Ivanhoe

INTRODUCTION TO IVANHOE.

The Author of the Waverley Novels had hitherto proceeded in an unabated course
of popularity, and might, in his peculiar district of literature, have been
termed L’Enfant Gâté of success. It was plain, however, that
frequent publication must finally wear out the public favour, unless some mode
could be devised to give an appearance of novelty to subsequent productions.
Scottish manners, Scottish dialect, and Scottish characters of note, being
those with which the author was most intimately, and familiarly acquainted,
were the groundwork upon which he had hitherto relied for giving effect to his
narrative. It was, however, obvious, that this kind of interest must in the end
occasion a degree of sameness and repetition, if exclusively resorted to, and
that the reader was likely at length to adopt the language of Edwin, in
Parnell’s Tale:

“‘Reverse the spell,’ he cries,
‘And let it fairly now suffice.
The gambol has been shown.’”

Nothing can be more dangerous for the fame of a professor of the fine arts,
than to permit (if he can possibly prevent it) the character of a mannerist to
be attached to him, or that he should be supposed capable of success only in a
particular and limited style. The public are, in general, very ready to adopt
the opinion, that he who has pleased them in one peculiar mode of composition,
is, by means of that very talent, rendered incapable of venturing upon other
subjects. The effect of this disinclination, on the part of the public, towards
the artificers of their pleasures, when they attempt to enlarge their means of
amusing, may be seen in the censures usually passed by vulgar criticism upon
actors or artists who venture to change the character of their efforts, that,
in so doing, they may enlarge the scale of their art.

There is some justice in this opinion, as there always is in such as attain
general currency. It may often happen on the stage, that an actor, by
possessing in a preeminent degree the external qualities necessary to give
effect to comedy, may be deprived of the right to aspire to tragic excellence;
and in painting or literary composition, an artist or poet may be master
exclusively of modes of thought, and powers of expression, which confine him to
a single course of subjects. But much more frequently the same capacity which
carries a man to popularity in one department will obtain for him success in
another, and that must be more particularly the case in literary composition,
than either in acting or painting, because the adventurer in that department is
not impeded in his exertions by any peculiarity of features, or conformation of
person, proper for particular parts, or, by any peculiar mechanical habits of
using the pencil, limited to a particular class of subjects.

Whether this reasoning be correct or otherwise, the present author felt, that,
in confining himself to subjects purely Scottish, he was not only likely to
weary out the indulgence of his readers, but also greatly to limit his own
power of affording them pleasure. In a highly polished country, where so much
genius is monthly employed in catering for public amusement, a fresh topic,
such as he had himself had the happiness to light upon, is the untasted spring
of the desert;—

“Men bless their stars and call it luxury.”

But when men and horses, cattle, camels, and dromedaries, have poached the
spring into mud, it becomes loathsome to those who at first drank of it with
rapture; and he who had the merit of discovering it, if he would preserve his
reputation with the tribe, must display his talent by a fresh discovery of
untasted fountains.

If the author, who finds himself limited to a particular class of subjects,
endeavours to sustain his reputation by striving to add a novelty of attraction
to themes of the same character which have been formerly successful under his
management, there are manifest reasons why, after a certain point, he is likely
to fail. If the mine be not wrought out, the strength and capacity of the miner
become necessarily exhausted. If he closely imitates the narratives which he
has before rendered successful, he is doomed to “wonder that they please
no more.” If he struggles to take a different view of the same class of
subjects, he speedily discovers that what is obvious, graceful, and natural,
has been exhausted; and, in order to obtain the indispensable charm of novelty,
he is forced upon caricature, and, to avoid being trite, must become
extravagant.

It is not, perhaps, necessary to enumerate so many reasons why the author of
the Scottish Novels, as they were then exclusively termed, should be desirous
to make an experiment on a subject purely English. It was his purpose, at the
same time, to have rendered the experiment as complete as possible, by bringing
the intended work before the public as the effort of a new candidate for their
favour, in order that no degree of prejudice, whether favourable or the
reverse, might attach to it, as a new production of the Author of Waverley; but
this intention was afterwards departed from, for reasons to be hereafter
mentioned.

The period of the narrative adopted was the reign of Richard I., not only as
abounding with characters whose very names were sure to attract general
attention, but as affording a striking contrast betwixt the Saxons, by whom the
soil was cultivated, and the Normans, who still reigned in it as conquerors,
reluctant to mix with the vanquished, or acknowledge themselves of the same
stock. The idea of this contrast was taken from the ingenious and unfortunate
Logan’s tragedy of Runnamede, in which, about the same period of history,
the author had seen the Saxon and Norman barons opposed to each other on
different sides of the stage. He does not recollect that there was any attempt
to contrast the two races in their habits and sentiments; and indeed it was
obvious, that history was violated by introducing the Saxons still existing as
a high-minded and martial race of nobles.

They did, however, survive as a people, and some of the ancient Saxon families
possessed wealth and power, although they were exceptions to the humble
condition of the race in general. It seemed to the author, that the existence
of the two races in the same country, the vanquished distinguished by their
plain, homely, blunt manners, and the free spirit infused by their ancient
institutions and laws; the victors, by the high spirit of military fame,
personal adventure, and whatever could distinguish them as the Flower of
Chivalry, might, intermixed with other characters belonging to the same time
and country, interest the reader by the contrast, if the author should not fail
on his part.

Scotland, however, had been of late used so exclusively as the scene of what is
called Historical Romance, that the preliminary letter of Mr Laurence Templeton
became in some measure necessary. To this, as to an Introduction, the reader is
referred, as expressing the author’s purpose and opinions in undertaking
this species of composition, under the necessary reservation, that he is far
from thinking he has attained the point at which he aimed.

It is scarcely necessary to add, that there was no idea or wish to pass off the
supposed Mr Templeton as a real person. But a kind of continuation of the Tales
of my Landlord had been recently attempted by a stranger, and it was supposed
this Dedicatory Epistle might pass for some imitation of the same kind, and
thus putting enquirers upon a false scent, induce them to believe they had
before them the work of some new candidate for their favour.

After a considerable part of the work had been finished and printed, the
Publishers, who pretended to discern in it a germ of popularity, remonstrated
strenuously against its appearing as an absolutely anonymous production, and
contended that it should have the advantage of being announced as by the Author
of Waverley. The author did not make any obstinate opposition, for he began to
be of opinion with Dr Wheeler, in Miss Edgeworth’s excellent tale of
“Maneuvering,” that “Trick upon Trick” might be too
much for the patience of an indulgent public, and might be reasonably
considered as trifling with their favour.

The book, therefore, appeared as an avowed continuation of the Waverley Novels;
and it would be ungrateful not to acknowledge, that it met with the same
favourable reception as its predecessors.

Such annotations as may be useful to assist the reader in comprehending the
characters of the Jew, the Templar, the Captain of the mercenaries, or Free
Companions, as they were called, and others proper to the period, are added,
but with a sparing hand, since sufficient information on these subjects is to
be found in general history.

An incident in the tale, which had the good fortune to find favour in the eyes
of many readers, is more directly borrowed from the stores of old romance. I
mean the meeting of the King with Friar Tuck at the cell of that buxom hermit.
The general tone of the story belongs to all ranks and all countries, which
emulate each other in describing the rambles of a disguised sovereign, who,
going in search of information or amusement, into the lower ranks of life,
meets with adventures diverting to the reader or hearer, from the contrast
betwixt the monarch’s outward appearance, and his real character. The
Eastern tale-teller has for his theme the disguised expeditions of Haroun
Alraschid with his faithful attendants, Mesrour and Giafar, through the
midnight streets of Bagdad; and Scottish tradition dwells upon the similar
exploits of James V., distinguished during such excursions by the travelling
name of the Goodman of Ballengeigh, as the Commander of the Faithful, when he
desired to be incognito, was known by that of Il Bondocani. The French
minstrels are not silent on so popular a theme. There must have been a Norman
original of the Scottish metrical romance of Rauf Colziar, in which Charlemagne
is introduced as the unknown guest of a charcoal-man. 2

It seems to have been the original of other poems of the kind.

In merry England there is no end of popular ballads on this theme. The poem of
John the Reeve, or Steward, mentioned by Bishop Percy, in the Reliques of
English Poetry, 3 is said to have turned on such an
incident; and we have besides, the King and the Tanner of Tamworth, the King
and the Miller of Mansfield, and others on the same topic. But the peculiar
tale of this nature to which the author of Ivanhoe has to acknowledge an
obligation, is more ancient by two centuries than any of these last mentioned.

It was first communicated to the public in that curious record of ancient
literature, which has been accumulated by the combined exertions of Sir Egerton
Brydges and Mr Hazlewood, in the periodical work entitled the British
Bibliographer. From thence it has been transferred by the Reverend Charles
Henry Hartshorne, M.A., editor of a very curious volume, entitled
“Ancient Metrical Tales, printed chiefly from original sources,
1829.” Mr Hartshorne gives no other authority for the present fragment,
except the article in the Bibliographer, where it is entitled the Kyng and the
Hermite. A short abstract of its contents will show its similarity to the
meeting of King Richard and Friar Tuck.

King Edward (we are not told which among the monarchs of that name, but, from
his temper and habits, we may suppose Edward IV.) sets forth with his court to
a gallant hunting-match in Sherwood Forest, in which, as is not unusual for
princes in romance, he falls in with a deer of extraordinary size and
swiftness, and pursues it closely, till he has outstripped his whole retinue,
tired out hounds and horse, and finds himself alone under the gloom of an
extensive forest, upon which night is descending. Under the apprehensions
natural to a situation so uncomfortable, the king recollects that he has heard
how poor men, when apprehensive of a bad nights lodging, pray to Saint Julian,
who, in the Romish calendar, stands Quarter-Master-General to all forlorn
travellers that render him due homage. Edward puts up his orisons accordingly,
and by the guidance, doubtless, of the good Saint, reaches a small path,
conducting him to a chapel in the forest, having a hermit’s cell in its
close vicinity. The King hears the reverend man, with a companion of his
solitude, telling his beads within, and meekly requests of him quarters for the
night. “I have no accommodation for such a lord as ye be,” said the
Hermit. “I live here in the wilderness upon roots and rinds, and may not
receive into my dwelling even the poorest wretch that lives, unless it were to
save his life.” The King enquires the way to the next town, and,
understanding it is by a road which he cannot find without difficulty, even if
he had daylight to befriend him, he declares, that with or without the
Hermit’s consent, he is determined to be his guest that night. He is
admitted accordingly, not without a hint from the Recluse, that were he himself
out of his priestly weeds, he would care little for his threats of using
violence, and that he gives way to him not out of intimidation, but simply to
avoid scandal.

The King is admitted into the cell—two bundles of straw are shaken down
for his accommodation, and he comforts himself that he is now under shelter,
and that

“A night will soon be gone.”

Other wants, however, arise. The guest becomes clamorous for supper, observing,

“For certainly, as I you say,
I ne had never so sorry a day,
    That I ne had a merry night.”

But this indication of his taste for good cheer, joined to the annunciation of
his being a follower of the Court, who had lost himself at the great
hunting-match, cannot induce the niggard Hermit to produce better fare than
bread and cheese, for which his guest showed little appetite; and “thin
drink,” which was even less acceptable. At length the King presses his
host on a point to which he had more than once alluded, without obtaining a
satisfactory reply:

“Then said the King, ‘by God’s grace,
Thou wert in a merry place,
    To shoot should thou here
When the foresters go to rest,
Sometyme thou might have of the best,
    All of the wild deer;
I wold hold it for no scathe,
Though thou hadst bow and arrows baith,
    Althoff thou best a Frere.’”

The Hermit, in return, expresses his apprehension that his guest means to drag
him into some confession of offence against the forest laws, which, being
betrayed to the King, might cost him his life. Edward answers by fresh
assurances of secrecy, and again urges on him the necessity of procuring some
venison. The Hermit replies, by once more insisting on the duties incumbent
upon him as a churchman, and continues to affirm himself free from all such
breaches of order:

“Many day I have here been,
And flesh-meat I eat never,
    But milk of the kye;
Warm thee well, and go to sleep,
And I will lap thee with my cope,
    Softly to lye.”

It would seem that the manuscript is here imperfect, for we do not find the
reasons which finally induce the curtal Friar to amend the King’s cheer.
But acknowledging his guest to be such a “good fellow” as has
seldom graced his board, the holy man at length produces the best his cell
affords. Two candles are placed on a table, white bread and baked pasties are
displayed by the light, besides choice of venison, both salt and fresh, from
which they select collops. “I might have eaten my bread dry,” said
the King, “had I not pressed thee on the score of archery, but now have I
dined like a prince—if we had but drink enow.”

This too is afforded by the hospitable anchorite, who dispatches an assistant
to fetch a pot of four gallons from a secret corner near his bed, and the whole
three set in to serious drinking. This amusement is superintended by the Friar,
according to the recurrence of certain fustian words, to be repeated by every
compotator in turn before he drank—a species of High Jinks, as it were,
by which they regulated their potations, as toasts were given in latter times.
The one toper says “fusty bandias”, to which the other is obliged
to reply, “strike pantnere”, and the Friar passes many jests on the
King’s want of memory, who sometimes forgets the words of action. The
night is spent in this jolly pastime. Before his departure in the morning, the
King invites his reverend host to Court, promises, at least, to requite his
hospitality, and expresses himself much pleased with his entertainment. The
jolly Hermit at length agrees to venture thither, and to enquire for Jack
Fletcher, which is the name assumed by the King. After the Hermit has shown
Edward some feats of archery, the joyous pair separate. The King rides home,
and rejoins his retinue. As the romance is imperfect, we are not acquainted how
the discovery takes place; but it is probably much in the same manner as in
other narratives turning on the same subject, where the host, apprehensive of
death for having trespassed on the respect due to his Sovereign, while
incognito, is agreeably surprised by receiving honours and reward.

In Mr Hartshorne’s collection, there is a romance on the same foundation,
called King Edward and the Shepherd,4
which, considered as illustrating manners, is still more curious than the King
and the Hermit; but it is foreign to the present purpose. The reader has here
the original legend from which the incident in the romance is derived; and the
identifying the irregular Eremite with the Friar Tuck of Robin Hood’s
story, was an obvious expedient.

The name of Ivanhoe was suggested by an old rhyme. All novelists have had
occasion at some time or other to wish with Falstaff, that they knew where a
commodity of good names was to be had. On such an occasion the author chanced
to call to memory a rhyme recording three names of the manors forfeited by the
ancestor of the celebrated Hampden, for striking the Black Prince a blow with
his racket, when they quarrelled at tennis:

“Tring, Wing, and Ivanhoe,
For striking of a blow,
Hampden did forego,
And glad he could escape so.”

The word suited the author’s purpose in two material respects,—for,
first, it had an ancient English sound; and secondly, it conveyed no indication
whatever of the nature of the story. He presumes to hold this last quality to
be of no small importance. What is called a taking title, serves the direct
interest of the bookseller or publisher, who by this means sometimes sells an
edition while it is yet passing the press. But if the author permits an over
degree of attention to be drawn to his work ere it has appeared, he places
himself in the embarrassing condition of having excited a degree of expectation
which, if he proves unable to satisfy, is an error fatal to his literary
reputation. Besides, when we meet such a title as the Gunpowder Plot, or any
other connected with general history, each reader, before he has seen the book,
has formed to himself some particular idea of the sort of manner in which the
story is to be conducted, and the nature of the amusement which he is to derive
from it. In this he is probably disappointed, and in that case may be naturally
disposed to visit upon the author or the work, the unpleasant feelings thus
excited. In such a case the literary adventurer is censured, not for having
missed the mark at which he himself aimed, but for not having shot off his
shaft in a direction he never thought of.

On the footing of unreserved communication which the Author has established
with the reader, he may here add the trifling circumstance, that a roll of
Norman warriors, occurring in the Auchinleck Manuscript, gave him the
formidable name of Front-de-Bœuf.

Ivanhoe was highly successful upon its appearance, and may be said to have
procured for its author the freedom of the Rules, since he has ever since been
permitted to exercise his powers of fictitious composition in England, as well
as Scotland.

The character of the fair Jewess found so much favour in the eyes of some fair
readers, that the writer was censured, because, when arranging the fates of the
characters of the drama, he had not assigned the hand of Wilfred to Rebecca,
rather than the less interesting Rowena. But, not to mention that the
prejudices of the age rendered such an union almost impossible, the author may,
in passing, observe, that he thinks a character of a highly virtuous and lofty
stamp, is degraded rather than exalted by an attempt to reward virtue with
temporal prosperity. Such is not the recompense which Providence has deemed
worthy of suffering merit, and it is a dangerous and fatal doctrine to teach
young persons, the most common readers of romance, that rectitude of conduct
and of principle are either naturally allied with, or adequately rewarded by,
the gratification of our passions, or attainment of our wishes. In a word, if a
virtuous and self-denied character is dismissed with temporal wealth,
greatness, rank, or the indulgence of such a rashly formed or ill assorted
passion as that of Rebecca for Ivanhoe, the reader will be apt to say, verily
Virtue has had its reward. But a glance on the great picture of life will show,
that the duties of self-denial, and the sacrifice of passion to principle, are
seldom thus remunerated; and that the internal consciousness of their
high-minded discharge of duty, produces on their own reflections a more
adequate recompense, in the form of that peace which the world cannot give or
take away.

Abbotsford, 1st September, 1830.

DEDICATORY EPISTLE

TO
THE REV. DR DRYASDUST, F.A.S.
Residing in the Castle-Gate, York.

Much esteemed and dear Sir,

It is scarcely necessary to mention the various and concurring reasons which
induce me to place your name at the head of the following work. Yet the chief
of these reasons may perhaps be refuted by the imperfections of the
performance. Could I have hoped to render it worthy of your patronage, the
public would at once have seen the propriety of inscribing a work designed to
illustrate the domestic antiquities of England, and particularly of our Saxon
forefathers, to the learned author of the Essays upon the Horn of King Ulphus,
and on the Lands bestowed by him upon the patrimony of St Peter. I am
conscious, however, that the slight, unsatisfactory, and trivial manner, in
which the result of my antiquarian researches has been recorded in the
following pages, takes the work from under that class which bears the proud
motto, “Detur digniori”. On the contrary, I fear I shall incur the
censure of presumption in placing the venerable name of Dr Jonas Dryasdust at
the head of a publication, which the more grave antiquary will perhaps class
with the idle novels and romances of the day. I am anxious to vindicate myself
from such a charge; for although I might trust to your friendship for an
apology in your eyes, yet I would not willingly stand conviction in those of
the public of so grave a crime, as my fears lead me to anticipate my being
charged with.

I must therefore remind you, that when we first talked over together that class
of productions, in one of which the private and family affairs of your learned
northern friend, Mr Oldbuck of Monkbarns, were so unjustifiably exposed to the
public, some discussion occurred between us concerning the cause of the
popularity these works have attained in this idle age, which, whatever other
merit they possess, must be admitted to be hastily written, and in violation of
every rule assigned to the epopeia. It seemed then to be your opinion, that the
charm lay entirely in the art with which the unknown author had availed
himself, like a second M’Pherson, of the antiquarian stores which lay
scattered around him, supplying his own indolence or poverty of invention, by
the incidents which had actually taken place in his country at no distant
period, by introducing real characters, and scarcely suppressing real names. It
was not above sixty or seventy years, you observed, since the whole north of
Scotland was under a state of government nearly as simple and as patriarchal as
those of our good allies the Mohawks and Iroquois. Admitting that the author
cannot himself be supposed to have witnessed those times, he must have lived,
you observed, among persons who had acted and suffered in them; and even within
these thirty years, such an infinite change has taken place in the manners of
Scotland, that men look back upon the habits of society proper to their
immediate ancestors, as we do on those of the reign of Queen Anne, or even the
period of the Revolution. Having thus materials of every kind lying strewed
around him, there was little, you observed, to embarrass the author, but the
difficulty of choice. It was no wonder, therefore, that, having begun to work a
mine so plentiful, he should have derived from his works fully more credit and
profit than the facility of his labours merited.

Admitting (as I could not deny) the general truth of these conclusions, I
cannot but think it strange that no attempt has been made to excite an interest
for the traditions and manners of Old England, similiar to that which has been
obtained in behalf of those of our poorer and less celebrated neighbours. The
Kendal green, though its date is more ancient, ought surely to be as dear to
our feelings, as the variegated tartans of the north. The name of Robin Hood,
if duly conjured with, should raise a spirit as soon as that of Rob Roy; and
the patriots of England deserve no less their renown in our modern circles,
than the Bruces and Wallaces of Caledonia. If the scenery of the south be less
romantic and sublime than that of the northern mountains, it must be allowed to
possess in the same proportion superior softness and beauty; and upon the
whole, we feel ourselves entitled to exclaim with the patriotic
Syrian—“Are not Pharphar and Abana, rivers of Damascus, better than
all the rivers of Israel?”

Your objections to such an attempt, my dear Doctor, were, you may remember,
two-fold. You insisted upon the advantages which the Scotsman possessed, from
the very recent existence of that state of society in which his scene was to be
laid. Many now alive, you remarked, well remembered persons who had not only
seen the celebrated Roy M’Gregor, but had feasted, and even fought with
him. All those minute circumstances belonging to private life and domestic
character, all that gives verisimilitude to a narrative, and individuality to
the persons introduced, is still known and remembered in Scotland; whereas in
England, civilisation has been so long complete, that our ideas of our
ancestors are only to be gleaned from musty records and chronicles, the authors
of which seem perversely to have conspired to suppress in their narratives all
interesting details, in order to find room for flowers of monkish eloquence, or
trite reflections upon morals. To match an English and a Scottish author in the
rival task of embodying and reviving the traditions of their respective
countries, would be, you alleged, in the highest degree unequal and unjust. The
Scottish magician, you said, was, like Lucan’s witch, at liberty to walk
over the recent field of battle, and to select for the subject of resuscitation
by his sorceries, a body whose limbs had recently quivered with existence, and
whose throat had but just uttered the last note of agony. Such a subject even
the powerful Erictho was compelled to select, as alone capable of being
reanimated even by “her” potent magic—

——gelidas leto scrutata medullas,
Pulmonis rigidi stantes sine vulnere fibras
Invenit, et vocem defuncto in corpore quaerit.

The English author, on the other hand, without supposing him less of a conjuror
than the Northern Warlock, can, you observed, only have the liberty of
selecting his subject amidst the dust of antiquity, where nothing was to be
found but dry, sapless, mouldering, and disjointed bones, such as those which
filled the valley of Jehoshaphat. You expressed, besides, your apprehension,
that the unpatriotic prejudices of my countrymen would not allow fair play to
such a work as that of which I endeavoured to demonstrate the probable success.
And this, you said, was not entirely owing to the more general prejudice in
favour of that which is foreign, but that it rested partly upon
improbabilities, arising out of the circumstances in which the English reader
is placed. If you describe to him a set of wild manners, and a state of
primitive society existing in the Highlands of Scotland, he is much disposed to
acquiesce in the truth of what is asserted. And reason good. If he be of the
ordinary class of readers, he has either never seen those remote districts at
all, or he has wandered through those desolate regions in the course of a
summer tour, eating bad dinners, sleeping on truckle beds, stalking from
desolation to desolation, and fully prepared to believe the strangest things
that could be told him of a people, wild and extravagant enough to be attached
to scenery so extraordinary. But the same worthy person, when placed in his own
snug parlour, and surrounded by all the comforts of an Englishman’s
fireside, is not half so much disposed to believe that his own ancestors led a
very different life from himself; that the shattered tower, which now forms a
vista from his window, once held a baron who would have hung him up at his own
door without any form of trial; that the hinds, by whom his little pet-farm is
managed, a few centuries ago would have been his slaves; and that the complete
influence of feudal tyranny once extended over the neighbouring village, where
the attorney is now a man of more importance than the lord of the manor.

