gave a little ground at first, for a motley
jacket does not brook lance-heads, as a steel
doublet will.  But if I fought not at sword's point,
you will grant me that I sounded the onset.''

  ``And to good purpose, honest Wamba,'' replied
the King. ``Thy good service shall not be forgotten.''

  ``_Confiteor! Confiteor!_''---exclaimed, in a submissive
tone, a voice near the King's side---``my
Latin will carry me no farther---but I confess my
deadly treason, and pray leave to have absolution
before I am led to execution!''

  Richard looked around, and beheld the jovial
Friar on his knees, telling his rosary, while his
quarter-staff, which had not been idle during the
skirmish, lay on the grass beside him.  His countenance
was gathered so as be thought might best
express the most profound contrition, his eyes being
turned up, and the corners of his mouth drawn down,
as Wamba expressed it, like the tassels at the
mouth of a purse.  Yet this demure affectation of
extreme penitence was whimsically belied by a ludicrous
meaning which lurked in his huge features,
and seemed to pronounce his fear and repentance
alike hypocritical.

  ``For what art thou cast down, mad Priest?''
said Richard; ``art thou afraid thy diocesan should
learn how truly thou dost serve Our Lady and
Saint Dunstan?---Tush, man! fear it not; Richard
of England betrays no secrets that pass over the flagon.''

  ``Nay, most gracious sovereign,''  answered the
Hermit,  (well  known  to  the  curious  in  penny-histories
of Robin Hood,  by  the  name  of  Friar  Tuck,)
``it is not the crosier I fear, but the sceptre.---Alas!
that my sacrilegious fist should ever have been applied
to the ear of the Lord's anointed!''

  ``Ha! ha!'' said Richard, ``sits the wind there?
---In truth I had forgotten the buffet, though mine
ear sung after it for a whole day.  But if the cuff
was fairly given, I will be judged by the good men
around, if it was not as well repaid---or, if thou
thinkest I still owe thee aught, and will stand forth
for another counterbuff---''

  ``By no means,'' replied Friar Tuck, ``I had
mine own returned, and with usury---may your
Majesty ever pay your debts as fully!''

  ``If I could do so with cuffs,'' said the King,
``my creditors should have little reason to complain
of an empty exchequer.''

  ``And yet,'' said the Friar, resuming his demure
hypocritical countenance, ``I know not what
penance I ought to perform for that most sacrilegious
blow!------''

  ``Speak no more of it, brother,'' said the King;
``after having stood so many cuffs from Paynims
and misbelievers, I were void of reason to quarrel
with the buffet of a clerk so holy as he of Copmanhurst.
Yet, mine honest Friar, I think it would
be best both for the church and thyself, that I
should procure a license to unfrock thee, and retain
thee as a yeoman of our guard, serving in care of
our person, as formerly in attendance upon the
altar of Saint Dunstan.''

  ``My Liege,'' said the Friar,  ``I humbly crave
your pardon; and you would readily grant my excuse,
did you but know how the sin of laziness has
beset me.  Saint Dunstan---may he be gracious to
us!---stands quiet in his niche, though I should
forget my orisons in killing a fat buck---I stay
out of my cell sometimes a night, doing I wot not
what---Saint Dunstan never complains---a quiet
master he is, and a peaceful, as ever was made of
wood.---But to be a yeoman in attendance on my
sovereign the King---the honour is great, doubtless---
yet, if I were but to step aside to comfort a
widow in one corner, or to kill a deer in another,
it would be, `where is the dog Priest?' says one.
`Who has seen the accursed Tuck?' says another.
`The unfrocked villain destroys more venison than
half the country besides,' says one keeper; `And
is hunting after every shy doe in the country!'
quoth a second.---In fine, good my Liege, I pray
you to leave me as you found me; or, if in aught
you desire to extend your benevolence to me, that
I may be considered as the poor Clerk of Saint
Dunstan's cell in Copmanhurst, to whom any small
donation will be most thankfully acceptable.''

  ``I understand thee,'' said the King, ``and the
Holy Clerk shall have a grant of vert and venison
in my woods of Warncliffe.  Mark, however, I will
but assign thee three bucks every season; but if
that do not prove an apology for thy slaying thirty,
I am no Christian knight nor true king.''

  ``Your Grace may be well assured,'' said the
Friar, ``that, with the grace of Saint Dunstan, I
shall find the way of multiplying your most bounteous
gift.''

  ``I nothing doubt it, good brother,'' said the
King; ``and as venison is but dry food, our cellarer
shall have orders to deliver to thee a butt of sack,
a runlet of Malvoisie, and three hogsheads of ale of
the first strike, yearly---If that will not quench
thy thirst, thou must come to court, and become
acquainted with my butler.''

  ``But for Saint Dunstan?'' said the Friar---

  ``A cope, a stole, and an altar-cloth shalt thou also
have,'' continued the King, crossing himself---``But
we may not turn our game into earnest, lest God
punish us for thinking more on our follies than on
his honour and worship.''

  ``I will answer for my patron,'' said  the  Priest,
joyously.

  ``Answer for thyself, Friar,'' said King Richard,
something sternly; but immediately stretching out
his hand to the Hermit, the latter, somewhat abashed,
bent his knee, and saluted it. ``Thou dost less
honour to my extended palm than to my clenched
fist,'' said the Monarch; ``thou didst only kneel to
the one, and to the other didst prostrate thyself.''

  But the Friar, afraid perhaps of again giving
offence by continuing the conversation in too jocose
a style---a false step to be particularly guarded
against by those who converse with monarchs---
bowed profoundly, and fell into the rear.

  At the same time, two additional personages appeared
on the scene.



               CHAPTER XLI.

     All hail to the lordlings of high degree,
     Who live not more happy, though greater than we!
        Our pastimes to see,
        Under every green tree,
     In all the gay woodland, right welcome ye be.
                                           _Macdonald_.

  The new comers were Wilfred of Ivanhoe, on
the Prior of Botolph's palfrey, and Gurth, who attended
him, on the Knight's own war-horse.  The
astonishment of Ivanhoe was beyond bounds, when
he saw his master besprinkled with blood, and six
or seven dead bodies lying around in the little glade
in which the battle had taken place.  Nor was he
less surprised to see Richard surrounded by so many
silvan attendants, the outlaws, as they seemed to
be, of the forest, and a perilous retinue therefore
for a prince.  He hesitated whether to address the
King as the Black Knight-errant, or in what other
manner to demean himself towards him.  Richard
saw his embarrassment.

  ``Fear not, Wilfred,'' he said, ``to address Richard
Plantagenet as himself, since thou seest him
in the company of true English hearts, although it
may be they have been urged a few steps aside by
warm English blood.''

  ``Sir Wilfred of Ivanhoe,'' said the gallant Outlaw,
stepping forward, ``my assurances can add nothing
to those of our sovereign; yet, let me say
somewhat proudly, that of men who have suffered
much, he hath not truer subjects than those who
now stand around him.''

  ``I cannot doubt it, brave man,'' said Wilfred,
``since thou art of the number---But what mean
these marks of death and danger? these slain men,
and the bloody armour of my Prince?''

  ``Treason hath been with us, Ivanhoe,'' said the
King; ``but, thanks to these brave men, treason
hath met its meed---But, now I bethink me, thou
too art a traitor,'' said Richard, smiling; ``a most
disobedient traitor; for were not our orders positive,
that thou shouldst repose thyself at Saint
Botolph's until thy wound was healed?''

  ``It is healed,'' said Ivanhoe; ``it is not of more
consequence than the scratch of a bodkin.  But why,
oh why, noble Prince, will you thus vex the hearts
of your faithful servants, and expose your life by
lonely journeys and rash adventures, as if it were of
no more value than that of a mere knight-errant,
who has no interest on earth but what lance and
sword may procure him?''

  ``And Richard Plantagenet,'' said the King,
``desires no more fame than his good lance and
sword may acquire him---and Richard Plantagenet
is prouder of achieving an adventure, with only his
good sword, and his good arm to speed, than if he
led to battle an host of an hundred thousand armed
men.''

  ``But your kingdom, my Liege,'' said Ivanhoe,
``your kingdom is threatened with dissolution and
civil war---your subjects menaced with every species
of evil, if deprived of their sovereign in some
of those dangers which it is your daily pleasure to
incur, and from which you have but this moment
narrowly escaped.''

  ``Ho! ho! my kingdom and my subjects?'' answered
Richard, impatiently; ``I tell thee, Sir Wilfred,
the best of them are most willing to repay my
follies in kind---For example, my very faithful servant,
Wilfred of Ivanhoe, will not obey my positive
commands, and yet reads his king a homily,
because he does not walk exactly by his advice.
Which of us has most reason to upbraid the other?
---Yet forgive me, my faithful Wilfred.  The time
I have spent, and am yet to spend in concealment,
is, as I explained to thee at Saint Botolph's, necessary
to give my friends and faithful nobles time to
assemble their forces, that when Richard's return
is announced, he should be at the head of such a
force as enemies shall tremble to face, and thus subdue
the meditated treason, without even unsheathing
a sword.  Estoteville and Bohun will not be
strong enough to move forward to York for twenty-four
hours.  I must have news of Salisbury from
the south; and of Beauchamp, in Warwickshire;
and of Multon and Percy in the north.  The
Chancellor must make sure of London.  Too  sudden
an appearance would subject me to dangers,
other than my lance and sword, though backed by
the bow of bold Robin, or the quarter-staff of Friar
Tuck, and the horn of the sage Wamba, may be
able to rescue me from.''

  Wilfred bowed in submission, well knowing how
vain it was to contend with the wild spirit of chivalry
which so often impelled his master upon dangers
which he might easily have avoided, or rather,
which it was unpardonable in him to have sought
out.  The young knight sighed, therefore, and held
his peace; while Richard, rejoiced at having silenced
his counsellor, though his heart acknowledged the
justice of the charge he had brought against him,
went on in conversation with Robin Hood.---``King
of Outlaws,'' he said, ``have you no refreshment
to offer to your brother sovereign? for these dead
knaves have found me both in exercise and appetite.''

  ``In troth,'' replied the Outlaw, ``for I scorn to
lie to your Grace, our larder is chiefly supplied
with---'' He stopped, and was somewhat embarrassed.

  ``With venison, I suppose?'' said Richard, gaily;
``better food at need there can be none---and truly,
if a king will not remain at home and slay his
own game, methinks he should not brawl too loud
if he finds it killed to his hand.''

  ``If your Grace, then,'' said Robin, ``will again
honour with your presence one of Robin Hood's
places of rendezvous, the venison shall not be lacking;
and a stoup of ale, and it may be a cup of
reasonably good wine, to relish it withal.''

  The Outlaw accordingly led the way, followed by
the buxom Monarch, more happy, probably, in this
chance meeting with Robin Hood and his foresters,
than he would have been in again assuming his
royal state, and presiding over a splendid circle of
peers and nobles. Novelty in society and adventure
were the zest of life to Richard C<oe>ur-de-Lion, and
it had its highest relish when enhanced by dangers
encountered and surmounted.  In the lion-hearted
King, the brilliant, but useless character, of a knight
of romance, was in a great measure realized and
revived; and the personal glory which he acquired
by his own deeds of arms, was far more dear to his
excited imagination, than that which a course of
policy and wisdom would have spread around his
government.  Accordingly, his reign was like the
course of a brilliant and rapid meteor, which shoots
along the face of Heaven, shedding around an unnecessary
and portentous light, which is instantly
swallowed up by universal darkness; his feats of
chivalry furnishing themes for bards and minstrels,
but affording none of those solid benefits to his
country on which history loves to pause, and hold
up as an example to posterity.  But in his present
company Richard showed to the greatest imaginable
advantage.  He was gay, good-humoured, and
fond of manhood in every rank of life.

  Beneath a huge oak-tree the silvan repast was
hastily prepared for the King of England, surrounded
by men outlaws to his government, but
who now formed his court and his guard.  As the
flagon went round, the rough foresters soon lost
their awe for the presence of Majesty.  The song
and the jest were exchanged---the stories of former
deeds were told with advantage; and at length, and
while boasting of their successful infraction of the
laws, no one recollected they were speaking in presence
of their natural guardian.  The merry King,
nothing heeding his dignity any more than his company,
laughed, quaffed, and jested among the jolly
band.  The natural and rough sense of Robin Hood
led him to be desirous that the scene should be closed
ere any thing should occur to disturb its harmony,
the more especially that he observed Ivanhoe's
brow clouded with anxiety.  ``We are honoured,''
he said to Ivanhoe, apart, ``by the presence of our
gallant Sovereign; yet I would not that he dallied
with time, which the circumstances of his kingdom
may render precious.''