While I own the force of these objections, I must confess, at the same time,
that they do not appear to me to be altogether insurmountable. The scantiness
of materials is indeed a formidable difficulty; but no one knows better than Dr
Dryasdust, that to those deeply read in antiquity, hints concerning the private
life of our ancestors lie scattered through the pages of our various
historians, bearing, indeed, a slender proportion to the other matters of which
they treat, but still, when collected together, sufficient to throw
considerable light upon the vie privée of our forefathers; indeed, I am
convinced, that however I myself may fail in the ensuing attempt, yet, with
more labour in collecting, or more skill in using, the materials within his
reach, illustrated as they have been by the labours of Dr Henry, of the late Mr
Strutt, and, above all, of Mr Sharon Turner, an abler hand would have been
successful; and therefore I protest, beforehand, against any argument which may
be founded on the failure of the present experiment.

On the other hand, I have already said, that if any thing like a true picture
of old English manners could be drawn, I would trust to the good-nature and
good sense of my countrymen for insuring its favourable reception.

Having thus replied, to the best of my power, to the first class of your
objections, or at least having shown my resolution to overleap the barriers
which your prudence has raised, I will be brief in noticing that which is more
peculiar to myself. It seems to be your opinion, that the very office of an
antiquary, employed in grave, and, as the vulgar will sometimes allege, in
toilsome and minute research, must be considered as incapacitating him from
successfully compounding a tale of this sort. But permit me to say, my dear
Doctor, that this objection is rather formal than substantial. It is true, that
such slight compositions might not suit the severer genius of our friend Mr
Oldbuck. Yet Horace Walpole wrote a goblin tale which has thrilled through many
a bosom; and George Ellis could transfer all the playful fascination of a
humour, as delightful as it was uncommon, into his Abridgement of the Ancient
Metrical Romances. So that, however I may have occasion to rue my present
audacity, I have at least the most respectable precedents in my favour.

Still the severer antiquary may think, that, by thus intermingling fiction with
truth, I am polluting the well of history with modern inventions, and
impressing upon the rising generation false ideas of the age which I describe.
I cannot but in some sense admit the force of this reasoning, which I yet hope
to traverse by the following considerations.

It is true, that I neither can, nor do pretend, to the observation of complete
accuracy, even in matters of outward costume, much less in the more important
points of language and manners. But the same motive which prevents my writing
the dialogue of the piece in Anglo-Saxon or in Norman-French, and which
prohibits my sending forth to the public this essay printed with the types of
Caxton or Wynken de Worde, prevents my attempting to confine myself within the
limits of the period in which my story is laid. It is necessary, for exciting
interest of any kind, that the subject assumed should be, as it were,
translated into the manners, as well as the language, of the age we live in. No
fascination has ever been attached to Oriental literature, equal to that
produced by Mr Galland’s first translation of the Arabian Tales; in
which, retaining on the one hand the splendour of Eastern costume, and on the
other the wildness of Eastern fiction, he mixed these with just so much
ordinary feeling and expression, as rendered them interesting and intelligible,
while he abridged the long-winded narratives, curtailed the monotonous
reflections, and rejected the endless repetitions of the Arabian original. The
tales, therefore, though less purely Oriental than in their first concoction,
were eminently better fitted for the European market, and obtained an
unrivalled degree of public favour, which they certainly would never have
gained had not the manners and style been in some degree familiarized to the
feelings and habits of the western reader.

In point of justice, therefore, to the multitudes who will, I trust, devour
this book with avidity, I have so far explained our ancient manners in modern
language, and so far detailed the characters and sentiments of my persons, that
the modern reader will not find himself, I should hope, much trammelled by the
repulsive dryness of mere antiquity. In this, I respectfully contend, I have in
no respect exceeded the fair license due to the author of a fictitious
composition. The late ingenious Mr Strutt, in his romance of Queen-Hoo-Hall, 5
acted upon another principle; and in distinguishing between what was ancient
and modern, forgot, as it appears to me, that extensive neutral ground, the
large proportion, that is, of manners and sentiments which are common to us and
to our ancestors, having been handed down unaltered from them to us, or which,
arising out of the principles of our common nature, must have existed alike in
either state of society. In this manner, a man of talent, and of great
antiquarian erudition, limited the popularity of his work, by excluding from it
every thing which was not sufficiently obsolete to be altogether forgotten and
unintelligible.

The license which I would here vindicate, is so necessary to the execution of
my plan, that I will crave your patience while I illustrate my argument a
little farther.

He who first opens Chaucer, or any other ancient poet, is so much struck with
the obsolete spelling, multiplied consonants, and antiquated appearance of the
language, that he is apt to lay the work down in despair, as encrusted too deep
with the rust of antiquity, to permit his judging of its merits or tasting its
beauties. But if some intelligent and accomplished friend points out to him,
that the difficulties by which he is startled are more in appearance than
reality, if, by reading aloud to him, or by reducing the ordinary words to the
modern orthography, he satisfies his proselyte that only about one-tenth part
of the words employed are in fact obsolete, the novice may be easily persuaded
to approach the “well of English undefiled,” with the certainty
that a slender degree of patience will enable him to to enjoy both the humour
and the pathos with which old Geoffrey delighted the age of Cressy and of
Poictiers.

To pursue this a little farther. If our neophyte, strong in the new-born love
of antiquity, were to undertake to imitate what he had learnt to admire, it
must be allowed he would act very injudiciously, if he were to select from the
Glossary the obsolete words which it contains, and employ those exclusively of
all phrases and vocables retained in modern days. This was the error of the
unfortunate Chatterton. In order to give his language the appearance of
antiquity, he rejected every word that was modern, and produced a dialect
entirely different from any that had ever been spoken in Great Britain. He who
would imitate an ancient language with success, must attend rather to its
grammatical character, turn of expression, and mode of arrangement, than labour
to collect extraordinary and antiquated terms, which, as I have already
averred, do not in ancient authors approach the number of words still in use,
though perhaps somewhat altered in sense and spelling, in the proportion of one
to ten.

What I have applied to language, is still more justly applicable to sentiments
and manners. The passions, the sources from which these must spring in all
their modifications, are generally the same in all ranks and conditions, all
countries and ages; and it follows, as a matter of course, that the opinions,
habits of thinking, and actions, however influenced by the peculiar state of
society, must still, upon the whole, bear a strong resemblance to each other.
Our ancestors were not more distinct from us, surely, than Jews are from
Christians; they had “eyes, hands, organs, dimensions, senses,
affections, passions;” were “fed with the same food, hurt with the
same weapons, subject to the same diseases, warmed and cooled by the same
winter and summer,” as ourselves. The tenor, therefore, of their
affections and feelings, must have borne the same general proportion to our
own.

It follows, therefore, that of the materials which an author has to use in a
romance, or fictitious composition, such as I have ventured to attempt, he will
find that a great proportion, both of language and manners, is as proper to the
present time as to those in which he has laid his time of action. The freedom
of choice which this allows him, is therefore much greater, and the difficulty
of his task much more diminished, than at first appears. To take an
illustration from a sister art, the antiquarian details may be said to
represent the peculiar features of a landscape under delineation of the pencil.
His feudal tower must arise in due majesty; the figures which he introduces
must have the costume and character of their age; the piece must represent the
peculiar features of the scene which he has chosen for his subject, with all
its appropriate elevation of rock, or precipitate descent of cataract. His
general colouring, too, must be copied from Nature: The sky must be clouded or
serene, according to the climate, and the general tints must be those which
prevail in a natural landscape. So far the painter is bound down by the rules
of his art, to a precise imitation of the features of Nature; but it is not
required that he should descend to copy all her more minute features, or
represent with absolute exactness the very herbs, flowers, and trees, with
which the spot is decorated. These, as well as all the more minute points of
light and shadow, are attributes proper to scenery in general, natural to each
situation, and subject to the artist’s disposal, as his taste or pleasure
may dictate.

It is true, that this license is confined in either case within legitimate
bounds. The painter must introduce no ornament inconsistent with the climate or
country of his landscape; he must not plant cypress trees upon Inch-Merrin, or
Scottish firs among the ruins of Persepolis; and the author lies under a
corresponding restraint. However far he may venture in a more full detail of
passions and feelings, than is to be found in the ancient compositions which he
imitates, he must introduce nothing inconsistent with the manners of the age;
his knights, squires, grooms, and yeomen, may be more fully drawn than in the
hard, dry delineations of an ancient illuminated manuscript, but the character
and costume of the age must remain inviolate; they must be the same figures,
drawn by a better pencil, or, to speak more modestly, executed in an age when
the principles of art were better understood. His language must not be
exclusively obsolete and unintelligible; but he should admit, if possible, no
word or turn of phraseology betraying an origin directly modern. It is one
thing to make use of the language and sentiments which are common to ourselves
and our forefathers, and it is another to invest them with the sentiments and
dialect exclusively proper to their descendants.

This, my dear friend, I have found the most difficult part of my task; and, to
speak frankly, I hardly expect to satisfy your less partial judgment, and more
extensive knowledge of such subjects, since I have hardly been able to please
my own.

I am conscious that I shall be found still more faulty in the tone of keeping
and costume, by those who may be disposed rigidly to examine my Tale, with
reference to the manners of the exact period in which my actors flourished: It
may be, that I have introduced little which can positively be termed modern;
but, on the other hand, it is extremely probable that I may have confused the
manners of two or three centuries, and introduced, during the reign of Richard
the First, circumstances appropriated to a period either considerably earlier,
or a good deal later than that era. It is my comfort, that errors of this kind
will escape the general class of readers, and that I may share in the
ill-deserved applause of those architects, who, in their modern Gothic, do not
hesitate to introduce, without rule or method, ornaments proper to different
styles and to different periods of the art. Those whose extensive researches
have given them the means of judging my backslidings with more severity, will
probably be lenient in proportion to their knowledge of the difficulty of my
task. My honest and neglected friend, Ingulphus, has furnished me with many a
valuable hint; but the light afforded by the Monk of Croydon, and Geoffrey de
Vinsauff, is dimmed by such a conglomeration of uninteresting and
unintelligible matter, that we gladly fly for relief to the delightful pages of
the gallant Froissart, although he flourished at a period so much more remote
from the date of my history. If, therefore, my dear friend, you have generosity
enough to pardon the presumptuous attempt, to frame for myself a minstrel
coronet, partly out of the pearls of pure antiquity, and partly from the
Bristol stones and paste, with which I have endeavoured to imitate them, I am
convinced your opinion of the difficulty of the task will reconcile you to the
imperfect manner of its execution.

Of my materials I have but little to say. They may be chiefly found in the
singular Anglo-Norman MS., which Sir Arthur Wardour preserves with such jealous
care in the third drawer of his oaken cabinet, scarcely allowing any one to
touch it, and being himself not able to read one syllable of its contents. I
should never have got his consent, on my visit to Scotland, to read in those
precious pages for so many hours, had I not promised to designate it by some
emphatic mode of printing, as {The Wardour Manuscript}; giving it, thereby, an
individuality as important as the Bannatyne MS., the Auchinleck MS., and any
other monument of the patience of a Gothic scrivener. I have sent, for your
private consideration, a list of the contents of this curious piece, which I
shall perhaps subjoin, with your approbation, to the third volume of my Tale,
in case the printer’s devil should continue impatient for copy, when the
whole of my narrative has been imposed.

Adieu, my dear friend; I have said enough to explain, if not to vindicate, the
attempt which I have made, and which, in spite of your doubts, and my own
incapacity, I am still willing to believe has not been altogether made in vain.

I hope you are now well recovered from your spring fit of the gout, and shall
be happy if the advice of your learned physician should recommend a tour to
these parts. Several curiosities have been lately dug up near the wall, as well
as at the ancient station of Habitancum. Talking of the latter, I suppose you
have long since heard the news, that a sulky churlish boor has destroyed the
ancient statue, or rather bas-relief, popularly called Robin of Redesdale. It
seems Robin’s fame attracted more visitants than was consistent with the
growth of the heather, upon a moor worth a shilling an acre. Reverend as you
write yourself, be revengeful for once, and pray with me that he may be visited
with such a fit of the stone, as if he had all the fragments of poor Robin in
that region of his viscera where the disease holds its seat. Tell this not in
Gath, lest the Scots rejoice that they have at length found a parallel instance
among their neighbours, to that barbarous deed which demolished Arthur’s
Oven. But there is no end to lamentation, when we betake ourselves to such
subjects. My respectful compliments attend Miss Dryasdust; I endeavoured to
match the spectacles agreeable to her commission, during my late journey to
London, and hope she has received them safe, and found them satisfactory. I
send this by the blind carrier, so that probably it may be some time upon its
journey. 6

The last news which I hear from Edinburgh is, that the gentleman who fills the
situation of Secretary to the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland, 7
is the best amateur draftsman in that kingdom, and that much is expected from
his skill and zeal in delineating those specimens of national antiquity, which
are either mouldering under the slow touch of time, or swept away by modern
taste, with the same besom of destruction which John Knox used at the
Reformation. Once more adieu; “vale tandem, non immemor mei”.
Believe me to be,

Reverend, and very dear Sir,

Your most faithful humble Servant.

Laurence Templeton.

Toppingwold, near Egremont, Cumberland, Nov. 17, 1817.

IVANHOE.

CHAPTER I

Thus communed these; while to their lowly dome,
The full-fed swine return’d with evening home;
Compell’d, reluctant, to the several sties,
With din obstreperous, and ungrateful cries.

POPE’S ODYSSEY

In that pleasant district of merry England which is watered by the river Don,
there extended in ancient times a large forest, covering the greater part of
the beautiful hills and valleys which lie between Sheffield and the pleasant
town of Doncaster. The remains of this extensive wood are still to be seen at
the noble seats of Wentworth, of Warncliffe Park, and around Rotherham. Here
haunted of yore the fabulous Dragon of Wantley; here were fought many of the
most desperate battles during the Civil Wars of the Roses; and here also
flourished in ancient times those bands of gallant outlaws, whose deeds have
been rendered so popular in English song.

Such being our chief scene, the date of our story refers to a period towards
the end of the reign of Richard I., when his return from his long captivity had
become an event rather wished than hoped for by his despairing subjects, who
were in the meantime subjected to every species of subordinate oppression. The
nobles, whose power had become exorbitant during the reign of Stephen, and whom
the prudence of Henry the Second had scarce reduced to some degree of
subjection to the crown, had now resumed their ancient license in its utmost
extent; despising the feeble interference of the English Council of State,
fortifying their castles, increasing the number of their dependants, reducing
all around them to a state of vassalage, and striving by every means in their
power, to place themselves each at the head of such forces as might enable him
to make a figure in the national convulsions which appeared to be impending.

The situation of the inferior gentry, or Franklins, as they were called, who,
by the law and spirit of the English constitution, were entitled to hold
themselves independent of feudal tyranny, became now unusually precarious. If,
as was most generally the case, they placed themselves under the protection of
any of the petty kings in their vicinity, accepted of feudal offices in his
household, or bound themselves by mutual treaties of alliance and protection,
to support him in his enterprises, they might indeed purchase temporary repose;
but it must be with the sacrifice of that independence which was so dear to
every English bosom, and at the certain hazard of being involved as a party in
whatever rash expedition the ambition of their protector might lead him to
undertake. On the other hand, such and so multiplied were the means of vexation
and oppression possessed by the great Barons, that they never wanted the
pretext, and seldom the will, to harass and pursue, even to the very edge of
destruction, any of their less powerful neighbours, who attempted to separate
themselves from their authority, and to trust for their protection, during the
dangers of the times, to their own inoffensive conduct, and to the laws of the
land.

A circumstance which greatly tended to enhance the tyranny of the nobility, and
the sufferings of the inferior classes, arose from the consequences of the
Conquest by Duke William of Normandy. Four generations had not sufficed to
blend the hostile blood of the Normans and Anglo-Saxons, or to unite, by common
language and mutual interests, two hostile races, one of which still felt the
elation of triumph, while the other groaned under all the consequences of
defeat. The power had been completely placed in the hands of the Norman
nobility, by the event of the battle of Hastings, and it had been used, as our
histories assure us, with no moderate hand. The whole race of Saxon princes and
nobles had been extirpated or disinherited, with few or no exceptions; nor were
the numbers great who possessed land in the country of their fathers, even as
proprietors of the second, or of yet inferior classes. The royal policy had
long been to weaken, by every means, legal or illegal, the strength of a part
of the population which was justly considered as nourishing the most inveterate
antipathy to their victor. All the monarchs of the Norman race had shown the
most marked predilection for their Norman subjects; the laws of the chase, and
many others equally unknown to the milder and more free spirit of the Saxon
constitution, had been fixed upon the necks of the subjugated inhabitants, to
add weight, as it were, to the feudal chains with which they were loaded. At
court, and in the castles of the great nobles, where the pomp and state of a
court was emulated, Norman-French was the only language employed; in courts of
law, the pleadings and judgments were delivered in the same tongue. In short,
French was the language of honour, of chivalry, and even of justice, while the
far more manly and expressive Anglo-Saxon was abandoned to the use of rustics
and hinds, who knew no other. Still, however, the necessary intercourse between
the lords of the soil, and those oppressed inferior beings by whom that soil
was cultivated, occasioned the gradual formation of a dialect, compounded
betwixt the French and the Anglo-Saxon, in which they could render themselves
mutually intelligible to each other; and from this necessity arose by degrees
the structure of our present English language, in which the speech of the
victors and the vanquished have been so happily blended together; and which has
since been so richly improved by importations from the classical languages, and
from those spoken by the southern nations of Europe.

This state of things I have thought it necessary to premise for the information
of the general reader, who might be apt to forget, that, although no great
historical events, such as war or insurrection, mark the existence of the
Anglo-Saxons as a separate people subsequent to the reign of William the
Second; yet the great national distinctions betwixt them and their conquerors,
the recollection of what they had formerly been, and to what they were now
reduced, continued down to the reign of Edward the Third, to keep open the
wounds which the Conquest had inflicted, and to maintain a line of separation
betwixt the descendants of the victor Normans and the vanquished Saxons.

The sun was setting upon one of the rich grassy glades of that forest, which we
have mentioned in the beginning of the chapter. Hundreds of broad-headed,
short-stemmed, wide-branched oaks, which had witnessed perhaps the stately
march of the Roman soldiery, flung their gnarled arms over a thick carpet of
the most delicious green sward; in some places they were intermingled with
beeches, hollies, and copsewood of various descriptions, so closely as totally
to intercept the level beams of the sinking sun; in others they receded from
each other, forming those long sweeping vistas, in the intricacy of which the
eye delights to lose itself, while imagination considers them as the paths to
yet wilder scenes of silvan solitude. Here the red rays of the sun shot a
broken and discoloured light, that partially hung upon the shattered boughs and
mossy trunks of the trees, and there they illuminated in brilliant patches the
portions of turf to which they made their way. A considerable open space, in
the midst of this glade, seemed formerly to have been dedicated to the rites of
Druidical superstition; for, on the summit of a hillock, so regular as to seem
artificial, there still remained part of a circle of rough unhewn stones, of
large dimensions. Seven stood upright; the rest had been dislodged from their
places, probably by the zeal of some convert to Christianity, and lay, some
prostrate near their former site, and others on the side of the hill. One large
stone only had found its way to the bottom, and in stopping the course of a
small brook, which glided smoothly round the foot of the eminence, gave, by its
opposition, a feeble voice of murmur to the placid and elsewhere silent
streamlet.

The human figures which completed this landscape, were in number two,
partaking, in their dress and appearance, of that wild and rustic character,
which belonged to the woodlands of the West-Riding of Yorkshire at that early
period. The eldest of these men had a stern, savage, and wild aspect. His
garment was of the simplest form imaginable, being a close jacket with sleeves,
composed of the tanned skin of some animal, on which the hair had been
originally left, but which had been worn off in so many places, that it would
have been difficult to distinguish from the patches that remained, to what
creature the fur had belonged. This primeval vestment reached from the throat
to the knees, and served at once all the usual purposes of body-clothing; there
was no wider opening at the collar, than was necessary to admit the passage of
the head, from which it may be inferred, that it was put on by slipping it over
the head and shoulders, in the manner of a modern shirt, or ancient hauberk.
Sandals, bound with thongs made of boars’ hide, protected the feet, and a
roll of thin leather was twined artificially round the legs, and, ascending
above the calf, left the knees bare, like those of a Scottish Highlander. To
make the jacket sit yet more close to the body, it was gathered at the middle
by a broad leathern belt, secured by a brass buckle; to one side of which was
attached a sort of scrip, and to the other a ram’s horn, accoutred with a
mouthpiece, for the purpose of blowing. In the same belt was stuck one of those
long, broad, sharp-pointed, and two-edged knives, with a buck’s-horn
handle, which were fabricated in the neighbourhood, and bore even at this early
period the name of a Sheffield whittle. The man had no covering upon his head,
which was only defended by his own thick hair, matted and twisted together, and
scorched by the influence of the sun into a rusty dark-red colour, forming a
contrast with the overgrown beard upon his cheeks, which was rather of a yellow
or amber hue. One part of his dress only remains, but it is too remarkable to
be suppressed; it was a brass ring, resembling a dog’s collar, but
without any opening, and soldered fast round his neck, so loose as to form no
impediment to his breathing, yet so tight as to be incapable of being removed,
excepting by the use of the file. On this singular gorget was engraved, in
Saxon characters, an inscription of the following purport:—“Gurth,
the son of Beowulph, is the born thrall of Cedric of Rotherwood.”

Beside the swine-herd, for such was Gurth’s occupation, was seated, upon
one of the fallen Druidical monuments, a person about ten years younger in
appearance, and whose dress, though resembling his companion’s in form,
was of better materials, and of a more fantastic appearance. His jacket had
been stained of a bright purple hue, upon which there had been some attempt to
paint grotesque ornaments in different colours. To the jacket he added a short
cloak, which scarcely reached half way down his thigh; it was of crimson cloth,
though a good deal soiled, lined with bright yellow; and as he could transfer
it from one shoulder to the other, or at his pleasure draw it all around him,
its width, contrasted with its want of longitude, formed a fantastic piece of
drapery. He had thin silver bracelets upon his arms, and on his neck a collar
of the same metal bearing the inscription, “Wamba, the son of Witless, is
the thrall of Cedric of Rotherwood.” This personage had the same sort of
sandals with his companion, but instead of the roll of leather thong, his legs
were cased in a sort of gaiters, of which one was red and the other yellow. He
was provided also with a cap, having around it more than one bell, about the
size of those attached to hawks, which jingled as he turned his head to one
side or other; and as he seldom remained a minute in the same posture, the
sound might be considered as incessant. Around the edge of this cap was a stiff
bandeau of leather, cut at the top into open work, resembling a coronet, while
a prolonged bag arose from within it, and fell down on one shoulder like an
old-fashioned nightcap, or a jelly-bag, or the head-gear of a modern hussar. It
was to this part of the cap that the bells were attached; which circumstance,
as well as the shape of his head-dress, and his own half-crazed, half-cunning
expression of countenance, sufficiently pointed him out as belonging to the
race of domestic clowns or jesters, maintained in the houses of the wealthy, to
help away the tedium of those lingering hours which they were obliged to spend
within doors. He bore, like his companion, a scrip, attached to his belt, but
had neither horn nor knife, being probably considered as belonging to a class
whom it is esteemed dangerous to intrust with edge-tools. In place of these, he
was equipped with a sword of lath, resembling that with which Harlequin
operates his wonders upon the modern stage.

The outward appearance of these two men formed scarce a stronger contrast than
their look and demeanour. That of the serf, or bondsman, was sad and sullen;
his aspect was bent on the ground with an appearance of deep dejection, which
might be almost construed into apathy, had not the fire which occasionally
sparkled in his red eye manifested that there slumbered, under the appearance
of sullen despondency, a sense of oppression, and a disposition to resistance.
The looks of Wamba, on the other hand, indicated, as usual with his class, a
sort of vacant curiosity, and fidgetty impatience of any posture of repose,
together with the utmost self-satisfaction respecting his own situation, and
the appearance which he made. The dialogue which they maintained between them,
was carried on in Anglo-Saxon, which, as we said before, was universally spoken
by the inferior classes, excepting the Norman soldiers, and the immediate
personal dependants of the great feudal nobles. But to give their conversation
in the original would convey but little information to the modern reader, for
whose benefit we beg to offer the following translation:

“The curse of St Withold upon these infernal porkers!” said the
swine-herd, after blowing his horn obstreperously, to collect together the
scattered herd of swine, which, answering his call with notes equally
melodious, made, however, no haste to remove themselves from the luxurious
banquet of beech-mast and acorns on which they had fattened, or to forsake the
marshy banks of the rivulet, where several of them, half plunged in mud, lay
stretched at their ease, altogether regardless of the voice of their keeper.
“The curse of St Withold upon them and upon me!” said Gurth;
“if the two-legged wolf snap not up some of them ere nightfall, I am no
true man. Here, Fangs! Fangs!” he ejaculated at the top of his voice to a
ragged wolfish-looking dog, a sort of lurcher, half mastiff, half greyhound,
which ran limping about as if with the purpose of seconding his master in
collecting the refractory grunters; but which, in fact, from misapprehension of
the swine-herd’s signals, ignorance of his own duty, or malice prepense,
only drove them hither and thither, and increased the evil which he seemed to
design to remedy. “A devil draw the teeth of him,” said Gurth,
“and the mother of mischief confound the Ranger of the forest, that cuts
the foreclaws off our dogs, and makes them unfit for their trade! 8
Wamba, up and help me an thou be’st a man; take a turn round the back
o’ the hill to gain the wind on them; and when thous’t got the
weather-gage, thou mayst drive them before thee as gently as so many innocent
lambs.”

“Truly,” said Wamba, without stirring from the spot, “I have
consulted my legs upon this matter, and they are altogether of opinion, that to
carry my gay garments through these sloughs, would be an act of unfriendship to
my sovereign person and royal wardrobe; wherefore, Gurth, I advise thee to call
off Fangs, and leave the herd to their destiny, which, whether they meet with
bands of travelling soldiers, or of outlaws, or of wandering pilgrims, can be
little else than to be converted into Normans before morning, to thy no small
ease and comfort.”

“The swine turned Normans to my comfort!” quoth Gurth;
“expound that to me, Wamba, for my brain is too dull, and my mind too
vexed, to read riddles.”

“Why, how call you those grunting brutes running about on their four
legs?” demanded Wamba.

“Swine, fool, swine,” said the herd, “every fool knows
that.”

“And swine is good Saxon,” said the Jester; “but how call you
the sow when she is flayed, and drawn, and quartered, and hung up by the heels,
like a traitor?”

“Pork,” answered the swine-herd.

“I am very glad every fool knows that too,” said Wamba, “and
pork, I think, is good Norman-French; and so when the brute lives, and is in
the charge of a Saxon slave, she goes by her Saxon name; but becomes a Norman,
and is called pork, when she is carried to the Castle-hall to feast among the
nobles; what dost thou think of this, friend Gurth, ha?”

“It is but too true doctrine, friend Wamba, however it got into thy
fool’s pate.”

“Nay, I can tell you more,” said Wamba, in the same tone;
“there is old Alderman Ox continues to hold his Saxon epithet, while he
is under the charge of serfs and bondsmen such as thou, but becomes Beef, a
fiery French gallant, when he arrives before the worshipful jaws that are
destined to consume him. Mynheer Calf, too, becomes Monsieur de Veau in the
like manner; he is Saxon when he requires tendance, and takes a Norman name
when he becomes matter of enjoyment.”

“By St Dunstan,” answered Gurth, “thou speakest but sad
truths; little is left to us but the air we breathe, and that appears to have
been reserved with much hesitation, solely for the purpose of enabling us to
endure the tasks they lay upon our shoulders. The finest and the fattest is for
their board; the loveliest is for their couch; the best and bravest supply
their foreign masters with soldiers, and whiten distant lands with their bones,
leaving few here who have either will or the power to protect the unfortunate
Saxon. God’s blessing on our master Cedric, he hath done the work of a
man in standing in the gap; but Reginald Front-de-Bœuf is coming down to this
country in person, and we shall soon see how little Cedric’s trouble will
avail him.—Here, here,” he exclaimed again, raising his voice,
“So ho! so ho! well done, Fangs! thou hast them all before thee now, and
bring’st them on bravely, lad.”

“Gurth,” said the Jester, “I know thou thinkest me a fool, or
thou wouldst not be so rash in putting thy head into my mouth. One word to
Reginald Front-de-Bœuf, or Philip de Malvoisin, that thou hast spoken treason
against the Norman,—and thou art but a cast-away swineherd,—thou
wouldst waver on one of these trees as a terror to all evil speakers against
dignities.”

“Dog, thou wouldst not betray me,” said Gurth, “after having
led me on to speak so much at disadvantage?”

“Betray thee!” answered the Jester; “no, that were the trick
of a wise man; a fool cannot half so well help himself—but soft, whom
have we here?” he said, listening to the trampling of several horses
which became then audible.

“Never mind whom,” answered Gurth, who had now got his herd before
him, and, with the aid of Fangs, was driving them down one of the long dim
vistas which we have endeavoured to describe.

“Nay, but I must see the riders,” answered Wamba; “perhaps
they are come from Fairy-land with a message from King Oberon.”

“A murrain take thee,” rejoined the swine-herd; “wilt thou
talk of such things, while a terrible storm of thunder and lightning is raging
within a few miles of us? Hark, how the thunder rumbles! and for summer rain, I
never saw such broad downright flat drops fall out of the clouds; the oaks,
too, notwithstanding the calm weather, sob and creak with their great boughs as
if announcing a tempest. Thou canst play the rational if thou wilt; credit me
for once, and let us home ere the storm begins to rage, for the night will be
fearful.”

Wamba seemed to feel the force of this appeal, and accompanied his companion,
who began his journey after catching up a long quarter-staff which lay upon the
grass beside him. This second Eumaeus strode hastily down the forest glade,
driving before him, with the assistance of Fangs, the whole herd of his
inharmonious charge.

CHAPTER II

A Monk there was, a fayre for the maistrie,
An outrider that loved venerie;
A manly man, to be an Abbot able,
Full many a daintie horse had he in stable:
And whan he rode, men might his bridle hear
Gingeling in a whistling wind as clear,
And eke as loud, as doth the chapell bell,
There as this lord was keeper of the cell.

CHAUCER

Notwithstanding the occasional exhortation and chiding of his companion, the
noise of the horsemen’s feet continuing to approach, Wamba could not be
prevented from lingering occasionally on the road, upon every pretence which
occurred; now catching from the hazel a cluster of half-ripe nuts, and now
turning his head to leer after a cottage maiden who crossed their path. The
horsemen, therefore, soon overtook them on the road.

Their numbers amounted to ten men, of whom the two who rode foremost seemed to
be persons of considerable importance, and the others their attendants. It was
not difficult to ascertain the condition and character of one of these
personages. He was obviously an ecclesiastic of high rank; his dress was that
of a Cistercian Monk, but composed of materials much finer than those which the
rule of that order admitted. His mantle and hood were of the best Flanders
cloth, and fell in ample, and not ungraceful folds, around a handsome, though
somewhat corpulent person. His countenance bore as little the marks of
self-denial, as his habit indicated contempt of worldly splendour. His features
might have been called good, had there not lurked under the pent-house of his
eye, that sly epicurean twinkle which indicates the cautious voluptuary. In
other respects, his profession and situation had taught him a ready command
over his countenance, which he could contract at pleasure into solemnity,
although its natural expression was that of good-humoured social indulgence. In
defiance of conventual rules, and the edicts of popes and councils, the sleeves
of this dignitary were lined and turned up with rich furs, his mantle secured
at the throat with a golden clasp, and the whole dress proper to his order as
much refined upon and ornamented, as that of a quaker beauty of the present
day, who, while she retains the garb and costume of her sect continues to give
to its simplicity, by the choice of materials and the mode of disposing them, a
certain air of coquettish attraction, savouring but too much of the vanities of
the world.

This worthy churchman rode upon a well-fed ambling mule, whose furniture was
highly decorated, and whose bridle, according to the fashion of the day, was
ornamented with silver bells. In his seat he had nothing of the awkwardness of
the convent, but displayed the easy and habitual grace of a well-trained
horseman. Indeed, it seemed that so humble a conveyance as a mule, in however
good case, and however well broken to a pleasant and accommodating amble, was
only used by the gallant monk for travelling on the road. A lay brother, one of
those who followed in the train, had, for his use on other occasions, one of
the most handsome Spanish jennets ever bred at Andalusia, which merchants used
at that time to import, with great trouble and risk, for the use of persons of
wealth and distinction. The saddle and housings of this superb palfrey were
covered by a long foot-cloth, which reached nearly to the ground, and on which
were richly embroidered, mitres, crosses, and other ecclesiastical emblems.
Another lay brother led a sumpter mule, loaded probably with his
superior’s baggage; and two monks of his own order, of inferior station,
rode together in the rear, laughing and conversing with each other, without
taking much notice of the other members of the cavalcade.

The companion of the church dignitary was a man past forty, thin, strong, tall,
and muscular; an athletic figure, which long fatigue and constant exercise
seemed to have left none of the softer part of the human form, having reduced
the whole to brawn, bones, and sinews, which had sustained a thousand toils,
and were ready to dare a thousand more. His head was covered with a scarlet
cap, faced with fur—of that kind which the French call
“mortier”, from its resemblance to the shape of an inverted mortar.
His countenance was therefore fully displayed, and its expression was
calculated to impress a degree of awe, if not of fear, upon strangers. High
features, naturally strong and powerfully expressive, had been burnt almost
into Negro blackness by constant exposure to the tropical sun, and might, in
their ordinary state, be said to slumber after the storm of passion had passed
away; but the projection of the veins of the forehead, the readiness with which
the upper lip and its thick black moustaches quivered upon the slightest
emotion, plainly intimated that the tempest might be again and easily awakened.
His keen, piercing, dark eyes, told in every glance a history of difficulties
subdued, and dangers dared, and seemed to challenge opposition to his wishes,
for the pleasure of sweeping it from his road by a determined exertion of
courage and of will; a deep scar on his brow gave additional sternness to his
countenance, and a sinister expression to one of his eyes, which had been
slightly injured on the same occasion, and of which the vision, though perfect,
was in a slight and partial degree distorted.

The upper dress of this personage resembled that of his companion in shape,
being a long monastic mantle; but the colour, being scarlet, showed that he did
not belong to any of the four regular orders of monks. On the right shoulder of
the mantle there was cut, in white cloth, a cross of a peculiar form. This
upper robe concealed what at first view seemed rather inconsistent with its
form, a shirt, namely, of linked mail, with sleeves and gloves of the same,
curiously plaited and interwoven, as flexible to the body as those which are
now wrought in the stocking-loom, out of less obdurate materials. The fore-part
of his thighs, where the folds of his mantle permitted them to be seen, were
also covered with linked mail; the knees and feet were defended by splints, or
thin plates of steel, ingeniously jointed upon each other; and mail hose,
reaching from the ankle to the knee, effectually protected the legs, and
completed the rider’s defensive armour. In his girdle he wore a long and
double-edged dagger, which was the only offensive weapon about his person.

He rode, not a mule, like his companion, but a strong hackney for the road, to
save his gallant war-horse, which a squire led behind, fully accoutred for
battle, with a chamfron or plaited head-piece upon his head, having a short
spike projecting from the front. On one side of the saddle hung a short
battle-axe, richly inlaid with Damascene carving; on the other the
rider’s plumed head-piece and hood of mail, with a long two-handed sword,
used by the chivalry of the period. A second squire held aloft his
master’s lance, from the extremity of which fluttered a small banderole,
or streamer, bearing a cross of the same form with that embroidered upon his
cloak. He also carried his small triangular shield, broad enough at the top to
protect the breast, and from thence diminishing to a point. It was covered with
a scarlet cloth, which prevented the device from being seen.

These two squires were followed by two attendants, whose dark visages, white
turbans, and the Oriental form of their garments, showed them to be natives of
some distant Eastern country. 9

The whole appearance of this warrior and his retinue was wild and outlandish;
the dress of his squires was gorgeous, and his Eastern attendants wore silver
collars round their throats, and bracelets of the same metal upon their swarthy
arms and legs, of which the former were naked from the elbow, and the latter
from mid-leg to ankle. Silk and embroidery distinguished their dresses, and
marked the wealth and importance of their master; forming, at the same time, a
striking contrast with the martial simplicity of his own attire. They were
armed with crooked sabres, having the hilt and baldric inlaid with gold, and
matched with Turkish daggers of yet more costly workmanship. Each of them bore
at his saddle-bow a bundle of darts or javelins, about four feet in length,
having sharp steel heads, a weapon much in use among the Saracens, and of which
the memory is yet preserved in the martial exercise called “El
Jerrid”, still practised in the Eastern countries.

The steeds of these attendants were in appearance as foreign as their riders.
They were of Saracen origin, and consequently of Arabian descent; and their
fine slender limbs, small fetlocks, thin manes, and easy springy motion, formed
a marked contrast with the large-jointed, heavy horses, of which the race was
cultivated in Flanders and in Normandy, for mounting the men-at-arms of the
period in all the panoply of plate and mail; and which, placed by the side of
those Eastern coursers, might have passed for a personification of substance
and of shadow.

The singular appearance of this cavalcade not only attracted the curiosity of
Wamba, but excited even that of his less volatile companion. The monk he
instantly knew to be the Prior of Jorvaulx Abbey, well known for many miles
around as a lover of the chase, of the banquet, and, if fame did him not wrong,
of other worldly pleasures still more inconsistent with his monastic vows.

Yet so loose were the ideas of the times respecting the conduct of the clergy,
whether secular or regular, that the Prior Aymer maintained a fair character in
the neighbourhood of his abbey. His free and jovial temper, and the readiness
with which he granted absolution from all ordinary delinquencies, rendered him
a favourite among the nobility and principal gentry, to several of whom he was
allied by birth, being of a distinguished Norman family. The ladies, in
particular, were not disposed to scan too nicely the morals of a man who was a
professed admirer of their sex, and who possessed many means of dispelling the
ennui which was too apt to intrude upon the halls and bowers of an ancient
feudal castle. The Prior mingled in the sports of the field with more than due
eagerness, and was allowed to possess the best-trained hawks, and the fleetest
greyhounds in the North Riding; circumstances which strongly recommended him to
the youthful gentry. With the old, he had another part to play, which, when
needful, he could sustain with great decorum. His knowledge of books, however
superficial, was sufficient to impress upon their ignorance respect for his
supposed learning; and the gravity of his deportment and language, with the
high tone which he exerted in setting forth the authority of the church and of
the priesthood, impressed them no less with an opinion of his sanctity. Even
the common people, the severest critics of the conduct of their betters, had
commiseration with the follies of Prior Aymer. He was generous; and charity, as
it is well known, covereth a multitude of sins, in another sense than that in
which it is said to do so in Scripture. The revenues of the monastery, of which
a large part was at his disposal, while they gave him the means of supplying
his own very considerable expenses, afforded also those largesses which he
bestowed among the peasantry, and with which he frequently relieved the
distresses of the oppressed. If Prior Aymer rode hard in the chase, or remained
long at the banquet,—if Prior Aymer was seen, at the early peep of dawn,
to enter the postern of the abbey, as he glided home from some rendezvous which
had occupied the hours of darkness, men only shrugged up their shoulders, and
reconciled themselves to his irregularities, by recollecting that the same were
practised by many of his brethren who had no redeeming qualities whatsoever to
atone for them. Prior Aymer, therefore, and his character, were well known to
our Saxon serfs, who made their rude obeisance, and received his
“benedicite, mes filz,” in return.

But the singular appearance of his companion and his attendants, arrested their
attention and excited their wonder, and they could scarcely attend to the Prior
of Jorvaulx’ question, when he demanded if they knew of any place of
harbourage in the vicinity; so much were they surprised at the half monastic,
half military appearance of the swarthy stranger, and at the uncouth dress and
arms of his Eastern attendants. It is probable, too, that the language in which
the benediction was conferred, and the information asked, sounded ungracious,
though not probably unintelligible, in the ears of the Saxon peasants.

“I asked you, my children,” said the Prior, raising his voice, and
using the lingua Franca, or mixed language, in which the Norman and Saxon races
conversed with each other, “if there be in this neighbourhood any good
man, who, for the love of God, and devotion to Mother Church, will give two of
her humblest servants, with their train, a night’s hospitality and
refreshment?”

This he spoke with a tone of conscious importance, which formed a strong
contrast to the modest terms which he thought it proper to employ.

“Two of the humblest servants of Mother Church!” repeated Wamba to
himself,—but, fool as he was, taking care not to make his observation
audible; “I should like to see her seneschals, her chief butlers, and
other principal domestics!”

After this internal commentary on the Prior’s speech, he raised his eyes,
and replied to the question which had been put.

“If the reverend fathers,” he said, “loved good cheer and
soft lodging, few miles of riding would carry them to the Priory of Brinxworth,
where their quality could not but secure them the most honourable reception; or
if they preferred spending a penitential evening, they might turn down yonder
wild glade, which would bring them to the hermitage of Copmanhurst, where a
pious anchoret would make them sharers for the night of the shelter of his roof
and the benefit of his prayers.”

The Prior shook his head at both proposals.

“Mine honest friend,” said he, “if the jangling of thy bells
had not dizzied thine understanding, thou mightst know “Clericus clericum
non decimat”; that is to say, we churchmen do not exhaust each
other’s hospitality, but rather require that of the laity, giving them
thus an opportunity to serve God in honouring and relieving his appointed
servants.”

“It is true,” replied Wamba, “that I, being but an ass, am,
nevertheless, honoured to hear the bells as well as your reverence’s
mule; notwithstanding, I did conceive that the charity of Mother Church and her
servants might be said, with other charity, to begin at home.”

“A truce to thine insolence, fellow,” said the armed rider,
breaking in on his prattle with a high and stern voice, “and tell us, if
thou canst, the road to—How call’d you your Franklin, Prior
Aymer?”

“Cedric,” answered the Prior; “Cedric the Saxon.—Tell
me, good fellow, are we near his dwelling, and can you show us the road?”

“The road will be uneasy to find,” answered Gurth, who broke
silence for the first time, “and the family of Cedric retire early to
rest.”

“Tush, tell not me, fellow,” said the military rider;
“’tis easy for them to arise and supply the wants of travellers
such as we are, who will not stoop to beg the hospitality which we have a right
to command.”

“I know not,” said Gurth, sullenly, “if I should show the way
to my master’s house, to those who demand as a right, the shelter which
most are fain to ask as a favour.”

“Do you dispute with me, slave!” said the soldier; and, setting
spurs to his horse, he caused him make a demivolte across the path, raising at
the same time the riding rod which he held in his hand, with a purpose of
chastising what he considered as the insolence of the peasant.

Gurth darted at him a savage and revengeful scowl, and with a fierce, yet
hesitating motion, laid his hand on the haft of his knife; but the interference
of Prior Aymer, who pushed his mule betwixt his companion and the swineherd,
prevented the meditated violence.

“Nay, by St Mary, brother Brian, you must not think you are now in
Palestine, predominating over heathen Turks and infidel Saracens; we islanders
love not blows, save those of holy Church, who chasteneth whom she
loveth.—Tell me, good fellow,” said he to Wamba, and seconded his
speech by a small piece of silver coin, “the way to Cedric the
Saxon’s; you cannot be ignorant of it, and it is your duty to direct the
wanderer even when his character is less sanctified than ours.”

“In truth, venerable father,” answered the Jester, “the
Saracen head of your right reverend companion has frightened out of mine the
way home—I am not sure I shall get there to-night myself.”

“Tush,” said the Abbot, “thou canst tell us if thou wilt.
This reverend brother has been all his life engaged in fighting among the
Saracens for the recovery of the Holy Sepulchre; he is of the order of Knights
Templars, whom you may have heard of; he is half a monk, half a soldier.”

“If he is but half a monk,” said the Jester, “he should not
be wholly unreasonable with those whom he meets upon the road, even if they
should be in no hurry to answer questions that no way concern them.”

“I forgive thy wit,” replied the Abbot, “on condition thou
wilt show me the way to Cedric’s mansion.”

“Well, then,” answered Wamba, “your reverences must hold on
this path till you come to a sunken cross, of which scarce a cubit’s
length remains above ground; then take the path to the left, for there are four
which meet at Sunken Cross, and I trust your reverences will obtain shelter
before the storm comes on.”

The Abbot thanked his sage adviser; and the cavalcade, setting spurs to their
horses, rode on as men do who wish to reach their inn before the bursting of a
night-storm. As their horses’ hoofs died away, Gurth said to his
companion, “If they follow thy wise direction, the reverend fathers will
hardly reach Rotherwood this night.”

“No,” said the Jester, grinning, “but they may reach
Sheffield if they have good luck, and that is as fit a place for them. I am not
so bad a woodsman as to show the dog where the deer lies, if I have no mind he
should chase him.”

“Thou art right,” said Gurth; “it were ill that Aymer saw the
Lady Rowena; and it were worse, it may be, for Cedric to quarrel, as is most
likely he would, with this military monk. But, like good servants let us hear
and see, and say nothing.”

We return to the riders, who had soon left the bondsmen far behind them, and
who maintained the following conversation in the Norman-French language,
usually employed by the superior classes, with the exception of the few who
were still inclined to boast their Saxon descent.

“What mean these fellows by their capricious insolence?” said the
Templar to the Benedictine, “and why did you prevent me from chastising
it?”