  ``It is well and wisely spoken, brave Robin
Hood,'' said Wilfred, apart; ``and know, moreover,
that they who jest with Majesty even in its gayest
mood are but toying with the lion's whelp, which,
on slight provocation, uses both fangs and claws.''

  ``You have touched the very cause of my fear,''
said the Outlaw; ``my men are rough by practice
and nature, the King is hasty as well as good-humoured;
nor know I how soon cause of offence may
arise, or how warmly it may be received---it is
time this revel were broken off.''

  ``It must be by your management then, gallant
yeoman,'' said Ivanhoe; ``for each hint I have essayed
to give him serves only to induce him to prolong
it.''

  ``Must I so soon risk the pardon and favour of
my Sovereign?'' said Robin Hood, pausing for all
instant; ``but by Saint Christopher, it shall be so.
I were undeserving his grace did I not peril it for
his good.---Here, Scathlock, get thee behind yonder
thicket, and wind me a Norman blast on thy
bugle, and without an instant's delay on peril of
your life.''

  Scathlock obeyed his captain, and in less than
five minutes the revellers were startled by the sound
of his horn.

  ``It is the bugle of Malvoisin,'' said the Miller,
starting to his feet, and seizing his bow.  The Friar
dropped the flagon, and grasped his quarter-staff
Wamba stopt short in the midst of a jest, and betook
himself to sword and target.  All the others
stood to their weapons.

  Men of their precarious course of life change
readily from the banquet to the battle; and, to
Richard, the exchange seemed but a succession of
pleasure.  He called for his helmet and the most
cumbrous parts of his armour, which he had laid
aside; and while Gurth was putting them on, he
laid his strict injunctions on Wilfred, under pain
of his highest displeasure, not to engage in the
skirmish which he supposed was approaching.

  ``Thou hast fought for me an hundred times,
Wilfred,---and I have seen it.  Thou shalt this day
look on, and see how Richard will fight for his
friend and liegeman.''

  In the meantime, Robin Hood had sent off several
of his followers in different directions, as if to
reconnoitre the enemy; and when he saw the company
effectually broken up, he approached Richard,
who was now completely armed, and, kneeling
down on one knee, craved pardon of his Sovereign.

  ``For what, good yeoman?'' said Richard, somewhat
impatiently. ``Have we not already granted
thee a full pardon for all transgressions? Thinkest
thou our word is a feather, to be blown backward
and forward between us? Thou canst not have had
time to commit any new offence since that time?''

  ``Ay, but I have though,'' answered the yeoman,
``if it be an offence to deceive my prince for his
own advantage.  The bugle you have heard was
none of Malvoisin's, but blown by my direction, to
break off the banquet, lest it trenched upon hours
of dearer import than to be thus dallied with.''

  He then rose from his knee, folded his arm on
his bosom, and in a manner rather respectful than
submissive, awaited the answer of the King,---like
one who is conscious he may have given offence,
yet is confident in the rectitude of his motive.
The blood rushed in anger to the countenance of
Richard; but it was the first transient emotion,
and his sense of justice instantly subdued it.

  ``The King of Sherwood,'' he said, ``grudges
his venison and his wine-flask to the King of England?
It is well, bold Robin!---but when you come
to see me in merry London, I trust to be a less
niggard host.  Thou art right, however, good fellow.
Let us therefore to horse and away---Wilfred
has been impatient this hour.  Tell me, bold
Robin, hast thou never a friend in thy band, who,
not content with advising, will needs direct thy
motions, and look miserable when thou dost presume
to act for thyself?''

  ``Such a one,'' said Robin, ``is my Lieutenant,
Little John, who is even now absent on an expedition
as far as the borders of Scotland; and I will
own to your Majesty, that I am sometimes displeased
by the freedom of his councils---but, when I
think twice, I cannot be long angry with one who
can have no motive for his anxiety save zeal for
his master's service.''

  ``Thou art right, good yeoman,'' answered Richard;
``and if I had Ivanhoe, on the one hand, to
give grave advice, and recommend it by the sad
gravity of his brow, and thee, on the other, to trick
me into what thou thinkest my own good, I should
have as little the freedom of mine own will as any
king in Christendom or Heathenesse.---But come,
sirs, let us merrily on to Coningsburgh, and think
no more on't.''

  Robin Hood assured them that he had detached
a party in the direction of the road they were to
pass, who would not fail to discover and apprize
them of any secret ambuscade; and that he had
little doubt they would find the ways secure, or,
if otherwise, would receive such timely notice of
the danger as would enable them to fall back on a
strong troop of archers, with which he himself proposed
to follow on the same route.

  The wise and attentive precautions adopted for
his safety touched Richard's feelings, and removed
any slight grudge which he might retain on account
of the deception the Outlaw Captain had practised
upon him.  He once more extended his hand to
Robin Hood, assured him of his full pardon and
future favour, as well as his firm resolution to restrain
the tyrannical exercise of the forest rights
and other oppressive laws, by which so many English
yeomen were driven into a state of rebellion.
But Richard's good intentions towards the bold Outlaw
were frustrated by the King's untimely death;
and the Charter of the Forest was extorted from
the unwilling hands of King John when he succeeded
to his heroic brother.  As for the rest of
Robin Hood's career, as well as the tale of his
treacherous death, they are to be found in those
black-letter garlands, once sold at the low and easy
rate of one halfpenny,

    ``Now cheaply purchased at their weight in gold.''

  The Outlaw's opinion proved true; and the King,
attended by Ivanhoe, Gurth, and Wamba, arrived,
without any interruption, within view of the Castle
of Coningsburgh, while the sun was yet in the horizon.

  There are few more beautiful or striking scenes
in England, than are presented by the vicinity of
this ancient Saxon fortress.  The soft and gentle
river Don sweeps through an amphitheatre, in which
cultivation is richly blended with woodland, and on
a mount, ascending from the river, well defended
by walls and ditches, rises this ancient edifice,
which, as its Saxon name implies, was, previous to
the Conquest, a royal residence of the kings of
England. The outer walls have probably been added
by the Normans, but the inner keep bears token
of very great antiquity.  It is situated on a mount
at one angle of the inner court, and forms a complete
circle of perhaps twenty-five feet in diameter.
The wall is of immense thickness, and is propped
or defended by six huge external buttresses which
project from the circle, and rise up against the sides
of the tower is if to strengthen or to support it.
These massive buttresses are solid when they arise
from the foundation, and a good way higher up;
but are hollowed out towards the top, and terminate
in a sort of turrets communicating with the
interior of the keep itself.  The distant appearance
of this huge building, with these singular accompaniments,
is as interesting to the lovers of the
picturesque, as the interior of the castle is to the
eager antiquary, whose imagination it carries back
to the days of the heptarchy.  A barrow, in the
vicinity of the castle, is pointed out as the tomb of
the memorable Hengist; and various monuments,
of great antiquity and curiosity, are shown in the
neighbouring churchyard.*

*  Note I.  Castle of Coningsburgh.

  When C<oe>ur-de-Lion and his retinue approached
this rude yet stately building, it was not, as at
present, surrounded by external fortifications.  The
Saxon architect had exhausted his art in rendering
the main keep defensible, and there was no other
circumvallation than a rude barrier of palisades.

  A huge black banner, which floated from the top
of the tower, announced that the obsequies of the
late owner were still in the act of being solemnized.
It bore no emblem of the deceased's birth or quality,
for armorial bearings were then a novelty among
the Norman chivalry themselves and, were totally
unknown to the Saxons.  But above the gate was
another banner, on which the figure of a white
horse, rudely painted, indicated the nation and rank
of the deceased, by the well-known symbol of Hengist
and his Saxon warriors.

  All around the castle was a scene of busy commotion;
for such funeral banquets were times of
general and profuse hospitality, which not only
every one who could claim the most distant connexion
with the deceased, but all passengers whatsoever,
were invited to partake.  The wealth and
consequence of the deceased Athelstane, occasioned
this custom to be observed in the fullest extent.

  Numerous parties, therefore, were seen ascending
and descending the hill on which the castle was
situated; and when the King and his attendants
entered the open and unguarded gates of the external
barrier, the space within presented a scene
not easily reconciled with the cause of the assemblage.
In one place cooks were toiling to roast
huge oxen, and fat sheep; in another, hogsheads
of ale were set abroach, to be drained at the freedom
of all comers.  Groups of every description
were to be seen devouring the food and swallowing
the liquor thus abandoned to their discretion.  The
naked Saxon serf was drowning the sense of his
half-year's hunger and thirst, in one day of gluttony
and drunkenness---the more pampered burgess
and guild-brother was eating his morsel with gust,
or curiously criticising the quantity of the malt
and the skill of the brewer.  Some few of the poorer
Norman gentry might also be seen, distinguished
by their shaven chins and short cloaks, and not
less so by their keeping together, and looking with
great scorn on the whole solemnity, even while
condescending to avail themselves of the good cheer
which was so liberally supplied.

  Mendicants were of course assembled by the
score, together with strolling soldiers returned
from Palestine, (according to their own account at
least,) pedlars were displaying their wares, travelling
mechanics were enquiring after employment,
and wandering palmers, hedge-priests, Saxon
minstrels, and Welsh bards, were muttering prayers,
and extracting mistuned dirges from their harps,
crowds, and rotes.* One sent forth the praises

*   The crowth, or crowd, was a species of violin.  The rote a
*   sort of guitar, or rather hurdy-gurdy, the strings of which were
*   managed by a wheel, from which the instrument took its name.

of Athelstane in a doleful panegyric; another, in
a Saxon genealogical poem, rehearsed the uncouth
and harsh names of his noble ancestry.  Jesters
and jugglers were not awanting, nor was the occasion
of the assembly supposed to render the exercise
of their profession indecorous or improper.
Indeed the ideas of the Saxons on these occasions
were as natural as they were rude. If sorrow was
thirsty, there was drink---if hungry, there was food
---if it sunk down upon and saddened the heart,
here were the means supplied of mirth, or at least
of amusement.  Nor did the assistants scorn to avail
themselves of those means of consolation, although,
every now and then, as if suddenly recollecting the
cause which had brought them together, the men
groaned in unison, while the females, of whom many
were present, raised up their voices and shrieked
for very woe.

  Such was the scene in the castle-yard at Coningsburgh
when it was entered by Richard and his followers.
The seneschal or steward deigned not to
take notice of the groups of inferior guests who
were perpetually entering and withdrawing, unless
so far as was necessary to preserve order; nevertheless
he was struck by the good mien of the Monarch
and Ivanhoe, more especially as he imagined
the features of the latter were familiar to him.  Besides,
the approach of two knights, for such their
dress bespoke them, was a rare event at a Saxon
solemnity, and could not but be regarded as a sort
of honour to the deceased and his family.  And in
his sable dress, and holding in his hand his white
wand of office, this important personage made way
through the miscellaneous assemblage of guests,
thus conducting Richard and Ivanhoe to the entrance
of the tower.  Gurth and Wamba speedily
found acquaintances in the court-yard, nor presumed
to intrude themselves any farther until their
presence should be required.



                CHAPTER XLII.

      I find them winding of Marcello's corpse.
      And there was such a solemn melody,
      'Twixt doleful songs, tears, and sad elegies,---
      Such as old grandames, watching by the dead,
      Are wont to outwear the night with.
                                     _Old Play._


  The mode of entering the great tower of Coningsburgh
Castle is very peculiar, and partakes of
the rude simplicity of the early times in which it
was erected.  A flight of steps, so deep and narrow
as to be almost precipitous, leads up to a low portal
in the south side of the tower, by which the adventurous
antiquary may still, or at least could a few
years since, gain access to a small stair within the
thickness of the main wall of the tower, which leads
up to the third story of the building,---the two
lower being dungeons or vaults, which neither receive
air nor light, save by a square hole in the third
story, with which they seem to have communicated
by a ladder.  The access to the upper apartments
in the tower which consist in all of four stories, is
given by stairs which are carried up through the
external buttresses.