“Marry, brother Brian,” replied the Prior, “touching the one
of them, it were hard for me to render a reason for a fool speaking according
to his folly; and the other churl is of that savage, fierce, intractable race,
some of whom, as I have often told you, are still to be found among the
descendants of the conquered Saxons, and whose supreme pleasure it is to
testify, by all means in their power, their aversion to their
conquerors.”

“I would soon have beat him into courtesy,” observed Brian;
“I am accustomed to deal with such spirits: Our Turkish captives are as
fierce and intractable as Odin himself could have been; yet two months in my
household, under the management of my master of the slaves, has made them
humble, submissive, serviceable, and observant of your will. Marry, sir, you
must be aware of the poison and the dagger; for they use either with free will
when you give them the slightest opportunity.”

“Ay, but,” answered Prior Aymer, “every land has its own
manners and fashions; and, besides that beating this fellow could procure us no
information respecting the road to Cedric’s house, it would have been
sure to have established a quarrel betwixt you and him had we found our way
thither. Remember what I told you: this wealthy franklin is proud, fierce,
jealous, and irritable, a withstander of the nobility, and even of his
neighbors, Reginald Front-de-Bœuf and Philip Malvoisin, who are no babies to
strive with. He stands up sternly for the privileges of his race, and is so
proud of his uninterrupted descend from Hereward, a renowned champion of the
Heptarchy, that he is universally called Cedric the Saxon; and makes a boast of
his belonging to a people from whom many others endeaver to hide their descent,
lest they should encounter a share of the ‘vae victis,’ or
severities imposed upon the vanquished.”

“Prior Aymer,” said the Templar, “you are a man of gallantry,
learned in the study of beauty, and as expert as a troubadour in all matters
concerning the ‘arrets’ of love; but I shall expect much beauty in
this celebrated Rowena to counterbalance the self-denial and forbearance which
I must exert if I am to court the favor of such a seditious churl as you have
described her father Cedric.”

“Cedric is not her father,” replied the Prior, “and is but of
remote relation: she is descended from higher blood than even he pretends to,
and is but distantly connected with him by birth. Her guardian, however, he is,
self-constituted as I believe; but his ward is as dear to him as if she were
his own child. Of her beauty you shall soon be judge; and if the purity of her
complexion, and the majestic, yet soft expression of a mild blue eye, do not
chase from your memory the black-tressed girls of Palestine, ay, or the houris
of old Mahound’s paradise, I am an infidel, and no true son of the
church.”

“Should your boasted beauty,” said the Templar, “be weighed
in the balance and found wanting, you know our wager?”

“My gold collar,” answered the Prior, “against ten butts of
Chian wine;—they are mine as securely as if they were already in the
convent vaults, under the key of old Dennis the cellarer.”

“And I am myself to be judge,” said the Templar, “and am only
to be convicted on my own admission, that I have seen no maiden so beautiful
since Pentecost was a twelvemonth. Ran it not so?—Prior, your collar is
in danger; I will wear it over my gorget in the lists of
Ashby-de-la-Zouche.”

“Win it fairly,” said the Prior, “and wear it as ye will; I
will trust your giving true response, on your word as a knight and as a
churchman. Yet, brother, take my advice, and file your tongue to a little more
courtesy than your habits of predominating over infidel captives and Eastern
bondsmen have accustomed you. Cedric the Saxon, if offended,—and he is
noway slack in taking offence,—is a man who, without respect to your
knighthood, my high office, or the sanctity of either, would clear his house of
us, and send us to lodge with the larks, though the hour were midnight. And be
careful how you look on Rowena, whom he cherishes with the most jealous care;
an he take the least alarm in that quarter we are but lost men. It is said he
banished his only son from his family for lifting his eyes in the way of
affection towards this beauty, who may be worshipped, it seems, at a distance,
but is not to be approached with other thoughts than such as we bring to the
shrine of the Blessed Virgin.”

“Well, you have said enough,” answered the Templar; “I will
for a night put on the needful restraint, and deport me as meekly as a maiden;
but as for the fear of his expelling us by violence, myself and squires, with
Hamet and Abdalla, will warrant you against that disgrace. Doubt not that we
shall be strong enough to make good our quarters.”

“We must not let it come so far,” answered the Prior; “but
here is the clown’s sunken cross, and the night is so dark that we can
hardly see which of the roads we are to follow. He bid us turn, I think to the
left.”

“To the right,” said Brian, “to the best of my
remembrance.”

“To the left, certainly, the left; I remember his pointing with his
wooden sword.”

“Ay, but he held his sword in his left hand, and so pointed across his
body with it,” said the Templar.

Each maintained his opinion with sufficient obstinacy, as is usual in all such
cases; the attendants were appealed to, but they had not been near enough to
hear Wamba’s directions. At length Brian remarked, what had at first
escaped him in the twilight; “Here is some one either asleep, or lying
dead at the foot of this cross—Hugo, stir him with the butt-end of thy
lance.”

This was no sooner done than the figure arose, exclaiming in good French,
“Whosoever thou art, it is discourteous in you to disturb my
thoughts.”

“We did but wish to ask you,” said the Prior, “the road to
Rotherwood, the abode of Cedric the Saxon.”

“I myself am bound thither,” replied the stranger; “and if I
had a horse, I would be your guide, for the way is somewhat intricate, though
perfectly well known to me.”

“Thou shalt have both thanks and reward, my friend,” said the
Prior, “if thou wilt bring us to Cedric’s in safety.”

And he caused one of his attendants to mount his own led horse, and give that
upon which he had hitherto ridden to the stranger, who was to serve for a
guide.

Their conductor pursued an opposite road from that which Wamba had recommended,
for the purpose of misleading them. The path soon led deeper into the woodland,
and crossed more than one brook, the approach to which was rendered perilous by
the marshes through which it flowed; but the stranger seemed to know, as if by
instinct, the soundest ground and the safest points of passage; and by dint of
caution and attention, brought the party safely into a wilder avenue than any
they had yet seen; and, pointing to a large low irregular building at the upper
extremity, he said to the Prior, “Yonder is Rotherwood, the dwelling of
Cedric the Saxon.”

This was a joyful intimation to Aymer, whose nerves were none of the strongest,
and who had suffered such agitation and alarm in the course of passing through
the dangerous bogs, that he had not yet had the curiosity to ask his guide a
single question. Finding himself now at his ease and near shelter, his
curiosity began to awake, and he demanded of the guide who and what he was.

“A Palmer, just returned from the Holy Land,” was the answer.

“You had better have tarried there to fight for the recovery of the Holy
Sepulchre,” said the Templar.

“True, Reverend Sir Knight,” answered the Palmer, to whom the
appearance of the Templar seemed perfectly familiar; “but when those who
are under oath to recover the holy city, are found travelling at such a
distance from the scene of their duties, can you wonder that a peaceful peasant
like me should decline the task which they have abandoned?”

The Templar would have made an angry reply, but was interrupted by the Prior,
who again expressed his astonishment, that their guide, after such long
absence, should be so perfectly acquainted with the passes of the forest.

“I was born a native of these parts,” answered their guide, and as
he made the reply they stood before the mansion of Cedric;—a low
irregular building, containing several court-yards or enclosures, extending
over a considerable space of ground, and which, though its size argued the
inhabitant to be a person of wealth, differed entirely from the tall,
turretted, and castellated buildings in which the Norman nobility resided, and
which had become the universal style of architecture throughout England.

Rotherwood was not, however, without defences; no habitation, in that disturbed
period, could have been so, without the risk of being plundered and burnt
before the next morning. A deep fosse, or ditch, was drawn round the whole
building, and filled with water from a neighbouring stream. A double stockade,
or palisade, composed of pointed beams, which the adjacent forest supplied,
defended the outer and inner bank of the trench. There was an entrance from the
west through the outer stockade, which communicated by a drawbridge, with a
similar opening in the interior defences. Some precautions had been taken to
place those entrances under the protection of projecting angles, by which they
might be flanked in case of need by archers or slingers.

Before this entrance the Templar wound his horn loudly; for the rain, which had
long threatened, began now to descend with great violence.

CHAPTER III

Then (sad relief!) from the bleak coast that hears
The German Ocean roar, deep-blooming, strong,
And yellow hair’d, the blue-eyed Saxon came.

THOMSON’S LIBERTY

In a hall, the height of which was greatly disproportioned to its extreme
length and width, a long oaken table, formed of planks rough-hewn from the
forest, and which had scarcely received any polish, stood ready prepared for
the evening meal of Cedric the Saxon. The roof, composed of beams and rafters,
had nothing to divide the apartment from the sky excepting the planking and
thatch; there was a huge fireplace at either end of the hall, but as the
chimneys were constructed in a very clumsy manner, at least as much of the
smoke found its way into the apartment as escaped by the proper vent. The
constant vapour which this occasioned, had polished the rafters and beams of
the low-browed hall, by encrusting them with a black varnish of soot. On the
sides of the apartment hung implements of war and of the chase, and there were
at each corner folding doors, which gave access to other parts of the extensive
building.

The other appointments of the mansion partook of the rude simplicity of the
Saxon period, which Cedric piqued himself upon maintaining. The floor was
composed of earth mixed with lime, trodden into a hard substance, such as is
often employed in flooring our modern barns. For about one quarter of the
length of the apartment, the floor was raised by a step, and this space, which
was called the dais, was occupied only by the principal members of the family,
and visitors of distinction. For this purpose, a table richly covered with
scarlet cloth was placed transversely across the platform, from the middle of
which ran the longer and lower board, at which the domestics and inferior
persons fed, down towards the bottom of the hall. The whole resembled the form
of the letter T, or some of those ancient dinner-tables, which, arranged on the
same principles, may be still seen in the antique Colleges of Oxford or
Cambridge. Massive chairs and settles of carved oak were placed upon the dais,
and over these seats and the more elevated table was fastened a canopy of
cloth, which served in some degree to protect the dignitaries who occupied that
distinguished station from the weather, and especially from the rain, which in
some places found its way through the ill-constructed roof.

The walls of this upper end of the hall, as far as the dais extended, were
covered with hangings or curtains, and upon the floor there was a carpet, both
of which were adorned with some attempts at tapestry, or embroidery, executed
with brilliant or rather gaudy colouring. Over the lower range of table, the
roof, as we have noticed, had no covering; the rough plastered walls were left
bare, and the rude earthen floor was uncarpeted; the board was uncovered by a
cloth, and rude massive benches supplied the place of chairs.

In the centre of the upper table, were placed two chairs more elevated than the
rest, for the master and mistress of the family, who presided over the scene of
hospitality, and from doing so derived their Saxon title of honour, which
signifies “the Dividers of Bread.”

To each of these chairs was added a footstool, curiously carved and inlaid with
ivory, which mark of distinction was peculiar to them. One of these seats was
at present occupied by Cedric the Saxon, who, though but in rank a thane, or,
as the Normans called him, a Franklin, felt, at the delay of his evening meal,
an irritable impatience, which might have become an alderman, whether of
ancient or of modern times.

It appeared, indeed, from the countenance of this proprietor, that he was of a
frank, but hasty and choleric temper. He was not above the middle stature, but
broad-shouldered, long-armed, and powerfully made, like one accustomed to
endure the fatigue of war or of the chase; his face was broad, with large blue
eyes, open and frank features, fine teeth, and a well formed head, altogether
expressive of that sort of good-humour which often lodges with a sudden and
hasty temper. Pride and jealousy there was in his eye, for his life had been
spent in asserting rights which were constantly liable to invasion; and the
prompt, fiery, and resolute disposition of the man, had been kept constantly
upon the alert by the circumstances of his situation. His long yellow hair was
equally divided on the top of his head and upon his brow, and combed down on
each side to the length of his shoulders; it had but little tendency to grey,
although Cedric was approaching to his sixtieth year.

His dress was a tunic of forest green, furred at the throat and cuffs with what
was called minever; a kind of fur inferior in quality to ermine, and formed, it
is believed, of the skin of the grey squirrel. This doublet hung unbuttoned
over a close dress of scarlet which sat tight to his body; he had breeches of
the same, but they did not reach below the lower part of the thigh, leaving the
knee exposed. His feet had sandals of the same fashion with the peasants, but
of finer materials, and secured in the front with golden clasps. He had
bracelets of gold upon his arms, and a broad collar of the same precious metal
around his neck. About his waist he wore a richly-studded belt, in which was
stuck a short straight two-edged sword, with a sharp point, so disposed as to
hang almost perpendicularly by his side. Behind his seat was hung a scarlet
cloth cloak lined with fur, and a cap of the same materials richly embroidered,
which completed the dress of the opulent landholder when he chose to go forth.
A short boar-spear, with a broad and bright steel head, also reclined against
the back of his chair, which served him, when he walked abroad, for the
purposes of a staff or of a weapon, as chance might require.

Several domestics, whose dress held various proportions betwixt the richness of
their master’s, and the coarse and simple attire of Gurth the swine-herd,
watched the looks and waited the commands of the Saxon dignitary. Two or three
servants of a superior order stood behind their master upon the dais; the rest
occupied the lower part of the hall. Other attendants there were of a different
description; two or three large and shaggy greyhounds, such as were then
employed in hunting the stag and wolf; as many slow-hounds of a large bony
breed, with thick necks, large heads, and long ears; and one or two of the
smaller dogs, now called terriers, which waited with impatience the arrival of
the supper; but, with the sagacious knowledge of physiognomy peculiar to their
race, forbore to intrude upon the moody silence of their master, apprehensive
probably of a small white truncheon which lay by Cedric’s trencher, for
the purpose of repelling the advances of his four-legged dependants. One grisly
old wolf-dog alone, with the liberty of an indulged favourite, had planted
himself close by the chair of state, and occasionally ventured to solicit
notice by putting his large hairy head upon his master’s knee, or pushing
his nose into his hand. Even he was repelled by the stern command, “Down,
Balder, down! I am not in the humour for foolery.”

In fact, Cedric, as we have observed, was in no very placid state of mind. The
Lady Rowena, who had been absent to attend an evening mass at a distant church,
had but just returned, and was changing her garments, which had been wetted by
the storm. There were as yet no tidings of Gurth and his charge, which should
long since have been driven home from the forest and such was the insecurity of
the period, as to render it probable that the delay might be explained by some
depreciation of the outlaws, with whom the adjacent forest abounded, or by the
violence of some neighbouring baron, whose consciousness of strength made him
equally negligent of the laws of property. The matter was of consequence, for
great part of the domestic wealth of the Saxon proprietors consisted in
numerous herds of swine, especially in forest-land, where those animals easily
found their food.

Besides these subjects of anxiety, the Saxon thane was impatient for the
presence of his favourite clown Wamba, whose jests, such as they were, served
for a sort of seasoning to his evening meal, and to the deep draughts of ale
and wine with which he was in the habit of accompanying it. Add to all this,
Cedric had fasted since noon, and his usual supper hour was long past, a cause
of irritation common to country squires, both in ancient and modern times. His
displeasure was expressed in broken sentences, partly muttered to himself,
partly addressed to the domestics who stood around; and particularly to his
cupbearer, who offered him from time to time, as a sedative, a silver goblet
filled with wine—“Why tarries the Lady Rowena?”

“She is but changing her head-gear,” replied a female attendant,
with as much confidence as the favourite lady’s-maid usually answers the
master of a modern family; “you would not wish her to sit down to the
banquet in her hood and kirtle? and no lady within the shire can be quicker in
arraying herself than my mistress.”

This undeniable argument produced a sort of acquiescent umph! on the part of
the Saxon, with the addition, “I wish her devotion may choose fair
weather for the next visit to St John’s Kirk;—but what, in the name
of ten devils,” continued he, turning to the cupbearer, and raising his
voice as if happy to have found a channel into which he might divert his
indignation without fear or control—“what, in the name of ten
devils, keeps Gurth so long afield? I suppose we shall have an evil account of
the herd; he was wont to be a faithful and cautious drudge, and I had destined
him for something better; perchance I might even have made him one of my
warders.” 11

Oswald the cupbearer modestly suggested, “that it was scarce an hour
since the tolling of the curfew;” an ill-chosen apology, since it turned
upon a topic so harsh to Saxon ears.

“The foul fiend,” exclaimed Cedric, “take the curfew-bell,
and the tyrannical bastard by whom it was devised, and the heartless slave who
names it with a Saxon tongue to a Saxon ear! The curfew!” he added,
pausing, “ay, the curfew; which compels true men to extinguish their
lights, that thieves and robbers may work their deeds in darkness!—Ay,
the curfew;—Reginald Front-de-Bœuf and Philip de Malvoisin know the use
of the curfew as well as William the Bastard himself, or e’er a Norman
adventurer that fought at Hastings. I shall hear, I guess, that my property has
been swept off to save from starving the hungry banditti, whom they cannot
support but by theft and robbery. My faithful slave is murdered, and my goods
are taken for a prey—and Wamba—where is Wamba? Said not some one he
had gone forth with Gurth?”

Oswald replied in the affirmative.

“Ay? why this is better and better! he is carried off too, the Saxon
fool, to serve the Norman lord. Fools are we all indeed that serve them, and
fitter subjects for their scorn and laughter, than if we were born with but
half our wits. But I will be avenged,” he added, starting from his chair
in impatience at the supposed injury, and catching hold of his boar-spear;
“I will go with my complaint to the great council; I have friends, I have
followers—man to man will I appeal the Norman to the lists; let him come
in his plate and his mail, and all that can render cowardice bold; I have sent
such a javelin as this through a stronger fence than three of their war
shields!—Haply they think me old; but they shall find, alone and
childless as I am, the blood of Hereward is in the veins of Cedric.—Ah,
Wilfred, Wilfred!” he exclaimed in a lower tone, “couldst thou have
ruled thine unreasonable passion, thy father had not been left in his age like
the solitary oak that throws out its shattered and unprotected branches against
the full sweep of the tempest!” The reflection seemed to conjure into
sadness his irritated feelings. Replacing his javelin, he resumed his seat,
bent his looks downward, and appeared to be absorbed in melancholy reflection.

From his musing, Cedric was suddenly awakened by the blast of a horn, which was
replied to by the clamorous yells and barking of all the dogs in the hall, and
some twenty or thirty which were quartered in other parts of the building. It
cost some exercise of the white truncheon, well seconded by the exertions of
the domestics, to silence this canine clamour.

“To the gate, knaves!” said the Saxon, hastily, as soon as the
tumult was so much appeased that the dependants could hear his voice.
“See what tidings that horn tells us of—to announce, I ween, some
hership 12 and robbery which has been done upon
my lands.”

Returning in less than three minutes, a warder announced “that the Prior
Aymer of Jorvaulx, and the good knight Brian de Bois-Guilbert, commander of the
valiant and venerable order of Knights Templars, with a small retinue,
requested hospitality and lodging for the night, being on their way to a
tournament which was to be held not far from Ashby-de-la-Zouche, on the second
day from the present.”

“Aymer, the Prior Aymer? Brian de Bois-Guilbert?”—muttered
Cedric; “Normans both;—but Norman or Saxon, the hospitality of
Rotherwood must not be impeached; they are welcome, since they have chosen to
halt—more welcome would they have been to have ridden further on their
way—But it were unworthy to murmur for a night’s lodging and a
night’s food; in the quality of guests, at least, even Normans must
suppress their insolence.—Go, Hundebert,” he added, to a sort of
major-domo who stood behind him with a white wand; “take six of the
attendants, and introduce the strangers to the guests’ lodging. Look
after their horses and mules, and see their train lack nothing. Let them have
change of vestments if they require it, and fire, and water to wash, and wine
and ale; and bid the cooks add what they hastily can to our evening meal; and
let it be put on the board when those strangers are ready to share it. Say to
them, Hundebert, that Cedric would himself bid them welcome, but he is under a
vow never to step more than three steps from the dais of his own hall to meet
any who shares not the blood of Saxon royalty. Begone! see them carefully
tended; let them not say in their pride, the Saxon churl has shown at once his
poverty and his avarice.”

The major-domo departed with several attendants, to execute his master’s
commands.

“The Prior Aymer!” repeated Cedric, looking to Oswald, “the
brother, if I mistake not, of Giles de Mauleverer, now lord of
Middleham?”

Oswald made a respectful sign of assent. “His brother sits in the seat,
and usurps the patrimony, of a better race, the race of Ulfgar of Middleham;
but what Norman lord doth not the same? This Prior is, they say, a free and
jovial priest, who loves the wine-cup and the bugle-horn better than bell and
book: Good; let him come, he shall be welcome. How named ye the Templar?”

“Brian de Bois-Guilbert.”

“Bois-Guilbert,” said Cedric, still in the musing, half-arguing
tone, which the habit of living among dependants had accustomed him to employ,
and which resembled a man who talks to himself rather than to those around
him—“Bois-Guilbert? that name has been spread wide both for good
and evil. They say he is valiant as the bravest of his order; but stained with
their usual vices, pride, arrogance, cruelty, and voluptuousness; a
hard-hearted man, who knows neither fear of earth, nor awe of heaven. So say
the few warriors who have returned from Palestine.—Well; it is but for
one night; he shall be welcome too.—Oswald, broach the oldest wine-cask;
place the best mead, the mightiest ale, the richest morat, the most sparkling
cider, the most odoriferous pigments, upon the board; fill the largest horns 13 —Templars and Abbots love good
wines and good measure.—Elgitha, let thy Lady Rowena, know we shall not
this night expect her in the hall, unless such be her especial pleasure.”

“But it will be her especial pleasure,” answered Elgitha, with
great readiness, “for she is ever desirous to hear the latest news from
Palestine.”

Cedric darted at the forward damsel a glance of hasty resentment; but Rowena,
and whatever belonged to her, were privileged and secure from his anger. He
only replied, “Silence, maiden; thy tongue outruns thy discretion. Say my
message to thy mistress, and let her do her pleasure. Here, at least, the
descendant of Alfred still reigns a princess.” Elgitha left the
apartment.

“Palestine!” repeated the Saxon; “Palestine! how many ears
are turned to the tales which dissolute crusaders, or hypocritical pilgrims,
bring from that fatal land! I too might ask—I too might enquire—I
too might listen with a beating heart to fables which the wily strollers devise
to cheat us into hospitality—but no—The son who has disobeyed me is
no longer mine; nor will I concern myself more for his fate than for that of
the most worthless among the millions that ever shaped the cross on their
shoulder, rushed into excess and blood-guiltiness, and called it an
accomplishment of the will of God.”

He knit his brows, and fixed his eyes for an instant on the ground; as he
raised them, the folding doors at the bottom of the hall were cast wide, and,
preceded by the major-domo with his wand, and four domestics bearing blazing
torches, the guests of the evening entered the apartment.

CHAPTER IV

With sheep and shaggy goats the porkers bled,
And the proud steer was on the marble spread;
With fire prepared, they deal the morsels round,
Wine rosy bright the brimming goblets crown’d.

Disposed apart, Ulysses shares the treat;
A trivet table and ignobler seat,
The Prince assigns—

ODYSSEY, Book XXI.

The Prior Aymer had taken the opportunity afforded him, of changing his riding
robe for one of yet more costly materials, over which he wore a cope curiously
embroidered. Besides the massive golden signet ring, which marked his
ecclesiastical dignity, his fingers, though contrary to the canon, were loaded
with precious gems; his sandals were of the finest leather which was imported
from Spain; his beard trimmed to as small dimensions as his order would
possibly permit, and his shaven crown concealed by a scarlet cap richly
embroidered.

The appearance of the Knight Templar was also changed; and, though less
studiously bedecked with ornament, his dress was as rich, and his appearance
far more commanding, than that of his companion. He had exchanged his shirt of
mail for an under tunic of dark purple silk, garnished with furs, over which
flowed his long robe of spotless white, in ample folds. The eight-pointed cross
of his order was cut on the shoulder of his mantle in black velvet. The high
cap no longer invested his brows, which were only shaded by short and thick
curled hair of a raven blackness, corresponding to his unusually swart
complexion. Nothing could be more gracefully majestic than his step and manner,
had they not been marked by a predominant air of haughtiness, easily acquired
by the exercise of unresisted authority.

These two dignified persons were followed by their respective attendants, and
at a more humble distance by their guide, whose figure had nothing more
remarkable than it derived from the usual weeds of a pilgrim. A cloak or mantle
of coarse black serge, enveloped his whole body. It was in shape something like
the cloak of a modern hussar, having similar flaps for covering the arms, and
was called a “Sclaveyn”, or “Sclavonian”. Coarse
sandals, bound with thongs, on his bare feet; a broad and shadowy hat, with
cockle-shells stitched on its brim, and a long staff shod with iron, to the
upper end of which was attached a branch of palm, completed the palmer’s
attire. He followed modestly the last of the train which entered the hall, and,
observing that the lower table scarce afforded room sufficient for the
domestics of Cedric and the retinue of his guests, he withdrew to a settle
placed beside and almost under one of the large chimneys, and seemed to employ
himself in drying his garments, until the retreat of some one should make room
at the board, or the hospitality of the steward should supply him with
refreshments in the place he had chosen apart.

Cedric rose to receive his guests with an air of dignified hospitality, and,
descending from the dais, or elevated part of his hall, made three steps
towards them, and then awaited their approach.

“I grieve,” he said, “reverend Prior, that my vow binds me to
advance no farther upon this floor of my fathers, even to receive such guests
as you, and this valiant Knight of the Holy Temple. But my steward has
expounded to you the cause of my seeming discourtesy. Let me also pray, that
you will excuse my speaking to you in my native language, and that you will
reply in the same if your knowledge of it permits; if not, I sufficiently
understand Norman to follow your meaning.”

“Vows,” said the Abbot, “must be unloosed, worthy Franklin,
or permit me rather to say, worthy Thane, though the title is antiquated. Vows
are the knots which tie us to Heaven—they are the cords which bind the
sacrifice to the horns of the altar,—and are therefore,—as I said
before,—to be unloosened and discharged, unless our holy Mother Church
shall pronounce the contrary. And respecting language, I willingly hold
communication in that spoken by my respected grandmother, Hilda of Middleham,
who died in odour of sanctity, little short, if we may presume to say so, of
her glorious namesake, the blessed Saint Hilda of Whitby, God be gracious to
her soul!”

When the Prior had ceased what he meant as a conciliatory harangue, his
companion said briefly and emphatically, “I speak ever French, the
language of King Richard and his nobles; but I understand English sufficiently
to communicate with the natives of the country.”

Cedric darted at the speaker one of those hasty and impatient glances, which
comparisons between the two rival nations seldom failed to call forth; but,
recollecting the duties of hospitality, he suppressed further show of
resentment, and, motioning with his hand, caused his guests to assume two seats
a little lower than his own, but placed close beside him, and gave a signal
that the evening meal should be placed upon the board.

While the attendants hastened to obey Cedric’s commands, his eye
distinguished Gurth the swineherd, who, with his companion Wamba, had just
entered the hall. “Send these loitering knaves up hither,” said the
Saxon, impatiently. And when the culprits came before the
dais,—“How comes it, villains! that you have loitered abroad so
late as this? Hast thou brought home thy charge, sirrah Gurth, or hast thou
left them to robbers and marauders?”

“The herd is safe, so please ye,” said Gurth.

“But it does not please me, thou knave,” said Cedric, “that I
should be made to suppose otherwise for two hours, and sit here devising
vengeance against my neighbours for wrongs they have not done me. I tell thee,
shackles and the prison-house shall punish the next offence of this
kind.”

Gurth, knowing his master’s irritable temper, attempted no exculpation;
but the Jester, who could presume upon Cedric’s tolerance, by virtue of
his privileges as a fool, replied for them both; “In troth, uncle Cedric,
you are neither wise nor reasonable to-night.”

“‘How, sir?” said his master; “you shall to the
porter’s lodge, and taste of the discipline there, if you give your
foolery such license.”

“First let your wisdom tell me,” said Wamba, “is it just and
reasonable to punish one person for the fault of another?”

“Certainly not, fool,” answered Cedric.

“Then why should you shackle poor Gurth, uncle, for the fault of his dog
Fangs? for I dare be sworn we lost not a minute by the way, when we had got our
herd together, which Fangs did not manage until we heard the
vesper-bell.”

“Then hang up Fangs,” said Cedric, turning hastily towards the
swineherd, “if the fault is his, and get thee another dog.”

“Under favour, uncle,” said the Jester, “that were still
somewhat on the bow-hand of fair justice; for it was no fault of Fangs that he
was lame and could not gather the herd, but the fault of those that struck off
two of his fore-claws, an operation for which, if the poor fellow had been
consulted, he would scarce have given his voice.”

“And who dared to lame an animal which belonged to my bondsman?”
said the Saxon, kindling in wrath.

“Marry, that did old Hubert,” said Wamba, “Sir Philip de
Malvoisin’s keeper of the chase. He caught Fangs strolling in the forest,
and said he chased the deer contrary to his master’s right, as warden of
the walk.”

“The foul fiend take Malvoisin,” answered the Saxon, “and his
keeper both! I will teach them that the wood was disforested in terms of the
great Forest Charter. But enough of this. Go to, knave, go to thy
place—and thou, Gurth, get thee another dog, and should the keeper dare
to touch it, I will mar his archery; the curse of a coward on my head, if I
strike not off the forefinger of his right hand!—he shall draw bowstring
no more.—I crave your pardon, my worthy guests. I am beset here with
neighbours that match your infidels, Sir Knight, in Holy Land. But your homely
fare is before you; feed, and let welcome make amends for hard fare.”

The feast, however, which was spread upon the board, needed no apologies from
the lord of the mansion. Swine’s flesh, dressed in several modes,
appeared on the lower part of the board, as also that of fowls, deer, goats,
and hares, and various kinds of fish, together with huge loaves and cakes of
bread, and sundry confections made of fruits and honey. The smaller sorts of
wild-fowl, of which there was abundance, were not served up in platters, but
brought in upon small wooden spits or broaches, and offered by the pages and
domestics who bore them, to each guest in succession, who cut from them such a
portion as he pleased. Beside each person of rank was placed a goblet of
silver; the lower board was accommodated with large drinking horns.

When the repast was about to commence, the major-domo, or steward, suddenly
raising his wand, said aloud,—“Forbear!—Place for the Lady
Rowena.”

A side-door at the upper end of the hall now opened behind the banquet table,
and Rowena, followed by four female attendants, entered the apartment. Cedric,
though surprised, and perhaps not altogether agreeably so, at his ward
appearing in public on this occasion, hastened to meet her, and to conduct her,
with respectful ceremony, to the elevated seat at his own right hand,
appropriated to the lady of the mansion. All stood up to receive her; and,
replying to their courtesy by a mute gesture of salutation, she moved
gracefully forward to assume her place at the board. Ere she had time to do so,
the Templar whispered to the Prior, “I shall wear no collar of gold of
yours at the tournament. The Chian wine is your own.”

“Said I not so?” answered the Prior; “but check your
raptures, the Franklin observes you.”

Unheeding this remonstrance, and accustomed only to act upon the immediate
impulse of his own wishes, Brian de Bois-Guilbert kept his eyes riveted on the
Saxon beauty, more striking perhaps to his imagination, because differing
widely from those of the Eastern sultanas.

Formed in the best proportions of her sex, Rowena was tall in stature, yet not
so much so as to attract observation on account of superior height. Her
complexion was exquisitely fair, but the noble cast of her head and features
prevented the insipidity which sometimes attaches to fair beauties. Her clear
blue eye, which sat enshrined beneath a graceful eyebrow of brown sufficiently
marked to give expression to the forehead, seemed capable to kindle as well as
melt, to command as well as to beseech. If mildness were the more natural
expression of such a combination of features, it was plain, that in the present
instance, the exercise of habitual superiority, and the reception of general
homage, had given to the Saxon lady a loftier character, which mingled with and
qualified that bestowed by nature. Her profuse hair, of a colour betwixt brown
and flaxen, was arranged in a fanciful and graceful manner in numerous
ringlets, to form which art had probably aided nature. These locks were braided
with gems, and, being worn at full length, intimated the noble birth and
free-born condition of the maiden. A golden chain, to which was attached a
small reliquary of the same metal, hung round her neck. She wore bracelets on
her arms, which were bare. Her dress was an under-gown and kirtle of pale
sea-green silk, over which hung a long loose robe, which reached to the ground,
having very wide sleeves, which came down, however, very little below the
elbow. This robe was crimson, and manufactured out of the very finest wool. A
veil of silk, interwoven with gold, was attached to the upper part of it, which
could be, at the wearer’s pleasure, either drawn over the face and bosom
after the Spanish fashion, or disposed as a sort of drapery round the
shoulders.

When Rowena perceived the Knight Templar’s eyes bent on her with an
ardour, that, compared with the dark caverns under which they moved, gave them
the effect of lighted charcoal, she drew with dignity the veil around her face,
as an intimation that the determined freedom of his glance was disagreeable.
Cedric saw the motion and its cause. “Sir Templar,” said he,
“the cheeks of our Saxon maidens have seen too little of the sun to
enable them to bear the fixed glance of a crusader.”

“If I have offended,” replied Sir Brian, “I crave your
pardon,—that is, I crave the Lady Rowena’s pardon,—for my
humility will carry me no lower.”

“The Lady Rowena,” said the Prior, “has punished us all, in
chastising the boldness of my friend. Let me hope she will be less cruel to the
splendid train which are to meet at the tournament.”

“Our going thither,” said Cedric, “is uncertain. I love not
these vanities, which were unknown to my fathers when England was free.”

“Let us hope, nevertheless,” said the Prior, “our company may
determine you to travel thitherward; when the roads are so unsafe, the escort
of Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert is not to be despised.”

“Sir Prior,” answered the Saxon, “wheresoever I have
travelled in this land, I have hitherto found myself, with the assistance of my
good sword and faithful followers, in no respect needful of other aid. At
present, if we indeed journey to Ashby-de-la-Zouche, we do so with my noble
neighbour and countryman Athelstane of Coningsburgh, and with such a train as
would set outlaws and feudal enemies at defiance.—I drink to you, Sir
Prior, in this cup of wine, which I trust your taste will approve, and I thank
you for your courtesy. Should you be so rigid in adhering to monastic
rule,” he added, “as to prefer your acid preparation of milk, I
hope you will not strain courtesy to do me reason.”

“Nay,” said the Priest, laughing, “it is only in our abbey
that we confine ourselves to the ‘lac dulce’ or the ‘lac
acidum’ either. Conversing with, the world, we use the world’s
fashions, and therefore I answer your pledge in this honest wine, and leave the
weaker liquor to my lay-brother.”

“And I,” said the Templar, filling his goblet, “drink wassail
to the fair Rowena; for since her namesake introduced the word into England,
has never been one more worthy of such a tribute. By my faith, I could pardon
the unhappy Vortigern, had he half the cause that we now witness, for making
shipwreck of his honour and his kingdom.”

“I will spare your courtesy, Sir Knight,” said Rowena with dignity,
and without unveiling herself; “or rather I will tax it so far as to
require of you the latest news from Palestine, a theme more agreeable to our
English ears than the compliments which your French breeding teaches.”

“I have little of importance to say, lady,” answered Sir Brian de
Bois-Guilbert, “excepting the confirmed tidings of a truce with
Saladin.”

He was interrupted by Wamba, who had taken his appropriated seat upon a chair,
the back of which was decorated with two ass’s ears, and which was placed
about two steps behind that of his master, who, from time to time, supplied him
with victuals from his own trencher; a favour, however, which the Jester shared
with the favourite dogs, of whom, as we have already noticed, there were
several in attendance. Here sat Wamba, with a small table before him, his heels
tucked up against the bar of the chair, his cheeks sucked up so as to make his
jaws resemble a pair of nut-crackers, and his eyes half-shut, yet watching with
alertness every opportunity to exercise his licensed foolery.

“These truces with the infidels,” he exclaimed, without caring how
suddenly he interrupted the stately Templar, “make an old man of
me!”

“Go to, knave, how so?” said Cedric, his features prepared to
receive favourably the expected jest.

“Because,” answered Wamba, “I remember three of them in my
day, each of which was to endure for the course of fifty years; so that, by
computation, I must be at least a hundred and fifty years old.”

“I will warrant you against dying of old age, however,” said the
Templar, who now recognised his friend of the forest; “I will assure you
from all deaths but a violent one, if you give such directions to wayfarers, as
you did this night to the Prior and me.”

“How, sirrah!” said Cedric, “misdirect travellers? We must
have you whipt; you are at least as much rogue as fool.”

“I pray thee, uncle,” answered the Jester, “let my folly, for
once, protect my roguery. I did but make a mistake between my right hand and my
left; and he might have pardoned a greater, who took a fool for his counsellor
and guide.”

Conversation was here interrupted by the entrance of the porter’s page,
who announced that there was a stranger at the gate, imploring admittance and
hospitality.

“Admit him,” said Cedric, “be he who or what he may;—a
night like that which roars without, compels even wild animals to herd with
tame, and to seek the protection of man, their mortal foe, rather than perish
by the elements. Let his wants be ministered to with all care—look to it,
Oswald.”

And the steward left the banqueting hall to see the commands of his patron
obeyed.

CHAPTER V

Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses,
affections, passions? Fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons,
subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by
the same winter and summer, as a Christian is?

MERCHANT OF VENICE

Oswald, returning, whispered into the ear of his master, “It is a Jew,
who calls himself Isaac of York; is it fit I should marshall him into the
hall?”

“Let Gurth do thine office, Oswald,” said Wamba with his usual
effrontery; “the swineherd will be a fit usher to the Jew.”

“St Mary,” said the Abbot, crossing himself, “an unbelieving
Jew, and admitted into this presence!”

“A dog Jew,” echoed the Templar, “to approach a defender of
the Holy Sepulchre?”

“By my faith,” said Wamba, “it would seem the Templars love
the Jews’ inheritance better than they do their company.”

“Peace, my worthy guests,” said Cedric; “my hospitality must
not be bounded by your dislikes. If Heaven bore with the whole nation of
stiff-necked unbelievers for more years than a layman can number, we may endure
the presence of one Jew for a few hours. But I constrain no man to converse or
to feed with him.—Let him have a board and a morsel
apart,—unless,” he said smiling, “these turban’d
strangers will admit his society.”

“Sir Franklin,” answered the Templar, “my Saracen slaves are
true Moslems, and scorn as much as any Christian to hold intercourse with a
Jew.”

“Now, in faith,” said Wamba, “I cannot see that the
worshippers of Mahound and Termagaunt have so greatly the advantage over the
people once chosen of Heaven.”

“He shall sit with thee, Wamba,” said Cedric; “the fool and
the knave will be well met.”

“The fool,” answered Wamba, raising the relics of a gammon of
bacon, “will take care to erect a bulwark against the knave.”

“Hush,” said Cedric, “for here he comes.”

Introduced with little ceremony, and advancing with fear and hesitation, and
many a bow of deep humility, a tall thin old man, who, however, had lost by the
habit of stooping much of his actual height, approached the lower end of the
board. His features, keen and regular, with an aquiline nose, and piercing
black eyes; his high and wrinkled forehead, and long grey hair and beard, would
have been considered as handsome, had they not been the marks of a physiognomy
peculiar to a race, which, during those dark ages, was alike detested by the
credulous and prejudiced vulgar, and persecuted by the greedy and rapacious
nobility, and who, perhaps, owing to that very hatred and persecution, had
adopted a national character, in which there was much, to say the least, mean
and unamiable.

The Jew’s dress, which appeared to have suffered considerably from the
storm, was a plain russet cloak of many folds, covering a dark purple tunic. He
had large boots lined with fur, and a belt around his waist, which sustained a
small knife, together with a case for writing materials, but no weapon. He wore
a high square yellow cap of a peculiar fashion, assigned to his nation to
distinguish them from Christians, and which he doffed with great humility at
the door of the hall.

The reception of this person in the hall of Cedric the Saxon, was such as might
have satisfied the most prejudiced enemy of the tribes of Israel. Cedric
himself coldly nodded in answer to the Jew’s repeated salutations, and
signed to him to take place at the lower end of the table, where, however, no
one offered to make room for him. On the contrary, as he passed along the file,
casting a timid supplicating glance, and turning towards each of those who
occupied the lower end of the board, the Saxon domestics squared their
shoulders, and continued to devour their supper with great perseverance, paying
not the least attention to the wants of the new guest. The attendants of the
Abbot crossed themselves, with looks of pious horror, and the very heathen
Saracens, as Isaac drew near them, curled up their whiskers with indignation,
and laid their hands on their poniards, as if ready to rid themselves by the
most desperate means from the apprehended contamination of his nearer approach.

Probably the same motives which induced Cedric to open his hall to this son of
a rejected people, would have made him insist on his attendants receiving Isaac
with more courtesy. But the Abbot had, at this moment, engaged him in a most
interesting discussion on the breed and character of his favourite hounds,
which he would not have interrupted for matters of much greater importance than
that of a Jew going to bed supperless. While Isaac thus stood an outcast in the
present society, like his people among the nations, looking in vain for welcome
or resting place, the pilgrim who sat by the chimney took compassion upon him,
and resigned his seat, saying briefly, “Old man, my garments are dried,
my hunger is appeased, thou art both wet and fasting.” So saying, he
gathered together, and brought to a flame, the decaying brands which lay
scattered on the ample hearth; took from the larger board a mess of pottage and
seethed kid, placed it upon the small table at which he had himself supped,
and, without waiting the Jew’s thanks, went to the other side of the
hall;—whether from unwillingness to hold more close communication with
the object of his benevolence, or from a wish to draw near to the upper end of
the table, seemed uncertain.

Had there been painters in those days capable to execute such a subject, the
Jew, as he bent his withered form, and expanded his chilled and trembling hands
over the fire, would have formed no bad emblematical personification of the
Winter season. Having dispelled the cold, he turned eagerly to the smoking mess
which was placed before him, and ate with a haste and an apparent relish, that
seemed to betoken long abstinence from food.

Meanwhile the Abbot and Cedric continued their discourse upon hunting; the Lady
Rowena seemed engaged in conversation with one of her attendant females; and
the haughty Templar, whose eye wandered from the Jew to the Saxon beauty,
revolved in his mind thoughts which appeared deeply to interest him.

“I marvel, worthy Cedric,” said the Abbot, as their discourse
proceeded, “that, great as your predilection is for your own manly
language, you do not receive the Norman-French into your favour, so far at
least as the mystery of wood-craft and hunting is concerned. Surely no tongue
is so rich in the various phrases which the field-sports demand, or furnishes
means to the experienced woodman so well to express his jovial art.”

“Good Father Aymer,” said the Saxon, “be it known to you, I
care not for those over-sea refinements, without which I can well enough take
my pleasure in the woods. I can wind my horn, though I call not the blast
either a ‘recheate’ or a ‘morte’—I can cheer my
dogs on the prey, and I can flay and quarter the animal when it is brought
down, without using the newfangled jargon of ‘curee, arbor,
nombles’, and all the babble of the fabulous Sir Tristrem.” 14

“The French,” said the Templar, raising his voice with the
presumptuous and authoritative tone which he used upon all occasions, “is
not only the natural language of the chase, but that of love and of war, in
which ladies should be won and enemies defied.”

“Pledge me in a cup of wine, Sir Templar,” said Cedric, “and
fill another to the Abbot, while I look back some thirty years to tell you
another tale. As Cedric the Saxon then was, his plain English tale needed no
garnish from French troubadours, when it was told in the ear of beauty; and the
field of Northallerton, upon the day of the Holy Standard, could tell whether
the Saxon war-cry was not heard as far within the ranks of the Scottish host as
the ‘cri de guerre’ of the boldest Norman baron. To the memory of
the brave who fought there!—Pledge me, my guests.” He drank deep,
and went on with increasing warmth. “Ay, that was a day of cleaving of
shields, when a hundred banners were bent forwards over the heads of the
valiant, and blood flowed round like water, and death was held better than
flight. A Saxon bard had called it a feast of the swords—a gathering of
the eagles to the prey—the clashing of bills upon shield and helmet, the
shouting of battle more joyful than the clamour of a bridal. But our bards are
no more,” he said; “our deeds are lost in those of another
race—our language—our very name—is hastening to decay, and
none mourns for it save one solitary old man—Cupbearer! knave, fill the
goblets—To the strong in arms, Sir Templar, be their race or language
what it will, who now bear them best in Palestine among the champions of the
Cross!”

“It becomes not one wearing this badge to answer,” said Sir Brian
de Bois-Guilbert; “yet to whom, besides the sworn Champions of the Holy
Sepulchre, can the palm be assigned among the champions of the Cross?”

“To the Knights Hospitallers,” said the Abbot; “I have a
brother of their order.”

“I impeach not their fame,” said the Templar;
“nevertheless—-”

“I think, friend Cedric,” said Wamba, interfering, “that had
Richard of the Lion’s Heart been wise enough to have taken a fool’s
advice, he might have staid at home with his merry Englishmen, and left the
recovery of Jerusalem to those same Knights who had most to do with the loss of
it.”

“Were there, then, none in the English army,” said the Lady Rowena,
“whose names are worthy to be mentioned with the Knights of the Temple,
and of St John?”

“Forgive me, lady,” replied De Bois-Guilbert; “the English
monarch did, indeed, bring to Palestine a host of gallant warriors, second only
to those whose breasts have been the unceasing bulwark of that blessed
land.”

“Second to NONE,” said the Pilgrim, who had stood near enough to
hear, and had listened to this conversation with marked impatience. All turned
toward the spot from whence this unexpected asseveration was heard.

“I say,” repeated the Pilgrim in a firm and strong voice,
“that the English chivalry were second to NONE who ever drew sword in
defence of the Holy Land. I say besides, for I saw it, that King Richard
himself, and five of his knights, held a tournament after the taking of St
John-de-Acre, as challengers against all comers. I say that, on that day, each
knight ran three courses, and cast to the ground three antagonists. I add, that
seven of these assailants were Knights of the Temple—and Sir Brian de
Bois-Guilbert well knows the truth of what I tell you.”

It is impossible for language to describe the bitter scowl of rage which
rendered yet darker the swarthy countenance of the Templar. In the extremity of
his resentment and confusion, his quivering fingers griped towards the handle
of his sword, and perhaps only withdrew, from the consciousness that no act of
violence could be safely executed in that place and presence. Cedric, whose
feelings were all of a right onward and simple kind, and were seldom occupied
by more than one object at once, omitted, in the joyous glee with which he
heard of the glory of his countrymen, to remark the angry confusion of his
guest; “I would give thee this golden bracelet, Pilgrim,” he said,
“couldst thou tell me the names of those knights who upheld so gallantly
the renown of merry England.”