  By this difficult and complicated entrance, the
good King Richard, followed by his faithful Ivanhoe,
was ushered into the round apartment which
occupies the whole of the third story from the
ground.  Wilfred, by the difficulties of the ascent,
gained time to muffle his face in his mantle, as it
had been held expedient that he should not present
himself to his father until the King should give
him the signal.

  There were assembled in this apartment, around
a large oaken table, about a dozen of the most distinguished
representatives of the Saxon families in
the adjacent counties.  They were all old, or, at
least, elderly men; for the younger race, to the
great displeasure of the seniors, had, like Ivanhoe,
broken down many of the barriers which separated
for half a century the Norman victors from the
vanquished Saxons.  The downcast and sorrowful
looks of these venerable men, their silence and their
mournful posture, formed a strong contrast to the
levity of the revellers on the outside of the castle.
Their grey locks and long full beards, together
with their antique tunics and loose black mantles,
suited well with the singular and rude apartment
in which they were seated, and gave the appearance
of a band of ancient worshippers of Woden,
recalled to life to mourn over the decay of their
national glory.

  Cedric, seated in equal rank among his countrymen,
seemed yet, by common consent, to act as
chief of the assembly.  Upon the entrance of Richard
(only known to him as the valorous Knight
of the Fetterlock) he arose gravely, and gave him
welcome by the ordinary salutation, _Waes hael_,
raising at the same time a goblet to his head. The
King, no stranger to the customs of his English
subjects, returned the greeting with the appropriate
words, _Drinc hael_, and partook of a cup which
was handed to him by the sewer.  The same courtesy
was offered to Ivanhoe, who pledged his father
in silence, supplying the usual speech by an inclination
of his head, lest his voice should have been
recognised.

  When this introductory ceremony was performed,
Cedric arose, and, extending his hand to Richard,
conducted him into a small and very rude chapel,
which was excavated, as it were, out of one of the
external buttresses.  As there was no opening,
saving a little narrow loop-hole, the place would
have been nearly quite dark but for two flambeaux
or torches, which showed, by a red and smoky light,
the arched roof and naked walls, the rude altar of
stone, and the crucifix of the same material.

  Before this altar was placed a bier, and on each
side of this bier kneeled three priests, who told
their beads, and muttered their prayers, with the
greatest signs of external devotion.  For this service
a splendid _soul-scat_ was paid to the convent of
Saint Edmund's by the mother of the deceased;
and, that it might be fully deserved, the whole
brethren, saving the lame Sacristan, had transferred
themselves to Coningsburgh, where, while six of
their number were constantly on guard in the performance
of divine rites by the bier of Athelstane,
the others failed not to take their share of the refreshments
and amusements which went on at the
castle.  In maintaining this pious watch and ward,
the good monks were particularly careful not to interrupt
their hymns for an instant, lest Zernebock,
the ancient Saxon Apollyon, should lay his clutches
on the departed Athelstane.  Now were they less
careful to prevent any unhallowed layman from
touching the pall, which, having been that used at
the funeral of Saint Edmund, was liable to be desecrated,
if handled by the profane.  If, in truth,
these attentions could be of any use to the deceased,
he had some right to expect them at the hands of
the brethren of Saint Edmund's, since, besides a
hundred mancuses of gold paid down as the soul-ransom,
the mother of Athelstane had announced
her intention of endowing that foundation with the
better part of the lands of the deceased, in order
to maintain perpetual prayers for his soul, and that
of her departed husband.

  Richard and Wilfred followed the Saxon Cedric
into the apartment of death, where, as their guide
pointed with solemn air to the untimely bier of
Athelstane, they followed his example in devoutly
crossing themselves, and muttering a brief prayer
for the weal of the departed soul.

  This act of pious charity performed, Cedric again
motioned them to follow him, gliding over the
stone floor with a noiseless tread; and, after ascending
a few steps, opened with great caution the door
of a small oratory, which adjoined to the chapel.
It was about eight feet square, hollowed, like the
chapel itself, out of the thickness of the wall; and
the loop-hole, which enlightened it, being to the
west, and widening considerably as it sloped inward,
a beam of the setting sun found its way into
its dark recess, and showed a female of a dignified
mien, and whose countenance retained the marked
remains of majestic beauty.  Her long mourning
robes and her flowing wimple of black cypress, enhanced
the whiteness of her skin, and the beauty
of her light-coloured and flowing tresses, which
time had neither thinned nor mingled with silver.
Her countenance expressed the deepest sorrow that
is consistent with resignation.  On the stone table
before her stood a crucifix of ivory, beside which
was laid a missal, having its pages richly illuminated,
and its boards adorned with clasps of gold,
and bosses of the same precious metal.

  ``Noble Edith,'' said Cedric, after having stood
a moment silent, as if to give Richard and Wilfred
time to look upon the lady of the mansion, ``these
are worthy strangers, come to take a part in thy
sorrows.  And this, in especial, is the valiant Knight
who fought so bravely for the deliverance of him
for whom we this day mourn.'

  ``His bravery has my thanks,'' returned the
lady; ``although it be the will of Heaven that it
should be displayed in vain.  I thank, too, his
courtesy, and that of his companion, which hath
brought them hither to behold the widow of  Adeling,
the mother of Athelstane, in her deep hour
of sorrow and lamentation.  To your care, kind
kinsman, I intrust them, satisfied that they  will
want no hospitality which these sad walls can yet
afford.''

  The guests bowed deeply to the mourning parent,
and withdrew from their hospitable guide.

  Another winding stair conducted them to an
apartment of the same size with that which they
had first entered, occupying indeed the story immediately
above.  From this room, ere yet the door
was opened, proceeded a low and melancholy strain
of vocal music.  When they entered, they found
themselves in the presence of about twenty matrons
and maidens of distinguished Saxon lineage.  Four
maidens, Rowena leading the choir, raised a hymn
for the soul of the deceased, of which we have only
been able to decipher two or three stanzas:---

               Dust unto dust,
               To this all must;
               The tenant hath resign'd
               The faded form
               To waste and worm---
               Corruption claims her kind.

               Through paths unknown
               Thy soul hath flown,
               To seek the realms of woe,
               Where fiery pain
               Shall purge the stain
               Of actions done below.

               In that sad place,
               By Mary's grace,
               Brief may thy dwelling be
               Till prayers and alms,
               And holy psalms,
               Shall set the captive free.

  While this dirge was sang, in a low and melancholy
tone, by the female choristers, the others  were
divided into two bands, of which one was engaged
in bedecking, with such embroidery as their skill
and taste could compass, a large silken pall, destined
to cover the bier of Athelstane, while the
others busied themselves in selecting, from baskets
of flowers placed before them, garlands, which they
intended for the same mournful purpose.  The behaviour
of the maidens was decorous, if not marked
with deep affliction; but now and then a whisper
or a smile called forth the rebuke of the severer
matrons, and here and there might be seen a damsel
more interested in endeavouring to find out how
her mourning-robe became her, than in the dismal
ceremony for which they were preparing.  Neither
was this propensity (if we must needs confess the
truth) at all diminished by the appearance of two
strange knights, which occasioned some looking up,
peeping, and whispering.  Rowena alone, too proud
to be vain, paid her greeting to her deliverer with
a graceful courtesy.  Her demeanour was serious,
but not dejected; and it may be doubted whether
thoughts of Ivanhoe, and of the uncertainty of his
fate, did not claim as great a share in her gravity
as the death of her kinsman.

  To Cedric, however, who, as we have observed,
was not remarkably clear-sighted on such occasions,
the sorrow of his ward seemed so much deeper than
any of the other maidens, that he deemed it proper
to whisper the explanation---``She was the affianced
bride of the noble Athelstane.''---It may
be doubted whether this communication went a far
way to increase Wilfred's disposition to sympathize
with the mourners of Coningsburgh.

  Having thus formally introduced the guests to
the different chambers  in  which  the  obsequies  of
Athelstane were  celebrated  under  different  forms,
Cedric conducted them into a small room, destined,
as he informed them, for the exclusive accomodation
of honourable guests, whose more slight connexion
with the deceased might render them unwilling
to join those who were immediately effected
by the unhappy event.  He assured them of
every accommodation, and was about to withdraw
when the Black Knight took his hand.

  ``I crave to remind you, noble Thane,'' he said,
that when we last parted, you promised, for the
service I had the fortune to render you, to grant
me a boon.''

  ``It is granted ere named, noble Knight,'' said
Cedric; ``yet, at this sad moment------''

  ``Of that also,'' said the King, ``I have bethought
me---but my time is brief---neither does it seem to
me unfit, that, when closing the grave on the noble
Athelstane, we should deposit therein certain prejudices
and hasty opinions.''

  ``Sir Knight of the Fetterlock,'' said Cedric,
colouring, and interrupting the King in his turn,
``I trust your boon regards yourself and no other;
for in that which concerns the honour of my house,
it is scarce fitting that a stranger should mingle.''

  ``Nor do I wish to mingle,'' said the King, mildly,
``unless in so far as you will admit me to have
an interest.  As yet you have known me but as
the Black Knight of the Fetterlock---Know me
now as Richard Plantagenet.''

  ``Richard of Anjou!'' exclaimed Cedric, stepping
backward with the utmost astonishment.

  ``No, noble Cedric---Richard of England!---
whose deepest interest---whose deepest wish, is to
see her sons united with each other.---And, how
now, worthy Thane! hast thou no knee for thy
prince?''

  ``To Norman blood,'' said Cedric, ``it hath never
bended.''

  ``Reserve thine homage then,'' said the Monarch,
``until I shall prove my right to it by my
equal protection of Normans and English.''

  ``Prince,'' answered Cedric, ``I have ever done
justice to thy bravery and thy worth---Nor am I
ignorant of thy claim to the crown through thy
descent from Matilda, niece to Edgar Atheling,
and daughter to Malcolm of Scotland.  But Matilda,
though of the royal Saxon blood, was not the
heir to the monarchy.''

  ``I will not dispute my title with thee, noble
Thane,'' said Richard, calmly; ``but I will bid thee
look around thee, and see where thou wilt find another
to be put into the scale against it.''

  ``And hast thou wandered hither, Prince, to
tell me so?'' said Cedric---``To upbraid me with
the ruin of my race, ere the grave has closed o'er
the last scion of Saxon royalty?''---His countenance
darkened as he spoke.---``It was boldly---it
was rashly done!''

  ``Not so, by the holy rood!'' replied the King;
``it was done in the frank confidence which  one
brave man may repose in another, without a  shadow
of danger.''

  ``Thou sayest well, Sir King---for King I own
thou art, and wilt be, despite of my feeble opposition.
---I dare not take the only mode to prevent it,
though thou hast placed the strong temptation
within my reach!''

  ``And now to my boon,'' said the King, ``which
I ask not with one jot the loss confidence, that thou
hast refused to acknowledge my lawful sovereignty.
I require of thee, as a man of thy word, on
pain of being held faithless, man-sworn, and _nidering_,*

*   Infamous.

to forgive and receive to thy paternal affection
the good knight, Wilfred of Ivanhoe.  In this
reconciliation thou wilt own I have an interest---
the happiness of my friend, and the quelling of
dissension among my faithful people.''

  ``And this is Wilfred!'' said Cedric, pointing to
his son.

  ``My father!---my father!'' said Ivanhoe, prostrating
himself at Cedric's feet, ``grant me thy forgiveness!''

  ``Thou hast it, my son,'' said Cedric, raising him
up. ``The son of Hereward knows how to keep
his word, even when it has been passed to a Norman.
But let me see thee use the dress and costume of thy
English ancestry---no short cloaks, no gay bonnets,
no fantastic plumage in my decent household.  He
that would be the son of Cedric, must show himself
of English ancestry.---Thou art about to speak,'' he
added, sternly, ``and I guess the topic.  The Lady
Rowena must complete two years' mourning, as
for a betrothed husband---all our Saxon ancestors
would disown us were we to treat of a new union
for her ere the grave of him she should have wedded---
him, so much the most worthy of her hand
by birth and ancestry---is yet closed.  The ghost
of Athelstane himself would burst his bloody cerements
and stand before us to forbid such dishonour
to his memory.''

  It seemed as if Cedric's words had raised a
spectre; for, scarce had he uttered them ere the
door flew open, and Athelstane, arrayed in the garments
of the grave, stood before them, pale, haggard,
and like something arisen from the dead! *

*   The resuscitation of Athelstane has been much criticised,
*   as too violent a breach of probability, even for a work of such
*   fantastic character.  It was a _tour-de-force_, to which the author
*   was compelled to have recourse, by the vehement entreaties of his
*   friend and printer, who was inconsolable on the Saxon being
*   conveyed to the tomb.