“That will I do blithely,” replied the Pilgrim, “and without
guerdon; my oath, for a time, prohibits me from touching gold.”

“I will wear the bracelet for you, if you will, friend Palmer,”
said Wamba.

“The first in honour as in arms, in renown as in place,” said the
Pilgrim, “was the brave Richard, King of England.”

“I forgive him,” said Cedric; “I forgive him his descent from
the tyrant Duke William.”

“The Earl of Leicester was the second,” continued the Pilgrim;
“Sir Thomas Multon of Gilsland was the third.”

“Of Saxon descent, he at least,” said Cedric, with exultation.

“Sir Foulk Doilly the fourth,” proceeded the Pilgrim.

“Saxon also, at least by the mother’s side,” continued
Cedric, who listened with the utmost eagerness, and forgot, in part at least,
his hatred to the Normans, in the common triumph of the King of England and his
islanders. “And who was the fifth?” he demanded.

“The fifth was Sir Edwin Turneham.”

“Genuine Saxon, by the soul of Hengist!” shouted
Cedric—“And the sixth?” he continued with
eagerness—“how name you the sixth?”

“The sixth,” said the Palmer, after a pause, in which he seemed to
recollect himself, “was a young knight of lesser renown and lower rank,
assumed into that honourable company, less to aid their enterprise than to make
up their number—his name dwells not in my memory.”

“Sir Palmer,” said Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert scornfully,
“this assumed forgetfulness, after so much has been remembered, comes too
late to serve your purpose. I will myself tell the name of the knight before
whose lance fortune and my horse’s fault occasioned my falling—it
was the Knight of Ivanhoe; nor was there one of the six that, for his years,
had more renown in arms.—Yet this will I say, and loudly—that were
he in England, and durst repeat, in this week’s tournament, the challenge
of St John-de-Acre, I, mounted and armed as I now am, would give him every
advantage of weapons, and abide the result.”

“Your challenge would soon be answered,” replied the Palmer,
“were your antagonist near you. As the matter is, disturb not the
peaceful hall with vaunts of the issue of the conflict, which you well know
cannot take place. If Ivanhoe ever returns from Palestine, I will be his surety
that he meets you.”

“A goodly security!” said the Knight Templar; “and what do
you proffer as a pledge?”

“This reliquary,” said the Palmer, taking a small ivory box from
his bosom, and crossing himself, “containing a portion of the true cross,
brought from the Monastery of Mount Carmel.”

The Prior of Jorvaulx crossed himself and repeated a pater noster, in which all
devoutly joined, excepting the Jew, the Mahomedans, and the Templar; the latter
of whom, without vailing his bonnet, or testifying any reverence for the
alleged sanctity of the relic, took from his neck a gold chain, which he flung
on the board, saying—“Let Prior Aymer hold my pledge and that of
this nameless vagrant, in token that when the Knight of Ivanhoe comes within
the four seas of Britain, he underlies the challenge of Brian de Bois-Guilbert,
which, if he answer not, I will proclaim him as a coward on the walls of every
Temple Court in Europe.”

“It will not need,” said the Lady Rowena, breaking silence;
“My voice shall be heard, if no other in this hall is raised in behalf of
the absent Ivanhoe. I affirm he will meet fairly every honourable challenge.
Could my weak warrant add security to the inestimable pledge of this holy
pilgrim, I would pledge name and fame that Ivanhoe gives this proud knight the
meeting he desires.”

A crowd of conflicting emotions seemed to have occupied Cedric, and kept him
silent during this discussion. Gratified pride, resentment, embarrassment,
chased each other over his broad and open brow, like the shadow of clouds
drifting over a harvest-field; while his attendants, on whom the name of the
sixth knight seemed to produce an effect almost electrical, hung in suspense
upon their master’s looks. But when Rowena spoke, the sound of her voice
seemed to startle him from his silence.

“Lady,” said Cedric, “this beseems not; were further pledge
necessary, I myself, offended, and justly offended, as I am, would yet gage my
honour for the honour of Ivanhoe. But the wager of battle is complete, even
according to the fantastic fashions of Norman chivalry—Is it not, Father
Aymer?”

“It is,” replied the Prior; “and the blessed relic and rich
chain will I bestow safely in the treasury of our convent, until the decision
of this warlike challenge.”

Having thus spoken, he crossed himself again and again, and after many
genuflections and muttered prayers, he delivered the reliquary to Brother
Ambrose, his attendant monk, while he himself swept up with less ceremony, but
perhaps with no less internal satisfaction, the golden chain, and bestowed it
in a pouch lined with perfumed leather, which opened under his arm. “And
now, Sir Cedric,” he said, “my ears are chiming vespers with the
strength of your good wine—permit us another pledge to the welfare of the
Lady Rowena, and indulge us with liberty to pass to our repose.”

“By the rood of Bromholme,” said the Saxon, “you do but small
credit to your fame, Sir Prior! Report speaks you a bonny monk, that would hear
the matin chime ere he quitted his bowl; and, old as I am, I feared to have
shame in encountering you. But, by my faith, a Saxon boy of twelve, in my time,
would not so soon have relinquished his goblet.”

The Prior had his own reasons, however, for persevering in the course of
temperance which he had adopted. He was not only a professional peacemaker, but
from practice a hater of all feuds and brawls. It was not altogether from a
love to his neighbour, or to himself, or from a mixture of both. On the present
occasion, he had an instinctive apprehension of the fiery temper of the Saxon,
and saw the danger that the reckless and presumptuous spirit, of which his
companion had already given so many proofs, might at length produce some
disagreeable explosion. He therefore gently insinuated the incapacity of the
native of any other country to engage in the genial conflict of the bowl with
the hardy and strong-headed Saxons; something he mentioned, but slightly, about
his own holy character, and ended by pressing his proposal to depart to repose.

The grace-cup was accordingly served round, and the guests, after making deep
obeisance to their landlord and to the Lady Rowena, arose and mingled in the
hall, while the heads of the family, by separate doors, retired with their
attendants.

“Unbelieving dog,” said the Templar to Isaac the Jew, as he passed
him in the throng, “dost thou bend thy course to the tournament?”

“I do so propose,” replied Isaac, bowing in all humility, “if
it please your reverend valour.”

“Ay,” said the Knight, “to gnaw the bowels of our nobles with
usury, and to gull women and boys with gauds and toys—I warrant thee
store of shekels in thy Jewish scrip.”

“Not a shekel, not a silver penny, not a halfling—so help me the
God of Abraham!” said the Jew, clasping his hands; “I go but to
seek the assistance of some brethren of my tribe to aid me to pay the fine
which the Exchequer of the Jews have imposed upon me—Father Jacob be my
speed! I am an impoverished wretch—the very gaberdine I wear is borrowed
from Reuben of Tadcaster.” 15

The Templar smiled sourly as he replied, “Beshrew thee for a
false-hearted liar!” and passing onward, as if disdaining farther
conference, he communed with his Moslem slaves in a language unknown to the
bystanders. The poor Israelite seemed so staggered by the address of the
military monk, that the Templar had passed on to the extremity of the hall ere
he raised his head from the humble posture which he had assumed, so far as to
be sensible of his departure. And when he did look around, it was with the
astonished air of one at whose feet a thunderbolt has just burst, and who hears
still the astounding report ringing in his ears.

The Templar and Prior were shortly after marshalled to their sleeping
apartments by the steward and the cupbearer, each attended by two torchbearers
and two servants carrying refreshments, while servants of inferior condition
indicated to their retinue and to the other guests their respective places of
repose.

CHAPTER VI

To buy his favour I extend this friendship:
If he will take it, so; if not, adieu;
And, for my love, I pray you wrong me not.

MERCHANT OF VENICE

As the Palmer, lighted by a domestic with a torch, passed through the intricate
combination of apartments of this large and irregular mansion, the cupbearer
coming behind him whispered in his ear, that if he had no objection to a cup of
good mead in his apartment, there were many domestics in that family who would
gladly hear the news he had brought from the Holy Land, and particularly that
which concerned the Knight of Ivanhoe. Wamba presently appeared to urge the
same request, observing that a cup after midnight was worth three after curfew.
Without disputing a maxim urged by such grave authority, the Palmer thanked
them for their courtesy, but observed that he had included in his religious
vow, an obligation never to speak in the kitchen on matters which were
prohibited in the hall. “That vow,” said Wamba to the cupbearer,
“would scarce suit a serving-man.”

The cupbearer shrugged up his shoulders in displeasure. “I thought to
have lodged him in the solere chamber,” said he; “but since he is
so unsocial to Christians, e’en let him take the next stall to Isaac the
Jew’s.—Anwold,” said he to the torchbearer, “carry the
Pilgrim to the southern cell.—I give you good-night,” he added,
“Sir Palmer, with small thanks for short courtesy.”

“Good-night, and Our Lady’s benison,” said the Palmer, with
composure; and his guide moved forward.

In a small antechamber, into which several doors opened, and which was lighted
by a small iron lamp, they met a second interruption from the waiting-maid of
Rowena, who, saying in a tone of authority, that her mistress desired to speak
with the Palmer, took the torch from the hand of Anwold, and, bidding him await
her return, made a sign to the Palmer to follow. Apparently he did not think it
proper to decline this invitation as he had done the former; for, though his
gesture indicated some surprise at the summons, he obeyed it without answer or
remonstrance.

A short passage, and an ascent of seven steps, each of which was composed of a
solid beam of oak, led him to the apartment of the Lady Rowena, the rude
magnificence of which corresponded to the respect which was paid to her by the
lord of the mansion. The walls were covered with embroidered hangings, on which
different-coloured silks, interwoven with gold and silver threads, had been
employed with all the art of which the age was capable, to represent the sports
of hunting and hawking. The bed was adorned with the same rich tapestry, and
surrounded with curtains dyed with purple. The seats had also their stained
coverings, and one, which was higher than the rest, was accommodated with a
footstool of ivory, curiously carved.

No fewer than four silver candelabras, holding great waxen torches, served to
illuminate this apartment. Yet let not modern beauty envy the magnificence of a
Saxon princess. The walls of the apartment were so ill finished and so full of
crevices, that the rich hangings shook in the night blast, and, in despite of a
sort of screen intended to protect them from the wind, the flame of the torches
streamed sideways into the air, like the unfurled pennon of a chieftain.
Magnificence there was, with some rude attempt at taste; but of comfort there
was little, and, being unknown, it was unmissed.

The Lady Rowena, with three of her attendants standing at her back, and
arranging her hair ere she lay down to rest, was seated in the sort of throne
already mentioned, and looked as if born to exact general homage. The Pilgrim
acknowledged her claim to it by a low genuflection.

“Rise, Palmer,” said she graciously. “The defender of the
absent has a right to favourable reception from all who value truth, and honour
manhood.” She then said to her train, “Retire, excepting only
Elgitha; I would speak with this holy Pilgrim.”

The maidens, without leaving the apartment, retired to its further extremity,
and sat down on a small bench against the wall, where they remained mute as
statues, though at such a distance that their whispers could not have
interrupted the conversation of their mistress.

“Pilgrim,” said the lady, after a moment’s pause, during
which she seemed uncertain how to address him, “you this night mentioned
a name—I mean,” she said, with a degree of effort, “the name
of Ivanhoe, in the halls where by nature and kindred it should have sounded
most acceptably; and yet, such is the perverse course of fate, that of many
whose hearts must have throbbed at the sound, I, only, dare ask you where, and
in what condition, you left him of whom you spoke?—We heard, that, having
remained in Palestine, on account of his impaired health, after the departure
of the English army, he had experienced the persecution of the French faction,
to whom the Templars are known to be attached.”

“I know little of the Knight of Ivanhoe,” answered the Palmer, with
a troubled voice. “I would I knew him better, since you, lady, are
interested in his fate. He hath, I believe, surmounted the persecution of his
enemies in Palestine, and is on the eve of returning to England, where you,
lady, must know better than I, what is his chance of happiness.”

The Lady Rowena sighed deeply, and asked more particularly when the Knight of
Ivanhoe might be expected in his native country, and whether he would not be
exposed to great dangers by the road. On the first point, the Palmer professed
ignorance; on the second, he said that the voyage might be safely made by the
way of Venice and Genoa, and from thence through France to England.
“Ivanhoe,” he said, “was so well acquainted with the language
and manners of the French, that there was no fear of his incurring any hazard
during that part of his travels.”

“Would to God,” said the Lady Rowena, “he were here safely
arrived, and able to bear arms in the approaching tourney, in which the
chivalry of this land are expected to display their address and valour. Should
Athelstane of Coningsburgh obtain the prize, Ivanhoe is like to hear evil
tidings when he reaches England.—How looked he, stranger, when you last
saw him? Had disease laid her hand heavy upon his strength and
comeliness?”

“He was darker,” said the Palmer, “and thinner, than when he
came from Cyprus in the train of Cœur-de-Lion, and care seemed to sit heavy on
his brow; but I approached not his presence, because he is unknown to
me.”

“He will,” said the lady, “I fear, find little in his native
land to clear those clouds from his countenance. Thanks, good Pilgrim, for your
information concerning the companion of my childhood.—Maidens,” she
said, “draw near—offer the sleeping cup to this holy man, whom I
will no longer detain from repose.”

One of the maidens presented a silver cup, containing a rich mixture of wine
and spice, which Rowena barely put to her lips. It was then offered to the
Palmer, who, after a low obeisance, tasted a few drops.

“Accept this alms, friend,” continued the lady, offering a piece of
gold, “in acknowledgment of thy painful travail, and of the shrines thou
hast visited.”

The Palmer received the boon with another low reverence, and followed Edwina
out of the apartment.

In the anteroom he found his attendant Anwold, who, taking the torch from the
hand of the waiting-maid, conducted him with more haste than ceremony to an
exterior and ignoble part of the building, where a number of small apartments,
or rather cells, served for sleeping places to the lower order of domestics,
and to strangers of mean degree.

“In which of these sleeps the Jew?” said the Pilgrim.

“The unbelieving dog,” answered Anwold, “kennels in the cell
next your holiness.—St Dunstan, how it must be scraped and cleansed ere
it be again fit for a Christian!”

“And where sleeps Gurth the swineherd?” said the stranger.

“Gurth,” replied the bondsman, “sleeps in the cell on your
right, as the Jew on that to your left; you serve to keep the child of
circumcision separate from the abomination of his tribe. You might have
occupied a more honourable place had you accepted of Oswald’s
invitation.”

“It is as well as it is,” said the Palmer; “the company, even
of a Jew, can hardly spread contamination through an oaken partition.”

So saying, he entered the cabin allotted to him, and taking the torch from the
domestic’s hand, thanked him, and wished him good-night. Having shut the
door of his cell, he placed the torch in a candlestick made of wood, and looked
around his sleeping apartment, the furniture of which was of the most simple
kind. It consisted of a rude wooden stool, and still ruder hutch or bed-frame,
stuffed with clean straw, and accommodated with two or three sheepskins by way
of bed-clothes.

The Palmer, having extinguished his torch, threw himself, without taking off
any part of his clothes, on this rude couch, and slept, or at least retained
his recumbent posture, till the earliest sunbeams found their way through the
little grated window, which served at once to admit both air and light to his
uncomfortable cell. He then started up, and after repeating his matins, and
adjusting his dress, he left it, and entered that of Isaac the Jew, lifting the
latch as gently as he could.

The inmate was lying in troubled slumber upon a couch similar to that on which
the Palmer himself had passed the night. Such parts of his dress as the Jew had
laid aside on the preceding evening, were disposed carefully around his person,
as if to prevent the hazard of their being carried off during his slumbers.
There was a trouble on his brow amounting almost to agony. His hands and arms
moved convulsively, as if struggling with the nightmare; and besides several
ejaculations in Hebrew, the following were distinctly heard in the
Norman-English, or mixed language of the country: “For the sake of the
God of Abraham, spare an unhappy old man! I am poor, I am
penniless—should your irons wrench my limbs asunder, I could not gratify
you!”

The Palmer awaited not the end of the Jew’s vision, but stirred him with
his pilgrim’s staff. The touch probably associated, as is usual, with
some of the apprehensions excited by his dream; for the old man started up, his
grey hair standing almost erect upon his head, and huddling some part of his
garments about him, while he held the detached pieces with the tenacious grasp
of a falcon, he fixed upon the Palmer his keen black eyes, expressive of wild
surprise and of bodily apprehension.

“Fear nothing from me, Isaac,” said the Palmer, “I come as
your friend.”

“The God of Israel requite you,” said the Jew, greatly relieved;
“I dreamed—But Father Abraham be praised, it was but a
dream.” Then, collecting himself, he added in his usual tone, “And
what may it be your pleasure to want at so early an hour with the poor
Jew?”

“It is to tell you,” said the Palmer, “that if you leave not
this mansion instantly, and travel not with some haste, your journey may prove
a dangerous one.”

“Holy father!” said the Jew, “whom could it interest to
endanger so poor a wretch as I am?”

“The purpose you can best guess,” said the Pilgrim; “but rely
on this, that when the Templar crossed the hall yesternight, he spoke to his
Mussulman slaves in the Saracen language, which I well understand, and charged
them this morning to watch the journey of the Jew, to seize upon him when at a
convenient distance from the mansion, and to conduct him to the castle of
Philip de Malvoisin, or to that of Reginald Front-de-Bœuf.”

It is impossible to describe the extremity of terror which seized upon the Jew
at this information, and seemed at once to overpower his whole faculties. His
arms fell down to his sides, and his head drooped on his breast, his knees bent
under his weight, every nerve and muscle of his frame seemed to collapse and
lose its energy, and he sunk at the foot of the Palmer, not in the fashion of
one who intentionally stoops, kneels, or prostrates himself to excite
compassion, but like a man borne down on all sides by the pressure of some
invisible force, which crushes him to the earth without the power of
resistance.

“Holy God of Abraham!” was his first exclamation, folding and
elevating his wrinkled hands, but without raising his grey head from the
pavement; “Oh, holy Moses! O, blessed Aaron! the dream is not dreamed for
nought, and the vision cometh not in vain! I feel their irons already tear my
sinews! I feel the rack pass over my body like the saws, and harrows, and axes
of iron over the men of Rabbah, and of the cities of the children of
Ammon!”

“Stand up, Isaac, and hearken to me,” said the Palmer, who viewed
the extremity of his distress with a compassion in which contempt was largely
mingled; “you have cause for your terror, considering how your brethren
have been used, in order to extort from them their hoards, both by princes and
nobles; but stand up, I say, and I will point out to you the means of escape.
Leave this mansion instantly, while its inmates sleep sound after the last
night’s revel. I will guide you by the secret paths of the forest, known
as well to me as to any forester that ranges it, and I will not leave you till
you are under safe conduct of some chief or baron going to the tournament,
whose good-will you have probably the means of securing.”

As the ears of Isaac received the hopes of escape which this speech intimated,
he began gradually, and inch by inch, as it were, to raise himself up from the
ground, until he fairly rested upon his knees, throwing back his long grey hair
and beard, and fixing his keen black eyes upon the Palmer’s face, with a
look expressive at once of hope and fear, not unmingled with suspicion. But
when he heard the concluding part of the sentence, his original terror appeared
to revive in full force, and he dropt once more on his face, exclaiming,
“I possess the means of securing good-will! alas! there is but one
road to the favour of a Christian, and how can the poor Jew find it, whom
extortions have already reduced to the misery of Lazarus?” Then, as if
suspicion had overpowered his other feelings, he suddenly exclaimed, “For
the love of God, young man, betray me not—for the sake of the Great
Father who made us all, Jew as well as Gentile, Israelite and
Ishmaelite—do me no treason! I have not means to secure the good-will of
a Christian beggar, were he rating it at a single penny.” As he spoke
these last words, he raised himself, and grasped the Palmer’s mantle with
a look of the most earnest entreaty. The pilgrim extricated himself, as if
there were contamination in the touch.

“Wert thou loaded with all the wealth of thy tribe,” he said,
“what interest have I to injure thee?—In this dress I am vowed to
poverty, nor do I change it for aught save a horse and a coat of mail. Yet
think not that I care for thy company, or propose myself advantage by it;
remain here if thou wilt—Cedric the Saxon may protect thee.”

“Alas!” said the Jew, “he will not let me travel in his
train—Saxon or Norman will be equally ashamed of the poor Israelite; and
to travel by myself through the domains of Philip de Malvoisin and Reginald
Front-de-Bœuf—Good youth, I will go with you!—Let us
haste—let us gird up our loins—let us flee!—Here is thy
staff, why wilt thou tarry?”

“I tarry not,” said the Pilgrim, giving way to the urgency of his
companion; “but I must secure the means of leaving this
place—follow me.”

He led the way to the adjoining cell, which, as the reader is apprised, was
occupied by Gurth the swineherd.—“Arise, Gurth,” said the
Pilgrim, “arise quickly. Undo the postern gate, and let out the Jew and
me.”

Gurth, whose occupation, though now held so mean, gave him as much consequence
in Saxon England as that of Eumaeus in Ithaca, was offended at the familiar and
commanding tone assumed by the Palmer. “The Jew leaving
Rotherwood,” said he, raising himself on his elbow, and looking
superciliously at him without quitting his pallet, “and travelling in
company with the Palmer to boot—”

“I should as soon have dreamt,” said Wamba, who entered the
apartment at the instant, “of his stealing away with a gammon of
bacon.”

“Nevertheless,” said Gurth, again laying down his head on the
wooden log which served him for a pillow, “both Jew and Gentile must be
content to abide the opening of the great gate—we suffer no visitors to
depart by stealth at these unseasonable hours.”

“Nevertheless,” said the Pilgrim, in a commanding tone, “you
will not, I think, refuse me that favour.”

So saying, he stooped over the bed of the recumbent swineherd, and whispered
something in his ear in Saxon. Gurth started up as if electrified. The Pilgrim,
raising his finger in an attitude as if to express caution, added,
“Gurth, beware—thou are wont to be prudent. I say, undo the
postern—thou shalt know more anon.”

With hasty alacrity Gurth obeyed him, while Wamba and the Jew followed, both
wondering at the sudden change in the swineherd’s demeanour. “My
mule, my mule!” said the Jew, as soon as they stood without the postern.

“Fetch him his mule,” said the Pilgrim; “and, hearest
thou,—let me have another, that I may bear him company till he is beyond
these parts—I will return it safely to some of Cedric’s train at
Ashby. And do thou”—he whispered the rest in Gurth’s ear.

“Willingly, most willingly shall it be done,” said Gurth, and
instantly departed to execute the commission.

“I wish I knew,” said Wamba, when his comrade’s back was
turned, “what you Palmers learn in the Holy Land.”

“To say our orisons, fool,” answered the Pilgrim, “to repent
our sins, and to mortify ourselves with fastings, vigils, and long
prayers.”

“Something more potent than that,” answered the Jester; “for
when would repentance or prayer make Gurth do a courtesy, or fasting or vigil
persuade him to lend you a mule?—I trow you might as well have told his
favourite black boar of thy vigils and penance, and wouldst have gotten as
civil an answer.”

“Go to,” said the Pilgrim, “thou art but a Saxon fool.”

“Thou sayst well,” said the Jester; “had I been born a
Norman, as I think thou art, I would have had luck on my side, and been next
door to a wise man.”

At this moment Gurth appeared on the opposite side of the moat with the mules.
The travellers crossed the ditch upon a drawbridge of only two planks breadth,
the narrowness of which was matched with the straitness of the postern, and
with a little wicket in the exterior palisade, which gave access to the forest.
No sooner had they reached the mules, than the Jew, with hasty and trembling
hands, secured behind the saddle a small bag of blue buckram, which he took
from under his cloak, containing, as he muttered, “a change of
raiment—only a change of raiment.” Then getting upon the animal
with more alacrity and haste than could have been anticipated from his years,
he lost no time in so disposing of the skirts of his gabardine as to conceal
completely from observation the burden which he had thus deposited “en
croupe”.

The Pilgrim mounted with more deliberation, reaching, as he departed, his hand
to Gurth, who kissed it with the utmost possible veneration. The swineherd
stood gazing after the travellers until they were lost under the boughs of the
forest path, when he was disturbed from his reverie by the voice of Wamba.

“Knowest thou,” said the Jester, “my good friend Gurth, that
thou art strangely courteous and most unwontedly pious on this summer morning?
I would I were a black Prior or a barefoot Palmer, to avail myself of thy
unwonted zeal and courtesy—certes, I would make more out of it than a
kiss of the hand.”

“Thou art no fool thus far, Wamba,” answered Gurth, “though
thou arguest from appearances, and the wisest of us can do no more—But it
is time to look after my charge.”

So saying, he turned back to the mansion, attended by the Jester.

Meanwhile the travellers continued to press on their journey with a dispatch
which argued the extremity of the Jew’s fears, since persons at his age
are seldom fond of rapid motion. The Palmer, to whom every path and outlet in
the wood appeared to be familiar, led the way through the most devious paths,
and more than once excited anew the suspicion of the Israelite, that he
intended to betray him into some ambuscade of his enemies.

His doubts might have been indeed pardoned; for, except perhaps the flying
fish, there was no race existing on the earth, in the air, or the waters, who
were the object of such an unintermitting, general, and relentless persecution
as the Jews of this period. Upon the slightest and most unreasonable pretences,
as well as upon accusations the most absurd and groundless, their persons and
property were exposed to every turn of popular fury; for Norman, Saxon, Dane,
and Briton, however adverse these races were to each other, contended which
should look with greatest detestation upon a people, whom it was accounted a
point of religion to hate, to revile, to despise, to plunder, and to persecute.
The kings of the Norman race, and the independent nobles, who followed their
example in all acts of tyranny, maintained against this devoted people a
persecution of a more regular, calculated, and self-interested kind. It is a
well-known story of King John, that he confined a wealthy Jew in one of the
royal castles, and daily caused one of his teeth to be torn out, until, when
the jaw of the unhappy Israelite was half disfurnished, he consented to pay a
large sum, which it was the tyrant’s object to extort from him. The
little ready money which was in the country was chiefly in possession of this
persecuted people, and the nobility hesitated not to follow the example of
their sovereign, in wringing it from them by every species of oppression, and
even personal torture. Yet the passive courage inspired by the love of gain,
induced the Jews to dare the various evils to which they were subjected, in
consideration of the immense profits which they were enabled to realize in a
country naturally so wealthy as England. In spite of every kind of
discouragement, and even of the special court of taxations already mentioned,
called the Jews’ Exchequer, erected for the very purpose of despoiling
and distressing them, the Jews increased, multiplied, and accumulated huge
sums, which they transferred from one hand to another by means of bills of
exchange—an invention for which commerce is said to be indebted to them,
and which enabled them to transfer their wealth from land to land, that when
threatened with oppression in one country, their treasure might be secured in
another.

The obstinacy and avarice of the Jews being thus in a measure placed in
opposition to the fanaticism that tyranny of those under whom they lived,
seemed to increase in proportion to the persecution with which they were
visited; and the immense wealth they usually acquired in commerce, while it
frequently placed them in danger, was at other times used to extend their
influence, and to secure to them a certain degree of protection. On these terms
they lived; and their character, influenced accordingly, was watchful,
suspicious, and timid—yet obstinate, uncomplying, and skilful in evading
the dangers to which they were exposed.

When the travellers had pushed on at a rapid rate through many devious paths,
the Palmer at length broke silence.

“That large decayed oak,” he said, “marks the boundaries over
which Front-de-Bœuf claims authority—we are long since far from those of
Malvoisin. There is now no fear of pursuit.”

“May the wheels of their chariots be taken off,” said the Jew,
“like those of the host of Pharaoh, that they may drive
heavily!—But leave me not, good Pilgrim—Think but of that fierce
and savage Templar, with his Saracen slaves—they will regard neither
territory, nor manor, nor lordship.”

“Our road,” said the Palmer, “should here separate; for it
beseems not men of my character and thine to travel together longer than needs
must be. Besides, what succour couldst thou have from me, a peaceful Pilgrim,
against two armed heathens?”

“O good youth,” answered the Jew, “thou canst defend me, and
I know thou wouldst. Poor as I am, I will requite it—not with money, for
money, so help me my Father Abraham, I have none—but—-”

“Money and recompense,” said the Palmer, interrupting him, “I
have already said I require not of thee. Guide thee I can; and, it may be, even
in some sort defend thee; since to protect a Jew against a Saracen, can scarce
be accounted unworthy of a Christian. Therefore, Jew, I will see thee safe
under some fitting escort. We are now not far from the town of Sheffield, where
thou mayest easily find many of thy tribe with whom to take refuge.”

“The blessing of Jacob be upon thee, good youth!” said the Jew;
“in Sheffield I can harbour with my kinsman Zareth, and find some means
of travelling forth with safety.”

“Be it so,” said the Palmer; “at Sheffield then we part, and
half-an-hour’s riding will bring us in sight of that town.”

The half hour was spent in perfect silence on both parts; the Pilgrim perhaps
disdaining to address the Jew, except in case of absolute necessity, and the
Jew not presuming to force a conversation with a person whose journey to the
Holy Sepulchre gave a sort of sanctity to his character. They paused on the top
of a gently rising bank, and the Pilgrim, pointing to the town of Sheffield,
which lay beneath them, repeated the words, “Here, then, we part.”

“Not till you have had the poor Jew’s thanks,” said Isaac;
“for I presume not to ask you to go with me to my kinsman Zareth’s,
who might aid me with some means of repaying your good offices.”

“I have already said,” answered the Pilgrim, “that I desire
no recompense. If among the huge list of thy debtors, thou wilt, for my sake,
spare the gyves and the dungeon to some unhappy Christian who stands in thy
danger, I shall hold this morning’s service to thee well bestowed.”

“Stay, stay,” said the Jew, laying hold of his garment;
“something would I do more than this, something for thyself.—God
knows the Jew is poor—yes, Isaac is the beggar of his tribe—but
forgive me should I guess what thou most lackest at this moment.”

“If thou wert to guess truly,” said the Palmer, “it is what
thou canst not supply, wert thou as wealthy as thou sayst thou art poor.”

“As I say?” echoed the Jew; “O! believe it, I say but the
truth; I am a plundered, indebted, distressed man. Hard hands have wrung from
me my goods, my money, my ships, and all that I possessed—Yet I can tell
thee what thou lackest, and, it may be, supply it too. Thy wish even now is for
a horse and armour.”

The Palmer started, and turned suddenly towards the Jew:—“What
fiend prompted that guess?” said he, hastily.

“No matter,” said the Jew, smiling, “so that it be a true
one—and, as I can guess thy want, so I can supply it.”

“But consider,” said the Palmer, “my character, my dress, my
vow.”

“I know you Christians,” replied the Jew, “and that the
noblest of you will take the staff and sandal in superstitious penance, and
walk afoot to visit the graves of dead men.”

“Blaspheme not, Jew,” said the Pilgrim, sternly.

“Forgive me,” said the Jew; “I spoke rashly. But there dropt
words from you last night and this morning, that, like sparks from flint,
showed the metal within; and in the bosom of that Palmer’s gown, is
hidden a knight’s chain and spurs of gold. They glanced as you stooped
over my bed in the morning.”

The Pilgrim could not forbear smiling. “Were thy garments searched by as
curious an eye, Isaac,” said he, “what discoveries might not be
made?”

“No more of that,” said the Jew, changing colour; and drawing forth
his writing materials in haste, as if to stop the conversation, he began to
write upon a piece of paper which he supported on the top of his yellow cap,
without dismounting from his mule. When he had finished, he delivered the
scroll, which was in the Hebrew character, to the Pilgrim, saying, “In
the town of Leicester all men know the rich Jew, Kirjath Jairam of Lombardy;
give him this scroll—he hath on sale six Milan harnesses, the worst would
suit a crowned head—ten goodly steeds, the worst might mount a king, were
he to do battle for his throne. Of these he will give thee thy choice, with
every thing else that can furnish thee forth for the tournament: when it is
over, thou wilt return them safely—unless thou shouldst have wherewith to
pay their value to the owner.”

“But, Isaac,” said the Pilgrim, smiling, “dost thou know that
in these sports, the arms and steed of the knight who is unhorsed are forfeit
to his victor? Now I may be unfortunate, and so lose what I cannot replace or
repay.”

The Jew looked somewhat astounded at this possibility; but collecting his
courage, he replied hastily. “No—no—no—It is
impossible—I will not think so. The blessing of Our Father will be upon
thee. Thy lance will be powerful as the rod of Moses.”

So saying, he was turning his mule’s head away, when the Palmer, in his
turn, took hold of his gaberdine. “Nay, but Isaac, thou knowest not all
the risk. The steed may be slain, the armour injured—for I will spare
neither horse nor man. Besides, those of thy tribe give nothing for nothing;
something there must be paid for their use.”

The Jew twisted himself in the saddle, like a man in a fit of the colic; but
his better feelings predominated over those which were most familiar to him.
“I care not,” he said, “I care not—let me go. If there
is damage, it will cost you nothing—if there is usage money, Kirjath
Jairam will forgive it for the sake of his kinsman Isaac. Fare thee
well!—Yet hark thee, good youth,” said he, turning about,
“thrust thyself not too forward into this vain hurly-burly—I speak
not for endangering the steed, and coat of armour, but for the sake of thine
own life and limbs.”

“Gramercy for thy caution,” said the Palmer, again smiling;
“I will use thy courtesy frankly, and it will go hard with me but I will
requite it.”

They parted, and took different roads for the town of Sheffield.

CHAPTER VII

Knights, with a long retinue of their squires,
In gaudy liveries march and quaint attires;
One laced the helm, another held the lance,
A third the shining buckler did advance.
The courser paw’d the ground with restless feet,
And snorting foam’d and champ’d the golden bit.
The smiths and armourers on palfreys ride,
Files in their hands, and hammers at their side;
And nails for loosen’d spears, and thongs for shields provide.
The yeomen guard the streets in seemly bands;
And clowns come crowding on, with cudgels in their hands.

PALAMON AND ARCITE

The condition of the English nation was at this time sufficiently miserable.
King Richard was absent a prisoner, and in the power of the perfidious and
cruel Duke of Austria. Even the very place of his captivity was uncertain, and
his fate but very imperfectly known to the generality of his subjects, who
were, in the meantime, a prey to every species of subaltern oppression.

Prince John, in league with Philip of France, Cœur-de-Lion’s mortal
enemy, was using every species of influence with the Duke of Austria, to
prolong the captivity of his brother Richard, to whom he stood indebted for so
many favours. In the meantime, he was strengthening his own faction in the
kingdom, of which he proposed to dispute the succession, in case of the
King’s death, with the legitimate heir, Arthur Duke of Brittany, son of
Geoffrey Plantagenet, the elder brother of John. This usurpation, it is well
known, he afterwards effected. His own character being light, profligate, and
perfidious, John easily attached to his person and faction, not only all who
had reason to dread the resentment of Richard for criminal proceedings during
his absence, but also the numerous class of “lawless resolutes,”
whom the crusades had turned back on their country, accomplished in the vices
of the East, impoverished in substance, and hardened in character, and who
placed their hopes of harvest in civil commotion. To these causes of public
distress and apprehension, must be added, the multitude of outlaws, who, driven
to despair by the oppression of the feudal nobility, and the severe exercise of
the forest laws, banded together in large gangs, and, keeping possession of the
forests and the wastes, set at defiance the justice and magistracy of the
country. The nobles themselves, each fortified within his own castle, and
playing the petty sovereign over his own dominions, were the leaders of bands
scarce less lawless and oppressive than those of the avowed depredators. To
maintain these retainers, and to support the extravagance and magnificence
which their pride induced them to affect, the nobility borrowed sums of money
from the Jews at the most usurious interest, which gnawed into their estates
like consuming cankers, scarce to be cured unless when circumstances gave them
an opportunity of getting free, by exercising upon their creditors some act of
unprincipled violence.

Under the various burdens imposed by this unhappy state of affairs, the people
of England suffered deeply for the present, and had yet more dreadful cause to
fear for the future. To augment their misery, a contagious disorder of a
dangerous nature spread through the land; and, rendered more virulent by the
uncleanness, the indifferent food, and the wretched lodging of the lower
classes, swept off many whose fate the survivors were tempted to envy, as
exempting them from the evils which were to come.

Yet amid these accumulated distresses, the poor as well as the rich, the vulgar
as well as the noble, in the event of a tournament, which was the grand
spectacle of that age, felt as much interested as the half-starved citizen of
Madrid, who has not a real left to buy provisions for his family, feels in the
issue of a bull-feast. Neither duty nor infirmity could keep youth or age from
such exhibitions. The Passage of Arms, as it was called, which was to take
place at Ashby, in the county of Leicester, as champions of the first renown
were to take the field in the presence of Prince John himself, who was expected
to grace the lists, had attracted universal attention, and an immense
confluence of persons of all ranks hastened upon the appointed morning to the
place of combat.

The scene was singularly romantic. On the verge of a wood, which approached to
within a mile of the town of Ashby, was an extensive meadow, of the finest and
most beautiful green turf, surrounded on one side by the forest, and fringed on
the other by straggling oak-trees, some of which had grown to an immense size.
The ground, as if fashioned on purpose for the martial display which was
intended, sloped gradually down on all sides to a level bottom, which was
enclosed for the lists with strong palisades, forming a space of a quarter of a
mile in length, and about half as broad. The form of the enclosure was an
oblong square, save that the corners were considerably rounded off, in order to
afford more convenience for the spectators. The openings for the entry of the
combatants were at the northern and southern extremities of the lists,
accessible by strong wooden gates, each wide enough to admit two horsemen
riding abreast. At each of these portals were stationed two heralds, attended
by six trumpets, as many pursuivants, and a strong body of men-at-arms for
maintaining order, and ascertaining the quality of the knights who proposed to
engage in this martial game.

On a platform beyond the southern entrance, formed by a natural elevation of
the ground, were pitched five magnificent pavilions, adorned with pennons of
russet and black, the chosen colours of the five knights challengers. The cords
of the tents were of the same colour. Before each pavilion was suspended the
shield of the knight by whom it was occupied, and beside it stood his squire,
quaintly disguised as a salvage or silvan man, or in some other fantastic
dress, according to the taste of his master, and the character he was pleased
to assume during the game. 16

The central pavilion, as the place of honour, had been assigned to Brian be
Bois-Guilbert, whose renown in all games of chivalry, no less than his
connexions with the knights who had undertaken this Passage of Arms, had
occasioned him to be eagerly received into the company of the challengers, and
even adopted as their chief and leader, though he had so recently joined them.
On one side of his tent were pitched those of Reginald Front-de-Bœuf and
Richard de Malvoisin, and on the other was the pavilion of Hugh de Grantmesnil,
a noble baron in the vicinity, whose ancestor had been Lord High Steward of
England in the time of the Conqueror, and his son William Rufus. Ralph de
Vipont, a knight of St John of Jerusalem, who had some ancient possessions at a
place called Heather, near Ashby-de-la-Zouche, occupied the fifth pavilion.
From the entrance into the lists, a gently sloping passage, ten yards in
breadth, led up to the platform on which the tents were pitched. It was
strongly secured by a palisade on each side, as was the esplanade in front of
the pavilions, and the whole was guarded by men-at-arms.

The northern access to the lists terminated in a similar entrance of thirty
feet in breadth, at the extremity of which was a large enclosed space for such
knights as might be disposed to enter the lists with the challengers, behind
which were placed tents containing refreshments of every kind for their
accommodation, with armourers, tarriers, and other attendants, in readiness to
give their services wherever they might be necessary.

The exterior of the lists was in part occupied by temporary galleries, spread
with tapestry and carpets, and accommodated with cushions for the convenience
of those ladies and nobles who were expected to attend the tournament. A narrow
space, betwixt these galleries and the lists, gave accommodation for yeomanry
and spectators of a better degree than the mere vulgar, and might be compared
to the pit of a theatre. The promiscuous multitude arranged themselves upon
large banks of turf prepared for the purpose, which, aided by the natural
elevation of the ground, enabled them to overlook the galleries, and obtain a
fair view into the lists. Besides the accommodation which these stations
afforded, many hundreds had perched themselves on the branches of the trees
which surrounded the meadow; and even the steeple of a country church, at some
distance, was crowded with spectators.

It only remains to notice respecting the general arrangement, that one gallery
in the very centre of the eastern side of the lists, and consequently exactly
opposite to the spot where the shock of the combat was to take place, was
raised higher than the others, more richly decorated, and graced by a sort of
throne and canopy, on which the royal arms were emblazoned. Squires, pages, and
yeomen in rich liveries, waited around this place of honour, which was designed
for Prince John and his attendants. Opposite to this royal gallery was another,
elevated to the same height, on the western side of the lists; and more gaily,
if less sumptuously decorated, than that destined for the Prince himself. A
train of pages and of young maidens, the most beautiful who could be selected,
gaily dressed in fancy habits of green and pink, surrounded a throne decorated
in the same colours. Among pennons and flags bearing wounded hearts, burning
hearts, bleeding hearts, bows and quivers, and all the commonplace emblems of
the triumphs of Cupid, a blazoned inscription informed the spectators, that
this seat of honour was designed for “La Royne de las Beaulte et des
Amours”. But who was to represent the Queen of Beauty and of Love on the
present occasion no one was prepared to guess.

Meanwhile, spectators of every description thronged forward to occupy their
respective stations, and not without many quarrels concerning those which they
were entitled to hold. Some of these were settled by the men-at-arms with brief
ceremony; the shafts of their battle-axes, and pummels of their swords, being
readily employed as arguments to convince the more refractory. Others, which
involved the rival claims of more elevated persons, were determined by the
heralds, or by the two marshals of the field, William de Wyvil, and Stephen de
Martival, who, armed at all points, rode up and down the lists to enforce and
preserve good order among the spectators.

Gradually the galleries became filled with knights and nobles, in their robes
of peace, whose long and rich-tinted mantles were contrasted with the gayer and
more splendid habits of the ladies, who, in a greater proportion than even the
men themselves, thronged to witness a sport, which one would have thought too
bloody and dangerous to afford their sex much pleasure. The lower and interior
space was soon filled by substantial yeomen and burghers, and such of the
lesser gentry, as, from modesty, poverty, or dubious title, durst not assume
any higher place. It was of course amongst these that the most frequent
disputes for precedence occurred.

“Dog of an unbeliever,” said an old man, whose threadbare tunic
bore witness to his poverty, as his sword, and dagger, and golden chain
intimated his pretensions to rank,—“whelp of a she-wolf! darest
thou press upon a Christian, and a Norman gentleman of the blood of
Montdidier?”

This rough expostulation was addressed to no other than our acquaintance Isaac,
who, richly and even magnificently dressed in a gaberdine ornamented with lace
and lined with fur, was endeavouring to make place in the foremost row beneath
the gallery for his daughter, the beautiful Rebecca, who had joined him at
Ashby, and who was now hanging on her father’s arm, not a little
terrified by the popular displeasure which seemed generally excited by her
parent’s presumption. But Isaac, though we have seen him sufficiently
timid on other occasions, knew well that at present he had nothing to fear. It
was not in places of general resort, or where their equals were assembled, that
any avaricious or malevolent noble durst offer him injury. At such meetings the
Jews were under the protection of the general law; and if that proved a weak
assurance, it usually happened that there were among the persons assembled some
barons, who, for their own interested motives, were ready to act as their
protectors. On the present occasion, Isaac felt more than usually confident,
being aware that Prince John was even then in the very act of negotiating a
large loan from the Jews of York, to be secured upon certain jewels and lands.
Isaac’s own share in this transaction was considerable, and he well knew
that the Prince’s eager desire to bring it to a conclusion would ensure
him his protection in the dilemma in which he stood.

Emboldened by these considerations, the Jew pursued his point, and jostled the
Norman Christian, without respect either to his descent, quality, or religion.
The complaints of the old man, however, excited the indignation of the
bystanders. One of these, a stout well-set yeoman, arrayed in Lincoln green,
having twelve arrows stuck in his belt, with a baldric and badge of silver, and
a bow of six feet length in his hand, turned short round, and while his
countenance, which his constant exposure to weather had rendered brown as a
hazel nut, grew darker with anger, he advised the Jew to remember that all the
wealth he had acquired by sucking the blood of his miserable victims had but
swelled him like a bloated spider, which might be overlooked while he kept in a
corner, but would be crushed if it ventured into the light. This intimation,
delivered in Norman-English with a firm voice and a stern aspect, made the Jew
shrink back; and he would have probably withdrawn himself altogether from a
vicinity so dangerous, had not the attention of every one been called to the
sudden entrance of Prince John, who at that moment entered the lists, attended
by a numerous and gay train, consisting partly of laymen, partly of churchmen,
as light in their dress, and as gay in their demeanour, as their companions.
Among the latter was the Prior of Jorvaulx, in the most gallant trim which a
dignitary of the church could venture to exhibit. Fur and gold were not spared
in his garments; and the points of his boots, out-heroding the preposterous
fashion of the time, turned up so very far, as to be attached, not to his knees
merely, but to his very girdle, and effectually prevented him from putting his
foot into the stirrup. This, however, was a slight inconvenience to the gallant
Abbot, who, perhaps, even rejoicing in the opportunity to display his
accomplished horsemanship before so many spectators, especially of the fair
sex, dispensed with the use of these supports to a timid rider. The rest of
Prince John’s retinue consisted of the favourite leaders of his mercenary
troops, some marauding barons and profligate attendants upon the court, with
several Knights Templars and Knights of St John.

It may be here remarked, that the knights of these two orders were accounted
hostile to King Richard, having adopted the side of Philip of France in the
long train of disputes which took place in Palestine betwixt that monarch and
the lion-hearted King of England. It was the well-known consequence of this
discord that Richard’s repeated victories had been rendered fruitless,
his romantic attempts to besiege Jerusalem disappointed, and the fruit of all
the glory which he had acquired had dwindled into an uncertain truce with the
Sultan Saladin. With the same policy which had dictated the conduct of their
brethren in the Holy Land, the Templars and Hospitallers in England and
Normandy attached themselves to the faction of Prince John, having little
reason to desire the return of Richard to England, or the succession of Arthur,
his legitimate heir. For the opposite reason, Prince John hated and contemned
the few Saxon families of consequence which subsisted in England, and omitted
no opportunity of mortifying and affronting them; being conscious that his
person and pretensions were disliked by them, as well as by the greater part of
the English commons, who feared farther innovation upon their rights and
liberties, from a sovereign of John’s licentious and tyrannical
disposition.