  The effect of this apparition on the persons present
was utterly appalling.  Cedric started back as
far as the wall of the apartment would permit, and,
leaning against it as one unable to support himself,
gazed on the figure of his friend with eyes that
seemed fixed, and a mouth which he appeared incapable
of shutting.  Ivanhoe crossed himself, repeating
prayers in Saxon, Latin, or Norman-French,
as they occurred to his memory, while Richard alternately
said, _Benedicite_, and swore, _Mort de ma
vie!_

  In the meantime, a horrible noise was heard below
stairs, some crying, ``Secure the treacherous
monks!''---others, ``Down with them into the dungeon!''
---others, ``Pitch them from the highest
battlements!''

  ``In the name of God!'' said Cedric, addressing
what seemed the spectre of his departed friend, ``if
thou art mortal, speak!---if a departed spirit, say
for what cause thou dost revisit us, or if I can do
aught that can set thy spirit at repose.---Living or
dead, noble Athelstane, speak to Cedric!''

  ``I will,'' said the spectre, very composedly,
``when I have collected breath, and when you give
me time---Alive, saidst thou?---I am as much alive
as he can be who has fed on bread and water for
three days, which seem three ages---Yes, bread and
water, Father Cedric! By Heaven, and all saints in
it, better food hath not passed my weasand for three
livelong days, and by God's providence it is that I
am now here to tell it.''

  ``Why, noble Athelstane,'' said the Black Knight,
``I myself saw you struck down by the fierce Templar
towards the end of the storm at Torquilstone,
and as I thought, and Wamba reported, your skull
was cloven through the teeth.''

  ``You thought amiss, Sir Knight,'' said Athelstane,
``and Wamba lied.  My teeth are in good
order, and that my supper shall presently find---No
thanks to the Templar though, whose sword turned
in his hand, so that the blade struck me flatlings,
being averted by the handle of the good mace with
which I warded the blow; had my steel-cap been
on, I had not valued it a rush, and had dealt him
such a counter-buff as would have spoilt his retreat.
But as it was, down I went, stunned, indeed, but
unwounded.  Others, of both sides, were beaten
down and slaughtered above me, so that I never
recovered my senses until I found myself in a coffin
---(an open one, by good luck)---placed before the
altar of the church of Saint Edmund's.  I sneezed
repeatedly---groaned---awakened and would have
arisen, when the Sacristan and Abbot, full of terror,
came running at the noise, surprised, doubtless,
and no way pleased to find the man alive, whose
heirs they had proposed themselves to be.  I asked
for wine---they gave me some, but it must have
been highly medicated, for I slept yet more deeply
than before, and wakened not for many hours.  I
found my arms swathed down---my feet tied so fast
that mine ankles ache at the very remembrance---
the place was utterly dark---the oubliette, as I suppose,
of their accursed convent, and from the close,
stifled, damp smell, I conceive it is also used for a
place of sepulture.  I had strange thoughts of what
had befallen me, when the door of my dungeon
creaked, and two villain monks entered.  They
would have persuaded me I was in purgatory, but
I knew too well the pursy short-breathed voice of
the Father Abbot.---Saint Jeremy! how different
from that tone with which he used to ask me for
another slice of the haunch!---the dog has feasted
with me from Christmas to Twelfth-night.''

  ``Have patience, noble Athelstane,'' said the
King, ``take breath---tell your story at leisure---
beshrew me but such a tale is as well worth listening
to as a romance.''

  ``Ay but, by the rood of Bromeholm, there was
no romance in the matter!'' said Athelstane.---``A
barley loaf and a pitcher of water---that _they_ gave
me, the niggardly traitors, whom my father, and I
myself, had enriched, when their best resources
were the flitches of bacon and measures of corn, out
of which they wheedled poor serfs and bondsmen,
in exchange for their prayers---the nest of foul ungrateful
vipers---barley bread and ditch water to,
such a patron as I had been! I will smoke them
out of their nest, though I be excommunicated!''

  ``But, in the name of Our Lady, noble Athelstane,''
said Cedric, grasping the hand of his friend,
``how didst thou escape this imminent danger---
did their hearts relent?''

  ``Did their hearts relent!'' echoed Athelstane.
---``Do rocks melt with the sun? I should have
been there still, had not some stir in the Convent,
which I find was their procession hitherward to eat
my funeral feast, when they well knew how and
where I had been buried alive, summoned the
swarm out of their hive.  I heard them droning out
their death-psalms, little judging they were sung
in respect for my soul by those who were thus
famishing my body.  They went, however, and I
waited long for food---no wonder---the gouty Sacristan
was even too busy with his own provender
to mind mine.  At length down he came, with an
unstable step and a strong flavour of wine and
spices about his person.  Good cheer had opened
his heart, for he left me a nook of pasty and a flask
of wine, instead of my former fare.  I ate, drank,
and was invigorated; when, to add to my good
luck, the Sacristan, too totty to discharge his duty
of turnkey fitly, locked the door beside the staple,
so that it fell ajar.  The light, the food, the wine,
set my invention to work.  The staple to which my
chains were fixed, was more rusted than I or the
villain Abbot had supposed.  Even iron could not
remain without consuming in the damps of that
infernal dungeon.''

  ``Take breath, noble Athelstane,' said Richard,
``and partake of some refreshment, ere you proceed
with a tale so dreadful.''

  ``Partake!'' quoth Athelstane; ``I have been
partaking five times to-day---and yet a morsel of
that savoury ham were not altogether foreign to
the matter; and I pray you, fair sir, to do me reason
in a cup of wine.''

  The guests, though still agape with astonishment,
pledged their resuscitated landlord, who thus
proceeded in his story:---He had indeed now many
more auditors than those to whom it was commenced,
for Edith, having given certain necessary
orders for arranging matters within the Castle, had
followed the dead-alive up to the stranger's apartment
attended by as many of the guests, male and
female, as could squeeze into the small room, while
others, crowding the staircase, caught up an erroneous
edition of the story, and transmitted it still
more inaccurately to those beneath, who again sent
it forth to the vulgar without, in a fashion totally
irreconcilable to the real fact.  Athelstane, however,
went on as follows, with the history of his
escape:---

  ``Finding myself freed from the staple, I dragged
myself up stairs as well as a man loaded with
shackles, and emaciated with fasting, might; and
after much groping about, I was at length directed,
by the sound of a jolly roundelay, to the apartment
where the worthy Sacristan, an it so please
ye, was holding a devil's mass with a huge beetle-browed,
broad-shouldered brother of the grey-frock
and cowl, who looked much more like a thief than
a clergyman. I burst in upon them, and the fashion
of my grave-clothes, as well as the clanking of my
chains, made me more resemble an inhabitant of
the other world than of this.  Both stood aghast;
but when I knocked down the Sacristan with my
fist, the other fellow, his pot-companion, fetched a
blow at me with a huge quarter-staff.''

  ``This must be our Friar Tuck, for a count's ransom,''
said Richard, looking at Ivanhoe.

  ``He may be the devil, an he will,'' said Athelstane.
``Fortunately be missed the aim; and on
my approaching to grapple with him, took to his
heels and ran for it.  I failed not to set my own
heels at liberty by means of the fetter-key, which
hung amongst others at the sexton's belt; and I
had thoughts of beating out the knaves brains with
the bunch of keys, but gratitude for the nook of
pasty and the flask of wine which the rascal had
imparted to my captivity, came over my heart; so,
with a brace of hearty kicks, I left him on the floor,
pouched some baked meat, and a leathern bottle of
wine, with which the two venerable brethren had
been regaling, went to the stable, and found in a
private stall mine own best palfrey, which, doubtless,
had been set apart for the holy Father Abbot's
particular use.  Hither I came with all the speed
the beast could compass---man and mother's son
flying before me wherever I came, taking me for a
spectre, the more especially as, to prevent my being
recognised, I drew the corpse-hood over my face.
I had not gained admittance into my own castle, had
I not been supposed to be the attendant of a juggler
who is making the people in the castle-yard
very merry, considering they are assembled to celebrate
their lord's funeral---I say the sewer thought
I was dressed to bear a part in the tregetour's mummery,
and so I got admission, and did but disclose
myself to my mother, and eat a hasty morsel, ere I
came in quest of you, my noble friend.''

  ``And you have found me,'' said Cedric, ``ready
to resume our brave projects of honour and liberty.
I tell thee, never will dawn a morrow so auspicious
as the next, for the deliverance of the noble Saxon
race.''

  ``Talk not to me of delivering any one,'' said
Athelstane; ``it is well I am delivered myself.  I
am more intent on punishing that villain Abbot.
He shall hang on the top of this Castle of Coningsburgh,
in his cope and stole; and if the stairs
be too strait to admit his fat carcass, I will have
him craned up from without.''

  ``But, my son,'' said Edith, ``consider  his  sacred
office.''

  ``Consider my three days' fast,'' replied Athelstane;
``I will have their blood every one of them.
Front-de-Boeuf was burnt alive for a less matter,
for he kept a good table for his prisoners, only put
too much garlic in his last dish of pottage.  But
these hypocritical, ungrateful slaves, so often the
self-invited flatterers at my board, who gave me
neither pottage nor garlic, more or less, they die,
by the soul of Hengist!''

  ``But the Pope, my noble friend,''---said Cedric---

  ``But the devil, my noble friend,''---answered
Athelstane; ``they die, and no more of them.
Were they the best monks upon earth, the world
would go on without them.''

  ``For shame, noble Athelstane,'' said Cedric;
``forget such wretches in the career of glory which
lies open before thee.  Tell this Norman prince,
Richard of Anjou, that, lion-hearted as he is, he
shall not hold undisputed the throne of Alfred,
while a male descendant of the Holy Confessor
lives to dispute it.''

  ``How!'' said Athelstane, ``is this the noble
King Richard?''

  ``It is Richard Plantagenet himself,'' said Cedric;
``yet I need not remind thee that, coming hither a
guest of free-will, he may neither be injured nor
detained prisoner---thou well knowest thy duty to
him as his host.''

  ``Ay, by my faith!'' said Athelstane; ``and my
duty as a subject besides, for I here tender him my
allegiance, heart and hand.''

  ``My son,'' said Edith, ``think on thy royal
rights!''

  ``Think on the freedom of England, degenerate
Prince!'' said Cedric.

  ``Mother and friend,'' said Athelstane, ``a truce
to your upbraidings---bread and water and a dungeon
are marvellous mortifiers of ambition, and I
rise from the tomb a wiser man than I descended
into it.  One half of those vain follies were puffed
into mine ear by that perfidious Abbot Wolfram,
and you may now judge if he is a counsellor to be
trusted.  Since these plots were set in agitation, I
have had nothing but hurried journeys, indigestions,
blows and bruises, imprisonments and starvation;
besides that they can only end in the murder
of some thousands of quiet folk.  I tell you, I
will be king in my own domains, and nowhere else;
and my first act of dominion shall be to hang the
Abbot.''

  ``And my ward Rowena,'' said Cedric---``I trust
you intend not to desert her?''

  ``Father Cedric,'' said Athelstane, ``be reasonable.
The Lady Rowena cares not for me---she
loves the little finger of my kinsman Wilfred's glove
better than my whole person.  There she stands
to avouch it---Nay, blush not, kinswoman, there is
no shame in loving a courtly knight better than a
country franklin---and do not laugh neither, Rowena,
for grave-clothes and a thin visage are, God
knows, no matter of merriment---Nay, an thou wilt
needs laugh, I will find thee a better jest---Give me
thy hand, or rather lend it me, for I but ask it in
the way of friendship.---Here, cousin Wilfred of
Ivanhoe, in thy favour I renounce and abjure------
Hey! by Saint Dunstan, our cousin Wilfred hath
vanished!---Yet, unless my eyes are still dazzled
with the fasting I have undergone, I saw him stand
there but even now.''

  All now looked around and enquired for Ivanhoe,
but he had vanished.  It was at length discovered
that a Jew had been to seek him; and that,
after very brief conference, he had called for Gurth
and his armour, and had left the castle.

  ``Fair cousin,'' said Athelstane to Rowena,
``could I think that this sudden disappearance of
Ivanhoe was occasioned by other than the weightiest
reason, I would myself resume---''

  But he had no sooner let go her hand, on first
observing that Ivanhoe had disappeared, than Rowena,
who had found her situation extremely embarrassing,
had taken the first opportunity to escape
from  the apartment.

  ``Certainly,'' quoth Athelstane, ``women are the
least to be trusted of all animals, monks and abbots
excepted.  I am an infidel, if I expected not thanks
from her, and perhaps a kiss to boot---These cursed
grave-clothes have surely a spell on them, every
one flies from me.---To you I turn, noble King
Richard, with the vows of allegiance, which, as a
liege-subject---''

  But King Richard was gone also, and no one
knew whither.  At length it was learned that be
had hastened to the court-yard, summoned to his
presence the Jew who had spoken with Ivanhoe,
and after a moment's speech with him, had called
vehemently to horse, thrown himself upon a steed,
compelled the Jew to mount another, and set off
at a rate, which, according to Wamba, rendered the
old Jew's neck not worth a penny's purchase.

  ``By my halidome!'' said Athelstane, ``it is certain
that Zernebock hath possessed himself of my
castle in my absence.  I return in my grave-clothes,
a pledge restored from the very sepulchre, and
every one I speak to vanishes as soon as they hear
my voice!---But it skills not talking of it.  Come,
my friends---such of you as are left, follow me to
the banquet-hall, lest any more of us disappear---
it is, I trust, as yet tolerably furnished, as becomes
the obsequies of an ancient Saxon noble; and should
we tarry any longer, who knows but the devil may
fly off with the supper?''



                    CHAPTER XLIII.

    Be Mowbray's sins so heavy in his bosom,
    That they may break his foaming courser's back,
    And throw the rider headlong in the lists,
    A caitiff recreant!
                                     _Richard II_.

  Our scene now returns to the exterior of the
Castle, or Preceptory, of Templestowe, about the
hour when the bloody die was to be cast for the
life or death of Rebecca.  It was a scene of bustle
and life, as if the whole vicinity had poured forth
its inhabitants to a village wake, or rural feast.
But the earnest desire to look on blood and death,
is not peculiar to those dark ages; though in the
gladiatorial exercise of single combat and general
tourney, they were habituated to the bloody spectacle
of brave men failing by each other's hands.
Even in our own days, when morals are better understood,
an execution, a bruising match, a riot, or
a meeting of radical reformers, collects, at considerable
hazard to themselves, immense crowds of
spectators, otherwise little interested, except to see
how matters are to be conducted, or whether the
heroes of the day are, in the heroic language of insurgent
tailors, flints or dunghills.

  The eyes, therefore, of a very considerable multitude,
were bent on the gate of the Preceptory of
Templestowe, with the purpose of witnessing the
procession; while still greater numbers had already
surrounded the tiltyard belonging to that establishment.
This enclosure was formed on a piece
of level ground adjoining to the Preceptory, which
had been levelled with care, for the exercise of military
and chivalrous sports.  It occupied the brow
of a soft and gentle eminence, was carefully palisaded
around, and, as the Templars willingly invited
spectators to be witnesses of their skill in feats of
chivalry, was amply supplied with galleries and
benches for their use.

  On the present occasion, a throne was erected
for the Grand Master at the east end, surrounded
with seats of distinction for the Preceptors and
Knights of the Order.  Over these floated the sacred
standard, called _Le Beau-seant_, which was the
ensign, as its name was the battle-cry, of the Templars.

  At the opposite end of the lists was a pile of
faggots, so arranged around a stake, deeply fixed in
the ground, as to leave a space for the victim whom
they were destined to consume, to enter within the
fatal circle, in order to be chained to the stake by
the fetters which hung ready for that purpose.  Beside
this deadly apparatus stood four black slaves,
whose colour and African features, then so little
known in England, appalled the multitude, who
gazed on them as on demons employed about their
own diabolical exercises.  These men stirred not,
excepting now and then, under the direction of one
who seemed their chief, to shift and replace the
ready fuel.  They looked not on the multitude.  In
fact, they seemed insensible of their presence, and
of every thing save the discharge of their own horrible
duty.  And when, in speech with each other,
they expanded their blubber lips, and showed their
white fangs, as if they grinned at the thoughts of
the expected tragedy, the startled commons could
scarcely help believing that they were actually the
familiar spirits with whom the witch had communed,
and who, her time being out, stood ready to
assist in her dreadful punishment.  They whispered
to each other, and communicated all the feats
which Satan had performed during that busy and
unhappy period, not failing, of course, to give the
devil rather more than his due.

  ``Have you not heard, Father Dennet,'' quoth
one boor to another advanced in years, ``that the
devil has carried away bodily the great Saxon
Thane, Athelstane of Coningsburgh?''

  ``Ay, but he brought him back though, by the
blessing of God and Saint Dunstan.''

  ``How's that?'' said a brisk young fellow, dressed
in a green cassock embroidered with gold, and
having at his heels a stout lad bearing a harp upon
his back, which betrayed his vocation.  The Minstrel
seemed of no vulgar rank; for, besides the
splendour of his gayly braidered doublet, he wore
around his neck a silver chain, by which hung the
_wrest_, or key, with which he tuned his harp.  On
his right arm was a silver plate, which, instead of
bearing, as usual, the cognizance or badge of the
baron to whose family he belonged, had barely the
word =Sherwood= engraved upon it.---``How mean
you by that?'' said the gay Minstrel, mingling in
the conversation of the peasants; ``I came to seek
one subject for my rhyme, and, by'r Lady, I were
glad to find two.''

  ``It is well avouched,'' said the elder peasant,
``that after Athelstane of Coningsburgh had been
dead four weeks---''

  ``That is impossible,'' said the Minstrel; ``I saw
him in life at the Passage of Arms at Ashby-de-la-Zouche.''

  ``Dead, however, he was, or else translated,''
said the younger peasant; ``for I heard the Monks
of Saint Edmund's singing the death's hymn for
him; and, moreover, there was a rich death-meal
and dole at the Castle of Coningsburgh, as right
was; and thither had I gone, but for Mabel Parkins,
who---''

  ``Ay, dead was Athelstane,'' said the old man,
shaking his head, ``and the more pity it was, for
the old Saxon blood---''

  ``But, your story, my masters---your story,'' said
the Minstrel, somewhat impatiently.

  ``Ay, ay---construe us the story,'' said a burly
Friar, who stood beside them, leaning on a pole
that exhibited an appearance between a pilgrim's
staff and a quarter-staff, and probably acted as either
when occasion served,---``Your story,'' said
the stalwart churchman; ``burn not daylight about
it---we have short time to spare.''

  ``An please your reverence,'' said Dennet, ``a
drunken priest came to  visit  the  Sacristan  at  Saint
Edmund's------''

  ``It does not please my reverecne,'' answered
the churchman, ``that there should be such an animal
as a drunken priest, or, if there were, that a
layman should so speak him.  Be mannerly, my
friend, and conclude the holy man only wrapt in
meditation, which makes the head dizzy and foot
unsteady, as if the stomach were filled with new
wine---I have felt it myself.''

  ``Well, then,'' answered Father Dennet, ``a
holy brother came to visit the Sacristan at Saint
Edmund's---a sort of hedge-priest is the visitor,
and kills half the deer that are stolen in the forest,
who loves the tinkling of a pint-pot better than the
sacring-bell, and deems a flitch of bacon worth ten
of his breviary; for the rest, a good fellow and a
merry, who will flourish a quarter-staff, draw a
bow, and dance a Cheshire round, with e'er a man
in Yorkshire.''

  ``That last part of thy speech, Dennet,'' said the
Minstrel, ``has saved thee a rib or twain.''

  ``Tush, man, I fear him not,'' said Dennet; ``I
am somewhat old  and  stiff,  but  when  I  fought  for
the bell and ram  at Doncaster---''

  ``"But the story---the story, my friend,''  again
said the Minstrel.

  ``Why, the tale is but this---Athelstane of Coningsburgh
was buried at Saint Edmund's.''

  ``That's a lie, and  a  loud  one,''  said  the  Friar,
``for I saw him borne to his  own  Castle  of  Coningsburgh.''

  ``Nay, then, e'en tell the story yourself, my masters,''
said Dennet, turning sulky at these repeated
contradictions; and it was with some difficulty that
the boor could be prevailed on, by the request of
his comrade and the Minstrel, to renew his tale.---
``These two _sober_ friars,'' said he at length, ``since
this reverend man will needs have them such, had
continued drinking good ale, and wine, and what
not, for the best part for a summer's day, when they
were aroused by a deep groan, and a clanking of
chains, and the figure of the deceased Athelstane
entered the apartment, saying, `Ye evil shep-herds!---' ''

  ``It is false,'' said the Friar, hastily, ``he never
spoke a word.''

  ``So ho! Friar Tuck,'' said the Minstrel, drawing
him apart from the rustics; ``we have started
a new hare, I find.''

  ``I tell thee, Allan-a-Dale,'' said the Hermit,
``I saw Athelstane of Coningsburgh as much as
bodily eyes ever saw a living man.  He had his
shroud on, and all about him smelt of the sepulchre---
A butt of sack will not wash it out of my
memory.''

  ``Pshaw!'' answered the Minstrel; ``thou dost
but jest with me!''

  ``Never believe me,'' said the Friar, ``an I fetched
not a knock at him with my quarter-staff that
would have felled an ox, and it glided through his
body as it might through a pillar of smoke!''

  ``By  Saint  Hubert,''  said  the  Minstrel,  ``but  it
is a wondrous tale, and fit to be put in metre to the
ancient tune, `Sorrow came to the old Friar.' ''

  ``Laugh, if ye list,'' said Friar Tuck; ``but an
ye catch me singing on such a theme, may the next
ghost or devil carry me off with him headlong! No,
no---I instantly formed the purpose of assisting at
some good work, such as the burning of a witch, a
judicial combat, or the like matter of godly service,
and therefore am I here.''

  As they thus conversed, the heavy bell of the
church of Saint Michael of Templestowe, a venerable
building, situated in a hamlet at some distance
from the Preceptory, broke short their argument.
One by one the sullen sounds fell successively on
the ear, leaving but sufficient space for each to die
away in distant echo, ere the air was again filled
by repetition of the iron knell.  These sounds, the
signal of the approaching ceremony, chilled with
awe the hearts of the assembled multitude, whose
eyes were now turned to the Preceptory, expecting
the approach of the Grand Master, the champion,
and the criminal.

  At length the drawbridge fell, the gates opened,
and a knight, bearing the great standard of the
Order, sallied from the castle, preceded by six
trumpets, and followed by the Knights Preceptors,
two and two, the Grand Master coming last, mounted
on a stately horse, whose furniture was of the
simplest kind.  Behind him came Brian-de-Bois-Guilbert,
armed cap-a-pie in bright armour, but
without his lance, shield, and sword, which were
borne by his two esquires behind him.  His face,
though partly hidden by a long plume which floated
down from his barrel-cap, bore a strong and
mingled expression of passion, in which pride seemed
to contend with irresolution. He looked ghastly
pale, as if he had not slept for several nights, yet
reined his pawing war-horse with the habitual ease
and grace proper to the best lance of the Order of
the Temple.  His general appearance was grand
and commanding; but, looking at him with attention,
men read that in his dark features, from which
they willingly withdrew their eyes.

  On either side rode Conrade of Mont-Fitchet,
and Albert de Malvoisin, who acted as godfathers
to the champion. They were in their robes of peace,
the white dress of the Order. Behind them followed
other Companions of the Temple, with a long
train of esquires and pages clad in black, aspirants
to the honour of being one day Knights of the Order.
After these neophytes came a guard of warders
on foot, in the same sable livery, amidst whose
partisans might be seen the pale form of the accused,
moving with a slow but undismayed step towards
the scene of her fate.  She was stript of all her ornaments,
lest perchance there should be among them
some of those amulets which Satan was supposed
to bestow upon his victims, to deprive them of the
power of confession even when under the torture.
A coarse white dress, of the simplest form, had been
substituted for her Oriental garments; yet there
was such an exquisite mixture of courage and resignation
in her look, that even in this garb, and with
no other ornament than her long black tresses, each
eye wept that looked upon her, and the most hardened
bigot regretted the fate that had converted a
creature so goodly into a vessel of wrath, and a
waged slave of the devil.

  A crowd of inferior personages belonging to the
Preceptory followed the victim, all moving with
the utmost order, with arms folded, and looks bent
upon the ground.

  This slow procession moved up the gentle eminence,
on the summit of which was the tiltyard,
and, entering the lists, marched once around them
from right to left, and when they had completed
the circle, made a halt.  There was then a momentary
bustle, while the Grand Master and all his attendants,
excepting the champion and his godfathers,
dismounted from their horses, which were
immediately removed out of the lists by the esquires,
who were in attendance for that purpose.

  The unfortunate Rebecca was conducted to the
black chair placed near the pile.  On her first glance
at the terrible spot where preparations were making
for a death alike dismaying to the mind and painful
to the body, she was observed to shudder and
shut her eyes, praying internally doubtless, for her
lips moved though no speech was heard.  In the
space of a minute she opened her eyes, looked fixedly
on the pile as if to familiarize her mind with
the object, and then slowly and naturally turned
away her head.

  Meanwhile, the Grand Master had assumed his
seat; and when the chivalry of his order was placed
around and behind him, each in his due rank, a loud
and long flourish of the trumpets announced that
the Court were seated for judgment.  Malvoisin,
then, acting as godfather of the champion, stepped
forward, and laid the glove of the Jewess, which
was the pledge of battle, at the feet of the Grand
Master.

  ``Valorous Lord, and reverend Father,'' said he,
here standeth the good Knight, Brian de Bois-Guilbert,
Knight Preceptor of the Order of the
Temple, who, by accepting the pledge of battle
which I now lay at your reverence's feet, hath become
bound to do his devoir in combat this day, to
maintain that this Jewish maiden, by name Rebecca,
hath justly deserved the doom passed upon her
in a Chapter of this most Holy Order of the Temple
of Zion, condemning her to die as a sorceress;
---here, I say, he standeth, such battle to do, knightly
and honourable, if such be your noble and sanctified
pleasure.''

  ``Hath he made oath,'' said the Grand Master,
``that his quarrel is just and honourable? Bring
forward the Crucifix and the _Te igitur_.''

  ``Sir, and most reverend father,'' answered Malvoisin,
readily, ``our brother here present hath already
sworn to the truth of his accusation in the
hand of the good Knight Conrade de Mont-Fitchet;
and otherwise he ought not to be sworn, seeing
that his adversary is an unbeliever, and may take
no oath.''

  This explanation was satisfactory, to Albert's
great joy; for the wily knight had foreseen the
great difficulty, or rather impossibility, of prevailing
upon Brian de Bois-Guilbert to take such an
oath before the assembly, and had invented this excuse
to escape the necessity of his doing so.

  The Grand Master, having allowed the apology
of Albert Malvoisin, commanded the herald to stand
forth and do his devoir.  The trumpets then again
flourished, and a herald, stepping forward, proclaimed
aloud,---``Oyez, oyez, oyez.---Here standeth
the good Knight, Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert,
ready to do battle with any knight of free blood,
who will sustain the quarrel allowed and allotted to
the Jewess Rebecca, to try by champion, in respect
of lawful essoine of her own body; and to such
champion the reverend and valorous Grand Master
here present allows a fair field, and equal partition
of sun and wind, and whatever else appertains to a
fair combat.'' The trumpets again sounded, and
there was a dead pause of many minutes.

  ``No champion appears for the appellant,'' said
the Grand Master. ``Go, herald, and ask her whether
she expects any one to do battle for her in
this her cause.'' The herald went to the chair in
which Rebecca was seated, and Bois-Guilbert suddenly
turning his horse's head toward that end of
the lists, in spite of hints on either side from Malvoisin
and Mont-Fitchet, was by the side of Rebecca's
chair as soon as the herald.

  ``Is this regular, and according to the law of
combat?'' said Malvoisin, looking to the Grand
Master.

  ``Albert de Malvoisin, it is,'' answered Beaumanoir;
``for in this appeal to the judgment of God,
we may not prohibit parties from having that communication
with each other, which may best tend to
bring forth the truth of the quarrel.''

  In the meantime, the herald spoke to Rebecca in
these terms:---``Damsel, the Honourable and Reverend
the Grand Master demands of thee, if thou
art prepared with a champion to do battle this day
in thy behalf, or if thou dost yield thee as one justly
condemned to a deserved doom?''

  ``Say to the Grand Master,'' replied Rebecca,
``that I maintain my innocence, and do not yield
me as justly condemned, lest I become guilty of mine
own blood. Say to him, that I challenge such delay
as his forms will permit, to see if God, whose opportunity
is in man's extremity, will raise me up a
deliverer; and when such uttermost space is passed,
may His holy will be done!'' The herald retired
to carry this answer to the Grand Master.

  ``God forbid,'' said Lucas Beaumanoir, ``that
Jew or Pagan should impeach us of injustice!---
Until the shadows be cast from the west to the
eastward, will we wait to see if a champion shall
appear for this unfortunate woman.  When the day
is so far passed, let her prepare for death.''

  The herald communicated the words of the Grand
Master to Rebecca, who bowed her head submissively,
folded her arms, and, looking up towards
heaven, seemed to expect that aid from above which
she could scarce promise herself from man.  During
this awful pause, the voice of Bois-Guilbert broke
upon her ear---it was but a whisper, yet it startled
her more than the summons of the herald had appeared
to do.

  ``Rebecca,'' said the Templar, ``dost  thou  hear
me?''

  ``I have no portion in thee, cruel, hard-hearted
man,'' said the unfortunate maiden.

  ``Ay, but dost thou understand my words?''
said the Templar; ``for the sound of my voice is
frightful in mine own ears.  I scarce know on what
ground we stand, or for what purpose they have
brought us hither.---This listed space---that chair
---these faggots---I know their purpose, and yet it
appears to me like something unreal---the fearful
picture of a vision, which appals my sense with
hideous fantasies, but convinces not my reason.''

  ``My mind and senses keep touch and time,''
answered Rebecca, ``and tell me alike that these
faggots are destined to consume my earthly body,
and open a painful but a brief passage to a better
world.''

  ``Dreams, Rebecca,---dreams,'' answered the
Templar; ``idle visions, rejected by the wisdom of
your own wiser Sadducees.  Hear me, Rebecca,'' he
said, proceeding with animation; ``a better chance
hast thou for life and liberty than yonder knaves
and dotard dream of.  Mount thee behind me on
my steed---on Zamor, the gallant horse that never
failed his rider.  I won him in single fight from
the Soldan of Trebizond---mount, I say, behind me
---in one short hour is pursuit and enquiry far behind
---a new world of pleasure opens to thee---to
me a new career of fame.  Let them speak the
doom which I despise, and erase the name of Bois-Guilbert
from their list of monastic slaves! I will
wash out with blood whatever blot they may dare
to cast on my scutcheon.''

  ``Tempter,'' said Rebecca, ``begone!---Not in
this last extremity canst thou move me one hair's-breadth
from my resting place---surrounded as I am
by foes, I hold thee as my worst and most deadly
enemy---avoid thee, in the name of God!''

  Albert Malvoisin, alarmed and impatient at the
duration of their conference, now advanced to interrupt
it.

  ``Hath the maiden acknowledged her guilt?''
he demanded of Bois-Guilbert; ``or is she resolute
in her denial?''

  ``She is indeed resolute,'' said Bois-Guilbert.

  ``Then,'' said Malvoisin, ``must thou, noble
brother, resume thy place to attend the issue---The
shades are changing on the circle of the dial---Come,
brave Bois-Guilbert---come, thou hope of our holy
Order, and soon to be its head.''

  As he spoke in this soothing tone, he laid his
hand on the knight's bridle, as if to lead him back
to his station.

  ``False villain! what meanest thou by thy hand
on my rein?'' said Sir Brian, angrily.  And shaking
off his companion's grasp, he rode back to the
upper end of the lists.

  ``There is yet spirit in him,'' said Malvoisin apart
to Mont-Fitchet, ``were it well directed---but, like
the Greek fire, it burns whatever approaches it.''

  The Judges had now been two hours in the lists,
awaiting in vain the appearance of a champion.

  ``And reason good,'' said Friar Tuck, ``seeing
she is a Jewess---and yet, by mine Order, it is hard
that so young and beautiful a creature should perish
without one blow being struck in her behalf! Were
she ten times a witch, provided she were but the
least bit of a Christian, my quarter-staff should ring
noon on the steel cap of yonder fierce Templar, ere
he carried the matter off thus.''

  It was, however, the general belief that no one
could or would appear for a Jewess, accused of sorcery;
and the knights, instigated by Malvoisin,
whispered to each other, that it was time to declare
the pledge of Rebecca forfeited.  At this instant a
knight, urging his horse to speed, appeared on the
plain advancing towards the lists.  A hundred
voices exclaimed, ``A champion! a champion!''
And despite the prepossessions and prejudices of
the multitude, they shouted unanimously as the
knight rode into the tiltyard, The second glance,
however, served to destroy the hope that his timely
arrival had excited.  His horse, urged for many
miles to its utmost speed, appeared to reel from fatigue,
and the rider, however undauntedly he presented
himself in the lists, either from weakness,
weariness, or both, seemed scarce able to support
himself in the saddle.

  To the summons of the herald, who demanded
his rank, his name, and purpose, the stranger knight
answered readily and boldly, ``I am a good knight
and noble, come hither to sustain with lance and
sword the just and lawful quarrel of this damsel,
Rebecca, daughter of Isaac of York; to uphold the
doom pronounced against her to be false and truthless,
and to defy Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert, as a
traitor, murderer, and liar; as I will prove in this
field with my body against his, by the aid of God,
of Our Lady, and of Monseigneur Saint George,
the good knight.''

  ``The stranger must first show,'' said Malvoisin,
``that he is good knight, and of honourable lineage.
The Temple sendeth not forth her champions
against nameless men.''

  ``My name,'' said the Knight, raising his helmet,
``is better known, my lineage more pure, Malvoisin,
than thine own.  I am Wilfred of Ivanhoe.''

  ``I will not fight with thee at present,'' said the
Templar, in a changed and hollow voice.  ``Get thy
wounds healed, purvey thee a better horse, and it
may be I will hold it worth my while to scourge
out of thee this boyish spirit of bravade.''

  ``Ha! proud Templar,'' said Ivanhoe, ``hast
thou forgotten that twice didst thou fall before this
lance? Remember the lists at Acre---remember the
Passage of Arms at Ashby---remember thy proud
vaunt in the halls of Rotherwood, and the gage of
your gold chain against my reliquary, that thou
wouldst do battle with Wilfred of Ivanhoe, and recover
the honour thou hadst lost! By that reliquary
and the holy relic it contains, I will proclaim thee,
Templar, a coward in every court in Europe---in
every Preceptory of thine Order--unless thou do
battle without farther delay.''

  Bois-Guilbert turned his countenance irresolutely
towards Rebecca, and then exclaimed, looking
fiercely at Ivanhoe, ``Dog of a Saxon! take thy
lance, and prepare for the death thou hast drawn
upon thee!''

  ``Does the Grand Master allow me the combat?''
said Ivanhoe.

  ``I may not deny what thou hast challenged,''
said the Grand Master, ``provided the maiden accepts
thee as her champion.  Yet I would thou wert
in better plight to do battle.  An enemy of our
Order hast thou ever been, yet would I have thee
honourably met with.''

  ``Thus---thus as I am, and not otherwise,'' said
Ivanhoe; ``it is the judgment of God---to his keeping
I commend myself.---Rebecca,'' said he, riding
up to the fatal chair, ``dost thou accept of me for
thy champion?''

  ``I do,'' she said---``I do,'' fluttered by an emotion
which the fear of death had been unable to
produce, ``I do accept thee as the champion whom
Heaven hath sent me.  Yet, no---no---thy wounds
are uncured---Meet not that proud man---why
shouldst thou perish also?''

  But Ivanhoe was already at his post, and had
closed his visor, and assumed his lance.  Bois-Guilbert
did the same; and his esquire remarked, as
he clasped his visor, that his face, which had, notwithstanding
the variety of emotions by which he
had been agitated, continued during the whole
morning of an ashy paleness, was now become suddenly
very much flushed.

  The herald, then, seeing each champion in his
place, uplifted his voice, repeating thrice---_Faites
vos devoirs, preux chevaliers!_ After the third cry,
he withdrew to one side of the lists, and again proclaimed,
that none, on peril of instant death, should
dare, by word, cry, or action, to interfere with or
disturb this fair field of combat.  The Grand Master,
who held in his hand the gage of battle, Rebecca's
glove, now threw it into the lists, and pronounced
the fatal signal words, _Laissez aller_.

  The trumpets sounded, and the knights charged
each other in full career.  The wearied horse of
Ivanhoe, and its no less exhausted rider, went down,
as all had expected, before the well-aimed lance and
vigorous steed of the Templar.  This issue of the
combat all had foreseen; but although the spear of
Ivanhoe did but, in comparison, touch the shield of
Bois-Guilbert, that champion, to the astonishment
of all who beheld it reeled in his saddle, lost his
stirrups, and fell in the lists.

  Ivanhoe, extricating himself from his fallen horse,
was soon on foot, hastening to mend his fortune
with his sword; but his antagonist arose not.  Wilfred,
placing his foot on his breast, and the sword's
point to his throat, commanded him to yield him,
or die on the spot.  Bois-Guilbert returned no
answer.

  ``Slay him not, Sir Knight,'' cried the Grand
Master, ``unshriven and unabsolved---kill not body
and soul! We allow him vanquished.''

  He descended into the lists, and commanded them
to unhelm the conquered champion.  His eyes were
closed---the dark red flush was still on his brow.
As they looked on him in astonishment, the eyes
opened---but they were fixed and glazed.  The flush
passed from his brow, and gave way to the pallid
hue of death.  Unscathed by the lance of his enemy,
he had died a victim to the violence of his own
contending passions.

  ``This is indeed the judgment of God,'' said the
Grand Master, looking upwards---``_Fiat voluntas
tua!_''



                CHAPTER XLIV.

     So! now 'tis ended, like an old wife's story.
                                     _Webster_.


  When the first moments of surprise were over,
Wilfred of Ivanhoe demanded of the Grand Master,
as judge of the field, if he had manfully and
rightfully done his duty in the combat?

  ``Manfully and rightfully hath it been done,'' said
the Grand Master. ``I pronounce the maiden free
and guiltless---The arms and the body of the deceased
knight are at the will of the victor.''

  ``I will not despoil him of his weapons,'' said the
Knight of Ivanhoe, ``nor condemn his corpse to
shame---he hath fought for Christendom---God's
arm, no human hand, hath this day struck him down.
But let his obsequies be private, as becomes those
of a man who died in an unjust quarrel.---And for
the maiden---''

  He was interrupted by a clattering of horses' feet,
advancing in such numbers, and so rapidly, as to
shake the ground before them; and the Black Knight
galloped into the lists.  He was followed by a numerous
band of men-at-arms, and several knights
in complete armour.

  ``I am too late,'' he said, looking around him. ``I
had doomed Bois-Guilbert for mine own property.
---Ivanhoe, was this well, to take on thee such a
venture, and thou scarce able to keep thy saddle?''

  ``Heaven, my Liege,'' answered Ivanhoe, ``hath
taken this proud man for its victim.  He was not
to be honoured in dying as  your  will  had  designed.''

  ``Peace be with him,'' said Richard, looking steadfastly
on the corpse, ``if it may be so---he was a
gallant knight, and has died in his steel harness full
knightly.  But we must waste no time---Bohun, do
thine office!''

  A Knight stepped forward from the King's attendants,
and, laying his hand on the shoulder of
Albert de Malvoisin, said, ``I arrest thee of High
Treason.''

  The Grand Master had hitherto stood astonished
at the appearance of so many warriors.---He now
spoke.

  ``Who dares to arrest a Knight of the Temple
of Zion, within the girth of his own Preceptory,
and in the presence of the Grand Master? and by
whose authority is this bold outrage offered?''

  ``I make the arrest,'' replied the Knight---``I,
Henry Bohun, Earl of Essex, Lord High Constable
of England.''

  ``And he arrests Malvoisin,'' said the King, raising
his visor, ``by the order of Richard Plantagenet,
here present.---Conrade Mont-Fitchet, it is
well for thee thou art born no subject of mine.---
But for thee, Malvoisin, thou diest with thy brother
Philip, ere the world be a week older.''

  ``I will resist thy doom,'' said the Grand Master.

  ``Proud Templar,'' said the King, ``thou canst
not---look up, and behold the Royal Standard of
England floats over thy towers instead of thy Temple
banner!---Be wise, Beaumanoir, and make no
bootless opposition---Thy hand is in the lion's
mouth.''

  ``I will appeal to Rome against thee,'' said the
Grand Master, ``for usurpation on the immunities
and privileges of our Order.''

  ``Be it so,'' said the King; ``but for thine own
sake tax me not with usurpation now.  Dissolve
thy Chapter, and depart with thy followers to thy
next Preceptory, (if thou canst find one), which has
not been made the scene of treasonable conspiracy
against the King of England---Or, if thou wilt, remain,
to share our hospitality, and behold our justice.''

  ``To be a guest in the house where I should command?''
said the Templar; ``never!---Chaplains,
raise the Psalm, _Quare fremuerunt Genies?_---
Knights, squires, and followers of the Holy Temple,
prepare to follow the banner of _Beau-seant!_''

  The Grand Master spoke with a dignity which
confronted even that of England's king himself, and
inspired courage into his surprised and dismayed
followers.  They gathered around him like the
sheep around  the watch-dog, when they hear the
baying of the wolf.  But they evinced not the timidity
of the scared flock---there were dark brows of
defiance, and looks which menaced the hostility
they dared not to proffer in words.  They drew together
in a dark line of spears, from which the
white cloaks of the knights were visible among the
dusky garments of their retainers, like the lighter-coloured
edges of a sable cloud.  The multitude,
who had raised a clamorous shout of reprobation,
paused and gazed in silence on the formidable and
experienced body to which they had unwarily bade
defiance, and shrunk back from their front.

  The Earl of Essex, when he beheld them pause
in their assembled force, dashed the rowels into his
charger's sides, and galloped backwards and forwards
to array his followers, in opposition to a band
so formidable.  Richard alone, as if he loved the
danger his presence had provoked, rode slowly along
the front of the Templars, calling aloud, ``What,
sirs! Among so many gallant knights, will none
dare splinter a spear with Richard?---Sirs of the
Temple! your ladies are but sun-burned, if they
are not worth the shiver of a broken lance?''

  ``The Brethren of the Temple,'' said the Grand
Master, riding forward in advance of their body,
``fight not on such idle and profane quarrel---and
not with thee, Richard of England, shall a Templar
cross lance in my presence.  The Pope and
Princes of Europe shall judge our quarrel, and
whether a Christian prince has done well in bucklering
the cause which thou hast to-day adopted.
If unassailed, we depart assailing no one.  To thine
honour we refer the armour and household goods
of the Order which we leave behind us, and on thy
conscience we lay the scandal and offence thou hast
this day given to Christendom.''

  With these words, and without waiting a reply,
the Grand Master gave the signal of departure.
Their trumpets sounded a wild march, of an Oriental
character, which formed the usual signal for the
Templars to advance.  They changed their array
from a line to a column of march, and moved off as
slowly as their horses could step, as if to show it
was only the will of their Grand Master, and no
fear of the opposing and superior force, which compelled
them to withdraw.

  ``By the splendour of Our Lady's brow!'' said
King Richard, ``it is pity of their lives that these
Templars are not so trusty as they are disciplined
and valiant.''

  The multitude, like a timid cur which waits to
bark till the object of its challenge has turned his
back, raised a feeble shout as the rear of the squadron
left the ground.

  During the tumult which attended the retreat of
the Templars, Rebecca saw and heard nothing---she
was locked in the arms of her aged father, giddy,
and almost senseless, with the rapid change of circumstances
around her.  But one word from Isaac
at length recalled her scattered feelings.

  ``Let us go,'' he said, ``my dear daughter, my
recovered treasure---let us go to throw ourselves at
the feet of the good youth.''

  ``Not so,'' said Rebecca, ``O no---no---no---I
must not at this moment dare to speak to him---
Alas! I should say more than---No, my father,
let us instantly leave this evil place.''

  ``But, my daughter,'' said Isaac, ``to leave him
who hath come forth like a strong man with his
spear and shield, holding his life as nothing, so he
might redeem thy captivity; and thou, too, the
daughter of a people strange unto him and his---
this is service to be thankfully acknowledged.''

  ``It is---it is---most thankfully---most devoutly
acknowledged,'' said Rebecca---``it shall be still more
so---but not now---for the sake of thy beloved Rachel,
father, grant my request---not now!''

  ``Nay, but,'' said Isaac, insisting, ``they will deem
us more thankless than mere dogs!''

  ``But thou seest, my dear father, that King
Richard is in presence, and that------''

  ``True, my best---my wisest Rebecca!---Let us
hence---let us hence!---Money he will lack, for he
has just returned from Palestine, and, as they say,
from prison---and pretext for exacting it, should he
need any, may arise out of my simple traffic with
his brother John.  Away, away, let us hence!''

  And hurrying his daughter in his turn, he conducted
her from the lists, and by means of conveyance
which he had provided, transported her safely
to the house of the Rabbi Nathan.

  The Jewess, whose fortunes had formed the principal
interest of the day, having now retired unobserved,
the attention of the populace was transferred
to the Black Knight.  They now filled the air
with ``Long life to Richard with the Lion's Heart,
and down with the usurping Templars!''

  ``Notwithstanding all this lip-loyalty,'' said Ivanhoe
to the Earl of Essex, ``it was well the King
took the precaution to bring thee with him, noble
Earl, and so many of thy trusty followers.''

  The Earl smiled and shook his head.

  ``Gallant Ivanhoe,'' said Essex, ``dost thou know
our Master so well, and yet suspect him of taking
so wise a precaution! I was drawing towards York
having heard that Prince John was making head
there, when I met King Richard, like a true knight-errant,
galloping hither to achieve in his own person
this adventure of the Templar and the Jewess,
with his own single arm.  I accompanied him with
my band, almost maugre his consent.''

  ``And what news from York, brave Earl?'' said
Ivanhoe; ``will the rebels bide us there?''

  ``No more than December's snow will bide
July's sun,'' said the Earl; ``they are dispersing;
and who should come posting to bring us the news,
but John himself!''

  ``The traitor! the ungrateful insolent traitor!''
said Ivanhoe; ``did not Richard order him into
confinement?''

  ``O! he received him,'' answered the Earl, ``as if
they had met after a hunting party; and, pointing
to me and our men-at-arms, said, `Thou seest, brother,
I have some angry men with me---thou wert
best go to our mother, carry her my duteous affection,
and abide with her until men's minds are pacified.' ''

  ``And this was all he said?''  enquired  Ivanhoe;
``would not any one say  that  this  Prince  invites
men to treason by his clemency?''

  ``Just,'' replied the Earl, ``as the man may be
said to invite death, who undertakes to fight a combat,
having a dangerous wound unhealed.''

  ``I forgive thee the jest, Lord Earl,'' said Ivanhoe;
``but, remember, I hazarded but my own life
---Richard, the welfare of his kingdom.''

  ``Those,'' replied Essex, ``who are specially careless
of their own welfare, are seldom remarkably
attentive to that of others---But let us haste to the
castle, for Richard meditates punishing some of the
subordinate members of the conspiracy, though he
has pardoned their principal.''

  From the judicial investigations which followed
on this occasion, and which are given at length in
the Wardour Manuscript, it appears that Maurice
de Bracy escaped beyond seas, and went into the
service of Philip of France; while Philip de Malvoisin,
and his brother Albert, the Preceptor of
Templestowe, were executed, although Waldemar
Fitzurse, the soul of the conspiracy, escaped with
banishment; and Prince John, for whose behoof it
was undertaken, was not even censured by his good-natured
brother.  No one, however, pitied the fate
of the two Malvoisins, who only suffered the death
which they had both well deserved, by many acts of
falsehood, cruelty, and oppression.

  Briefly after the judicial combat, Cedric the Saxon
was summoned to the court of Richard, which,
for the purpose of quieting the counties that had
been disturbed by the ambition of his brother, was
then held at York.  Cedric tushed and pshawed
more than once at the message---but he refused
not obedience.  In fact, the return of Richard had
quenched every hope that he had entertained of
restoring a Saxon dynasty in England; for, whatever
head the Saxons might have made in the event
of a civil war, it was plain that nothing could be
done under the undisputed dominion of Richard,
popular as he was by his personal good qualities
and military fame, although his administration was
wilfully careless, now too indulgent, and now allied
to despotism.

  But, moreover, it could not escape even Cedric's
reluctant observation, that his project for an absolute
union among the Saxons, by the marriage of
Rowena and Athelstane, was now completely at an
end, by the mutual dissent of both parties concerned.
This was, indeed, an event which, in his ardour
for the Saxon cause, he could not have anticipated,
and even when the disinclination of both was broadly
and plainly manifested, he could scarce bring
himself to believe that two Saxons of royal descent
should scruple, on personal grounds, at an alliance
so necessary for the public weal of the nation.  But
it was not the less certain: Rowena had always
expressed her repugnance to Athelstane, and now
Athelstane was no less plain and positive in proclaiming
his resolution never to pursue his addresses
to the Lady Rowena.  Even the natural obstinacy
of Cedric sunk beneath these obstacles, where
he, remaining on the point of junction, had the
task of dragging a reluctant pair up to it, one with
each hand.  He made, however, a last vigorous
attack on Athelstane, and he found that resuscitated
sprout of Saxon royalty engaged, like country
squires of our own day, in a furious war with the
clergy.

  It seems that, after all his deadly menaces against
the Abbot of Saint Edmund's, Athelstane's spirit
of revenge, what between the natural indolent kindness
of his own disposition, what through the prayers
of his mother Edith, attached, like most ladies,
(of the period,) to the clerical order, had terminated
in his keeping the Abbot and his monks in the
dungeons of Coningsburgh for three days on a meagre
diet.  For this atrocity the Abbot menaced him
with excommunication, and made out a dreadful
list of complaints in the bowels and stomach, suffered
by himself and his monks, in consequence of
the tyrannical and unjust imprisonment they had
sustained.  With this controversy, and with the
means he had adopted to counteract this clerical
persecution, Cedric found the mind of his friend
Athelstane so fully occupied, that it had no room
for another idea.  And when Rowena's name was
mentioned the noble Athelstane prayed leave to
quaff a full goblet to her health, and that she might
soon be the bride of his kinsman Wilfred.  It was
a desperate case therefore.  There was obviously
no more to be made of Athelstane; or, as Wamba
expressed it, in a phrase which has descended from
Saxon times to ours, he was a cock that would not
fight.

  There remained betwixt Cedric and the determination
which the lovers desired to come to, only
two obstacles---his own obstinacy, and his dislike
of the Norman dynasty.  The former feeling gradually
gave way before the endearments of his
ward, and the pride which he could not help nourishing
in the fame of his son.  Besides, he was not
insensible to the honour of allying his own line to
that of Alfred, when the superior claims of the descendant
of Edward the Confessor were abandoned
for ever.  Cedric's aversion to the Norman race of
kings was also much undermined,---first, by consideration
of the impossibility of ridding England of
the new dynasty, a feeling which goes far to create
loyalty in the subject to the king _de facto_; and, secondly,
by the personal attention of King Richard,
who delighted in the blunt humour of Cedric, and,
to use the language of the Wardour Manuscript,
so dealt with the noble Saxon, that, ere he had been
a guest at court for seven days, he had given his
consent to the marriage of his ward Rowena and
his son Wilfred of Ivanhoe.

  The nuptials of our hero, thus formally approved
by his father, were celebrated in the most august
of temples, the noble Minster of York.  The King
himself attended, and from the countenance which
he afforded on this and other occasions to the distressed
and hitherto degraded Saxons, gave them
a safer and more certain prospect of attaining their
just rights, than they could reasonably hope from
the precarious chance of a civil war.  The Church
gave her full solemnities, graced with all the splendour
which she of Rome knows how to apply with
such brilliant effect.

  Gurth, gallantly apparelled, attended as esquire
upon his young master whom he had served so
faithfully, and the magnanimous Wamba, decorated
with a new cap and a most gorgeous set of silver
bells.  Sharers of Wilfred's dangers and adversity,
they remained, as they had a right to expect,
the partakers of his more prosperous career.

  But besides this domestic retinue, these distinguished
nuptials were celebrated by the attendance
of the high-born Normans, as well as Saxons, joined
with the universal jubilee of the lower orders,
that marked the marriage of two individuals as a
pledge of the future peace and harmony betwixt
two races, which, since that period, have been so
completely mingled, that the distinction has become
wholly invisible.  Cedric lived to see this union
approximate towards its completion; for as the two
nations mixed in society and formed intermarriages
with each other, the Normans abated their scorn,
and the Saxons were refined from their rusticity.
But it was not until the reign of Edward the Third
that the mixed language, now termed English, was
spoken at the court of London, and that the hostile
distinction of Norman and Saxon seems entirely
to have disappeared.

  It was upon the second morning after this happy
bridal, that the Lady Rowena was made acquainted
by her handmaid Elgitha, that a damsel desired
admission to her presence, and solicited that their
parley might be without witness.  Rowena wondered,
hesitated, became curious, and ended by commanding
the damsel to be admitted, and her attendants
to withdraw.

  She entered---a noble and commanding figure, the
long white veil, in which she was shrouded, overshadowing
rather than concealing the elegance and
majesty of her shape.  Her demeanour was that of
respect, unmingled by the least shade either of fear,
or of a wish to propitiate favour.  Rowena was
ever ready to acknowledge the claims, and attend
to the feelings, of others.  She arose, and would
have conducted her lovely visitor to a seat; but the
stranger looked at Elgitha, and again intimated a
wish to discourse with the Lady Rowena alone.
Elgitha had no sooner retired with unwilling steps,
than, to the surprise of the Lady of Ivanhoe, her
fair visitant kneeled on one knee, pressed her hands
to her forehead, and bending her head to the ground,
in spite of Rowena's resistance, kissed the embroidered
hem of her tunic.

  ``What means this, lady?'' said the surprised
bride; ``or why do you offer to me a deference so
unusual?''

  ``Because to you, Lady of Ivanhoe,'' said Rebecca,
rising up and resuming the usual quiet dignity
of her manner, ``I may lawfully, and without
rebuke, pay the debt of gratitude which I owe to
Wilfred of Ivanhoe.  I am---forgive the boldness
which has offered to you the homage of my country
---I am the unhappy Jewess, for whom your husband
hazarded his life against such fearful odds in
the tiltyard of Templestowe.''

  ``Damsel,'' said Rowena, ``Wilfred of Ivanhoe
on that day rendered back but in slight measure
your unceasing charity towards him in his wounds
and misfortunes.  Speak, is there aught remains in
which he or I can serve thee?''

  ``Nothing,'' said Rebecca, calmly, ``unless you
will transmit to him my grateful farewell.''

  ``You leave England then?'' said Rowena, scarce
recovering the surprise of this extraordinary visit.

  ``I leave it, lady, ere this moon again changes.
My father had a brother high in favour with Mohammed
Boabdil, King of Grenada---thither we go,
secure of peace and protection, for the payment of
such ransom as the Moslem exact from our people.''

  ``And are you not then as well protected in
England?'' said Rowena. ``My husband has favour
with the King---the King himself is just and
generous.''

  ``Lady,'' said Rebecca, ``I doubt it not---but the
people of England are a fierce race, quarrelling
ever with their neighbours or among themselves,
and ready to plunge the sword into the bowels of
each other.  Such is no safe abode for the children
of my people.  Ephraim is an heartless dove---Issachar
an over-laboured drudge, which stoops between
two burdens.  Not in a land of war and blood,
surrounded by hostile neighbours, and distracted
by internal factions, can Israel hope to rest during
her wanderings.''

  ``But you, maiden,'' said Rowena---``you surely
can have nothing to fear.  She who nursed the sick-bed
of Ivanhoe,'' she continued, rising with enthusiasm
---``she can have nothing to fear in England,
where Saxon and Norman will contend who shall
most do her honour.''

  ``Thy speech is fair, lady,'' said Rebecca, ``and
thy purpose fairer; but it may not be---there is a
gulf betwixt us.  Our breeding, our faith, alike
forbid either to pass over it.  Farewell---yet, ere I
go indulge me one request.  The bridal-veil hangs
over thy face; deign to raise it, and let me see the
features of which fame speaks so highly.''

  ``They are scarce worthy of being looked upon,''
said Rowena; ``but, expecting the same from my
visitant, I remove the veil.''

  She took it off accordingly; and, partly from the
consciousness of beauty, partly from bashfulness,
she blushed so intensely, that cheek, brow, neck,
and bosom, were suffused with crimson.  Rebecca
blushed also, but it was a momentary feeling; and,
mastered by higher emotions, past slowly from her
features like the crimson cloud, which changes colour
when the sun sinks beneath the horizon.

  ``Lady,'' she said, ``the countenance you have
deigned to show me will long dwell in my remembrance.
There reigns in it gentleness and goodness;
and if a tinge of the world's pride or vanities
may mix with an expression so lovely, how
should we chide that which is of earth for bearing
some colour of its original? Long, long will I remember
your features, and bless God that I leave
my noble deliverer united with---''

  She stopped short---her eyes filled with tears.
She hastily wiped them, and answered to the anxious
enquiries of Rowena---``I am well, lady---
well.  But my heart swells when I think of Torquilstone
and the lists of Templestowe.---Farewell.
One, the most trifling part of my duty, remains undischarged.
Accept this casket---startle not at its
contents.''

  Rowena  opened  the  small  silver-chased casket,
and perceived a carcanet, or neck lace, with ear-jewels,
of diamonds, which were obviously of immense
value.

  ``It is impossible,'' she said, tendering back the
casket. ``I dare not accept a gift of such consequence.''

  ``Yet keep it, lady,'' returned Rebecca.---``You
have power, rank, command, influence; we have
wealth, the source both of our strength and weakness;
the value of these toys, ten times multiplied,
would not influence half so much as your slightest
wish.  To you, therefore, the gift is of little value,
---and to me, what I part with is of much less.  Let
me not think you deem so wretchedly ill of my
nation as your commons believe.  Think ye that I
prize these sparkling fragments of stone above my
liberty? or that my father values them in comparison
to the honour of his only child? Accept them,
lady---to me they are valueless.  I will never wear
jewels more.''

  ``You are then unhappy!'' said Rowena, struck
with the manner in which Rebecca uttered the last
words.  ``O, remain with us---the counsel of holy
men will wean you from your erring law, and I will
be a sister to you.''

  ``No, lady,'' answered Rebecca, the same calm
melancholy reigning in her soft voice and beautiful
features---``that---may not be. I may not change the
faith of my fathers like a garment unsuited to the
climate in which I seek to dwell, and unhappy, lady,
I will not be.  He, to whom I dedicate my future
life, will be my comforter, if I do His will.''

  ``Have you then convents, to one of which you
mean to retire?'' asked Rowena.

  ``No, lady,'' said the Jewess; ``but among our
people, since the time of Abraham downwards, have
been women who have devoted their thoughts to
Heaven, and their actions to works of kindness to
men, tending the sick, feeding the hungry, and relieving
the distressed.  Among these will Rebecca
be numbered. Say this to thy lord, should he chance
to enquire after the fate of her whose life he saved.''

  There was an involuntary tremour on Rebecca's
voice, and a tenderness of accent, which perhaps
betrayed more than she would willingly have expressed.
She hastened to bid Rowena adieu.

  ``Farewell,'' she said.  ``May He, who made
both Jew and Christian, shower down on you his
choicest blessings! The bark that waits us hence
will be under weigh ere we can reach the port.''

  She glided from the apartment, leaving Rowena
surprised as if a vision had passed before her.  The
fair Saxon related the singular conference to her
husband, on whose mind it made a deep impression.
He lived long and happily with Rowena, for they
were attached to each other by the bonds of early
affection, and they loved each other the more, from
the recollection of the obstacles which had impeded
their union.  Yet it would be enquiring too curiously
to ask, whether the recollection of Rebecca's
beauty and magnanimity did not recur to his mind
more frequently than the fair descendant of Alfred
might altogether have approved.

  Ivanhoe distinguished himself in the service of
Richard, and was graced with farther marks of the
royal favour.  He might have risen still higher,
but for the premature death of the heroic C<oe>ur-de-Lion,
before the Castle of Chaluz, near Limoges.
With the life of a generous, but rash and romantic
monarch, perished all the projects which his ambition
and his generosity had formed; to whom may
be applied, with a slight alteration, the lines composed
by Johnson for Charles of Sweden---

     His fate was destined to a foreign strand,
     A petty fortress and an ``humble'' hand;
     He left the name at which the world grew pale,
     To point a moral, or adorn a =tale=.