Attended by this gallant equipage, himself well mounted, and splendidly dressed
in crimson and in gold, bearing upon his hand a falcon, and having his head
covered by a rich fur bonnet, adorned with a circle of precious stones, from
which his long curled hair escaped and overspread his shoulders, Prince John,
upon a grey and high-mettled palfrey, caracoled within the lists at the head of
his jovial party, laughing loud with his train, and eyeing with all the
boldness of royal criticism the beauties who adorned the lofty galleries.

Those who remarked in the physiognomy of the Prince a dissolute audacity,
mingled with extreme haughtiness and indifference to the feelings of others
could not yet deny to his countenance that sort of comeliness which belongs to
an open set of features, well formed by nature, modelled by art to the usual
rules of courtesy, yet so far frank and honest, that they seemed as if they
disclaimed to conceal the natural workings of the soul. Such an expression is
often mistaken for manly frankness, when in truth it arises from the reckless
indifference of a libertine disposition, conscious of superiority of birth, of
wealth, or of some other adventitious advantage, totally unconnected with
personal merit. To those who did not think so deeply, and they were the greater
number by a hundred to one, the splendour of Prince John’s
“rheno”, (i.e. fur tippet,) the richness of his cloak, lined with
the most costly sables, his maroquin boots and golden spurs, together with the
grace with which he managed his palfrey, were sufficient to merit clamorous
applause.

In his joyous caracole round the lists, the attention of the Prince was called
by the commotion, not yet subsided, which had attended the ambitious movement
of Isaac towards the higher places of the assembly. The quick eye of Prince
John instantly recognised the Jew, but was much more agreeably attracted by the
beautiful daughter of Zion, who, terrified by the tumult, clung close to the
arm of her aged father.

The figure of Rebecca might indeed have compared with the proudest beauties of
England, even though it had been judged by as shrewd a connoisseur as Prince
John. Her form was exquisitely symmetrical, and was shown to advantage by a
sort of Eastern dress, which she wore according to the fashion of the females
of her nation. Her turban of yellow silk suited well with the darkness of her
complexion. The brilliancy of her eyes, the superb arch of her eyebrows, her
well-formed aquiline nose, her teeth as white as pearl, and the profusion of
her sable tresses, which, each arranged in its own little spiral of twisted
curls, fell down upon as much of a lovely neck and bosom as a simarre of the
richest Persian silk, exhibiting flowers in their natural colours embossed upon
a purple ground, permitted to be visible—all these constituted a
combination of loveliness, which yielded not to the most beautiful of the
maidens who surrounded her. It is true, that of the golden and pearl-studded
clasps, which closed her vest from the throat to the waist, the three uppermost
were left unfastened on account of the heat, which somewhat enlarged the
prospect to which we allude. A diamond necklace, with pendants of inestimable
value, were by this means also made more conspicuous. The feather of an
ostrich, fastened in her turban by an agraffe set with brilliants, was another
distinction of the beautiful Jewess, scoffed and sneered at by the proud dames
who sat above her, but secretly envied by those who affected to deride them.

“By the bald scalp of Abraham,” said Prince John, “yonder
Jewess must be the very model of that perfection, whose charms drove frantic
the wisest king that ever lived! What sayest thou, Prior Aymer?—By the
Temple of that wise king, which our wiser brother Richard proved unable to
recover, she is the very Bride of the Canticles!”

“The Rose of Sharon and the Lily of the Valley,”—answered the
Prior, in a sort of snuffling tone; “but your Grace must remember she is
still but a Jewess.”

“Ay!” added Prince John, without heeding him, “and there is
my Mammon of unrighteousness too—the Marquis of Marks, the Baron of
Byzants, contesting for place with penniless dogs, whose threadbare cloaks have
not a single cross in their pouches to keep the devil from dancing there. By
the body of St Mark, my prince of supplies, with his lovely Jewess, shall have
a place in the gallery!—What is she, Isaac? Thy wife or thy daughter,
that Eastern houri that thou lockest under thy arm as thou wouldst thy
treasure-casket?”

“My daughter Rebecca, so please your Grace,” answered Isaac, with a
low congee, nothing embarrassed by the Prince’s salutation, in which,
however, there was at least as much mockery as courtesy.

“The wiser man thou,” said John, with a peal of laughter, in which
his gay followers obsequiously joined. “But, daughter or wife, she should
be preferred according to her beauty and thy merits.—Who sits above
there?” he continued, bending his eye on the gallery. “Saxon
churls, lolling at their lazy length!—out upon them!—let them sit
close, and make room for my prince of usurers and his lovely daughter.
I’ll make the hinds know they must share the high places of the synagogue
with those whom the synagogue properly belongs to.”

Those who occupied the gallery to whom this injurious and unpolite speech was
addressed, were the family of Cedric the Saxon, with that of his ally and
kinsman, Athelstane of Coningsburgh, a personage, who, on account of his
descent from the last Saxon monarchs of England, was held in the highest
respect by all the Saxon natives of the north of England. But with the blood of
this ancient royal race, many of their infirmities had descended to Athelstane.
He was comely in countenance, bulky and strong in person, and in the flower of
his age—yet inanimate in expression, dull-eyed, heavy-browed, inactive
and sluggish in all his motions, and so slow in resolution, that the soubriquet
of one of his ancestors was conferred upon him, and he was very generally
called Athelstane the Unready. His friends, and he had many, who, as well as
Cedric, were passionately attached to him, contended that this sluggish temper
arose not from want of courage, but from mere want of decision; others alleged
that his hereditary vice of drunkenness had obscured his faculties, never of a
very acute order, and that the passive courage and meek good-nature which
remained behind, were merely the dregs of a character that might have been
deserving of praise, but of which all the valuable parts had flown off in the
progress of a long course of brutal debauchery.

It was to this person, such as we have described him, that the Prince addressed
his imperious command to make place for Isaac and Rebecca. Athelstane, utterly
confounded at an order which the manners and feelings of the times rendered so
injuriously insulting, unwilling to obey, yet undetermined how to resist,
opposed only the “vis inertiae” to the will of John; and, without
stirring or making any motion whatever of obedience, opened his large grey
eyes, and stared at the Prince with an astonishment which had in it something
extremely ludicrous. But the impatient John regarded it in no such light.

“The Saxon porker,” he said, “is either asleep or minds me
not—Prick him with your lance, De Bracy,” speaking to a knight who
rode near him, the leader of a band of Free Companions, or Condottieri; that
is, of mercenaries belonging to no particular nation, but attached for the time
to any prince by whom they were paid. There was a murmur even among the
attendants of Prince John; but De Bracy, whose profession freed him from all
scruples, extended his long lance over the space which separated the gallery
from the lists, and would have executed the commands of the Prince before
Athelstane the Unready had recovered presence of mind sufficient even to draw
back his person from the weapon, had not Cedric, as prompt as his companion was
tardy, unsheathed, with the speed of lightning, the short sword which he wore,
and at a single blow severed the point of the lance from the handle. The blood
rushed into the countenance of Prince John. He swore one of his deepest oaths,
and was about to utter some threat corresponding in violence, when he was
diverted from his purpose, partly by his own attendants, who gathered around
him conjuring him to be patient, partly by a general exclamation of the crowd,
uttered in loud applause of the spirited conduct of Cedric. The Prince rolled
his eyes in indignation, as if to collect some safe and easy victim; and
chancing to encounter the firm glance of the same archer whom we have already
noticed, and who seemed to persist in his gesture of applause, in spite of the
frowning aspect which the Prince bent upon him, he demanded his reason for
clamouring thus.

“I always add my hollo,” said the yeoman, “when I see a good
shot, or a gallant blow.”

“Sayst thou?” answered the Prince; “then thou canst hit the
white thyself, I’ll warrant.”

“A woodsman’s mark, and at woodsman’s distance, I can
hit,” answered the yeoman.

“And Wat Tyrrel’s mark, at a hundred yards,” said a voice
from behind, but by whom uttered could not be discerned.

This allusion to the fate of William Rufus, his Relative, at once incensed and
alarmed Prince John. He satisfied himself, however, with commanding the
men-at-arms, who surrounded the lists, to keep an eye on the braggart, pointing
to the yeoman.

“By St Grizzel,” he added, “we will try his own skill, who is
so ready to give his voice to the feats of others!”

“I shall not fly the trial,” said the yeoman, with the composure
which marked his whole deportment.

“Meanwhile, stand up, ye Saxon churls,” said the fiery Prince;
“for, by the light of Heaven, since I have said it, the Jew shall have
his seat amongst ye!”

“By no means, an it please your Grace!—it is not fit for such as we
to sit with the rulers of the land,” said the Jew; whose ambition for
precedence though it had led him to dispute Place with the extenuated and
impoverished descendant of the line of Montdidier, by no means stimulated him
to an intrusion upon the privileges of the wealthy Saxons.

“Up, infidel dog when I command you,” said Prince John, “or I
will have thy swarthy hide stript off, and tanned for horse-furniture.”

Thus urged, the Jew began to ascend the steep and narrow steps which led up to
the gallery.

“Let me see,” said the Prince, “who dare stop him,”
fixing his eye on Cedric, whose attitude intimated his intention to hurl the
Jew down headlong.

The catastrophe was prevented by the clown Wamba, who, springing betwixt his
master and Isaac, and exclaiming, in answer to the Prince’s defiance,
“Marry, that will I!” opposed to the beard of the Jew a shield of
brawn, which he plucked from beneath his cloak, and with which, doubtless, he
had furnished himself, lest the tournament should have proved longer than his
appetite could endure abstinence. Finding the abomination of his tribe opposed
to his very nose, while the Jester, at the same time, flourished his wooden
sword above his head, the Jew recoiled, missed his footing, and rolled down the
steps,—an excellent jest to the spectators, who set up a loud laughter,
in which Prince John and his attendants heartily joined.

“Deal me the prize, cousin Prince,” said Wamba; “I have
vanquished my foe in fair fight with sword and shield,” he added,
brandishing the brawn in one hand and the wooden sword in the other.

“Who, and what art thou, noble champion?” said Prince John, still
laughing.

“A fool by right of descent,” answered the Jester; “I am
Wamba, the son of Witless, who was the son of Weatherbrain, who was the son of
an Alderman.”

“Make room for the Jew in front of the lower ring,” said Prince
John, not unwilling perhaps to seize an apology to desist from his original
purpose; “to place the vanquished beside the victor were false
heraldry.”

“Knave upon fool were worse,” answered the Jester, “and Jew
upon bacon worst of all.”

“Gramercy! good fellow,” cried Prince John, “thou pleasest
me—Here, Isaac, lend me a handful of byzants.”

As the Jew, stunned by the request, afraid to refuse, and unwilling to comply,
fumbled in the furred bag which hung by his girdle, and was perhaps
endeavouring to ascertain how few coins might pass for a handful, the Prince
stooped from his jennet and settled Isaac’s doubts by snatching the pouch
itself from his side; and flinging to Wamba a couple of the gold pieces which
it contained, he pursued his career round the lists, leaving the Jew to the
derision of those around him, and himself receiving as much applause from the
spectators as if he had done some honest and honourable action.

CHAPTER VIII

At this the challenger with fierce defy
His trumpet sounds; the challenged makes reply:
With clangour rings the field, resounds the vaulted sky.
Their visors closed, their lances in the rest,
Or at the helmet pointed or the crest,
They vanish from the barrier, speed the race,
And spurring see decrease the middle space.

PALAMON AND ARCITE

In the midst of Prince John’s cavalcade, he suddenly stopt, and appealing
to the Prior of Jorvaulx, declared the principal business of the day had been
forgotten.

“By my halidom,” said he, “we have forgotten, Sir Prior, to
name the fair Sovereign of Love and of Beauty, by whose white hand the palm is
to be distributed. For my part, I am liberal in my ideas, and I care not if I
give my vote for the black-eyed Rebecca.”

“Holy Virgin,” answered the Prior, turning up his eyes in horror,
“a Jewess!—We should deserve to be stoned out of the lists; and I
am not yet old enough to be a martyr. Besides, I swear by my patron saint, that
she is far inferior to the lovely Saxon, Rowena.”

“Saxon or Jew,” answered the Prince, “Saxon or Jew, dog or
hog, what matters it? I say, name Rebecca, were it only to mortify the Saxon
churls.”

A murmur arose even among his own immediate attendants.

“This passes a jest, my lord,” said De Bracy; “no knight here
will lay lance in rest if such an insult is attempted.”

“It is the mere wantonness of insult,” said one of the oldest and
most important of Prince John’s followers, Waldemar Fitzurse, “and
if your Grace attempt it, cannot but prove ruinous to your projects.”

“I entertained you, sir,” said John, reining up his palfrey
haughtily, “for my follower, but not for my counsellor.”

“Those who follow your Grace in the paths which you tread,” said
Waldemar, but speaking in a low voice, “acquire the right of counsellors;
for your interest and safety are not more deeply gaged than their own.”

From the tone in which this was spoken, John saw the necessity of acquiescence.
“I did but jest,” he said; “and you turn upon me like so many
adders! Name whom you will, in the fiend’s name, and please
yourselves.”

“Nay, nay,” said De Bracy, “let the fair sovereign’s
throne remain unoccupied, until the conqueror shall be named, and then let him
choose the lady by whom it shall be filled. It will add another grace to his
triumph, and teach fair ladies to prize the love of valiant knights, who can
exalt them to such distinction.”

“If Brian de Bois-Guilbert gain the prize,” said the Prior,
“I will gage my rosary that I name the Sovereign of Love and
Beauty.”

“Bois-Guilbert,” answered De Bracy, “is a good lance; but
there are others around these lists, Sir Prior, who will not fear to encounter
him.”

“Silence, sirs,” said Waldemar, “and let the Prince assume
his seat. The knights and spectators are alike impatient, the time advances,
and highly fit it is that the sports should commence.”

Prince John, though not yet a monarch, had in Waldemar Fitzurse all the
inconveniences of a favourite minister, who, in serving his sovereign, must
always do so in his own way. The Prince acquiesced, however, although his
disposition was precisely of that kind which is apt to be obstinate upon
trifles, and, assuming his throne, and being surrounded by his followers, gave
signal to the heralds to proclaim the laws of the tournament, which were
briefly as follows:

First, the five challengers were to undertake all comers.

Secondly, any knight proposing to combat, might, if he pleased, select a
special antagonist from among the challengers, by touching his shield. If he
did so with the reverse of his lance, the trial of skill was made with what
were called the arms of courtesy, that is, with lances at whose extremity a
piece of round flat board was fixed, so that no danger was encountered, save
from the shock of the horses and riders. But if the shield was touched with the
sharp end of the lance, the combat was understood to be at
“outrance”, that is, the knights were to fight with sharp weapons,
as in actual battle.

Thirdly, when the knights present had accomplished their vow, by each of them
breaking five lances, the Prince was to declare the victor in the first
day’s tourney, who should receive as prize a warhorse of exquisite beauty
and matchless strength; and in addition to this reward of valour, it was now
declared, he should have the peculiar honour of naming the Queen of Love and
Beauty, by whom the prize should be given on the ensuing day.

Fourthly, it was announced, that, on the second day, there should be a general
tournament, in which all the knights present, who were desirous to win praise,
might take part; and being divided into two bands of equal numbers, might fight
it out manfully, until the signal was given by Prince John to cease the combat.
The elected Queen of Love and Beauty was then to crown the knight whom the
Prince should adjudge to have borne himself best in this second day, with a
coronet composed of thin gold plate, cut into the shape of a laurel crown. On
this second day the knightly games ceased. But on that which was to follow,
feats of archery, of bull-baiting, and other popular amusements, were to be
practised, for the more immediate amusement of the populace. In this manner did
Prince John endeavour to lay the foundation of a popularity, which he was
perpetually throwing down by some inconsiderate act of wanton aggression upon
the feelings and prejudices of the people.

The lists now presented a most splendid spectacle. The sloping galleries were
crowded with all that was noble, great, wealthy, and beautiful in the northern
and midland parts of England; and the contrast of the various dresses of these
dignified spectators, rendered the view as gay as it was rich, while the
interior and lower space, filled with the substantial burgesses and yeomen of
merry England, formed, in their more plain attire, a dark fringe, or border,
around this circle of brilliant embroidery, relieving, and, at the same time,
setting off its splendour.

The heralds finished their proclamation with their usual cry of
“Largesse, largesse, gallant knights!” and gold and silver pieces
were showered on them from the galleries, it being a high point of chivalry to
exhibit liberality towards those whom the age accounted at once the secretaries
and the historians of honour. The bounty of the spectators was acknowledged by
the customary shouts of “Love of Ladies—Death of
Champions—Honour to the Generous—Glory to the Brave!” To
which the more humble spectators added their acclamations, and a numerous band
of trumpeters the flourish of their martial instruments. When these sounds had
ceased, the heralds withdrew from the lists in gay and glittering procession,
and none remained within them save the marshals of the field, who, armed
cap-a-pie, sat on horseback, motionless as statues, at the opposite ends of the
lists. Meantime, the enclosed space at the northern extremity of the lists,
large as it was, was now completely crowded with knights desirous to prove
their skill against the challengers, and, when viewed from the galleries,
presented the appearance of a sea of waving plumage, intermixed with glistening
helmets, and tall lances, to the extremities of which were, in many cases,
attached small pennons of about a span’s breadth, which, fluttering in
the air as the breeze caught them, joined with the restless motion of the
feathers to add liveliness to the scene.

At length the barriers were opened, and five knights, chosen by lot, advanced
slowly into the area; a single champion riding in front, and the other four
following in pairs. All were splendidly armed, and my Saxon authority (in the
Wardour Manuscript) records at great length their devices, their colours, and
the embroidery of their horse trappings. It is unnecessary to be particular on
these subjects. To borrow lines from a contemporary poet, who has written but
too little:

“The knights are dust,
And their good swords are rust,
Their souls are with the saints, we trust.” 17

Their escutcheons have long mouldered from the walls of their castles. Their
castles themselves are but green mounds and shattered ruins—the place
that once knew them, knows them no more—nay, many a race since theirs has
died out and been forgotten in the very land which they occupied, with all the
authority of feudal proprietors and feudal lords. What, then, would it avail
the reader to know their names, or the evanescent symbols of their martial
rank!

Now, however, no whit anticipating the oblivion which awaited their names and
feats, the champions advanced through the lists, restraining their fiery
steeds, and compelling them to move slowly, while, at the same time, they
exhibited their paces, together with the grace and dexterity of the riders. As
the procession entered the lists, the sound of a wild Barbaric music was heard
from behind the tents of the challengers, where the performers were concealed.
It was of Eastern origin, having been brought from the Holy Land; and the
mixture of the cymbals and bells seemed to bid welcome at once, and defiance,
to the knights as they advanced. With the eyes of an immense concourse of
spectators fixed upon them, the five knights advanced up the platform upon
which the tents of the challengers stood, and there separating themselves, each
touched slightly, and with the reverse of his lance, the shield of the
antagonist to whom he wished to oppose himself. The lower orders of spectators
in general—nay, many of the higher class, and it is even said several of
the ladies, were rather disappointed at the champions choosing the arms of
courtesy. For the same sort of persons, who, in the present day, applaud most
highly the deepest tragedies, were then interested in a tournament exactly in
proportion to the danger incurred by the champions engaged.

Having intimated their more pacific purpose, the champions retreated to the
extremity of the lists, where they remained drawn up in a line; while the
challengers, sallying each from his pavilion, mounted their horses, and, headed
by Brian de Bois-Guilbert, descended from the platform, and opposed themselves
individually to the knights who had touched their respective shields.

At the flourish of clarions and trumpets, they started out against each other
at full gallop; and such was the superior dexterity or good fortune of the
challengers, that those opposed to Bois-Guilbert, Malvoisin, and
Front-de-Bœuf, rolled on the ground. The antagonist of Grantmesnil, instead of
bearing his lance-point fair against the crest or the shield of his enemy,
swerved so much from the direct line as to break the weapon athwart the person
of his opponent—a circumstance which was accounted more disgraceful than
that of being actually unhorsed; because the latter might happen from accident,
whereas the former evinced awkwardness and want of management of the weapon and
of the horse. The fifth knight alone maintained the honour of his party, and
parted fairly with the Knight of St John, both splintering their lances without
advantage on either side.

The shouts of the multitude, together with the acclamations of the heralds, and
the clangour of the trumpets, announced the triumph of the victors and the
defeat of the vanquished. The former retreated to their pavilions, and the
latter, gathering themselves up as they could, withdrew from the lists in
disgrace and dejection, to agree with their victors concerning the redemption
of their arms and their horses, which, according to the laws of the tournament,
they had forfeited. The fifth of their number alone tarried in the lists long
enough to be greeted by the applauses of the spectators, amongst whom he
retreated, to the aggravation, doubtless, of his companions’
mortification.

A second and a third party of knights took the field; and although they had
various success, yet, upon the whole, the advantage decidedly remained with the
challengers, not one of whom lost his seat or swerved from his
charge—misfortunes which befell one or two of their antagonists in each
encounter. The spirits, therefore, of those opposed to them, seemed to be
considerably damped by their continued success. Three knights only appeared on
the fourth entry, who, avoiding the shields of Bois-Guilbert and
Front-de-Bœuf, contented themselves with touching those of the three other
knights, who had not altogether manifested the same strength and dexterity.
This politic selection did not alter the fortune of the field, the challengers
were still successful: one of their antagonists was overthrown, and both the
others failed in the “attaint”, 18 that is, in
striking the helmet and shield of their antagonist firmly and strongly, with
the lance held in a direct line, so that the weapon might break unless the
champion was overthrown.

After this fourth encounter, there was a considerable pause; nor did it appear
that any one was very desirous of renewing the contest. The spectators murmured
among themselves; for, among the challengers, Malvoisin and Front-de-Bœuf were
unpopular from their characters, and the others, except Grantmesnil, were
disliked as strangers and foreigners.

But none shared the general feeling of dissatisfaction so keenly as Cedric the
Saxon, who saw, in each advantage gained by the Norman challengers, a repeated
triumph over the honour of England. His own education had taught him no skill
in the games of chivalry, although, with the arms of his Saxon ancestors, he
had manifested himself, on many occasions, a brave and determined soldier. He
looked anxiously to Athelstane, who had learned the accomplishments of the age,
as if desiring that he should make some personal effort to recover the victory
which was passing into the hands of the Templar and his associates. But, though
both stout of heart, and strong of person, Athelstane had a disposition too
inert and unambitious to make the exertions which Cedric seemed to expect from
him.

“The day is against England, my lord,” said Cedric, in a marked
tone; “are you not tempted to take the lance?”

“I shall tilt to-morrow” answered Athelstane, “in the
‘melee’; it is not worth while for me to arm myself to-day.”

Two things displeased Cedric in this speech. It contained the Norman word
“melee”, (to express the general conflict,) and it evinced some
indifference to the honour of the country; but it was spoken by Athelstane,
whom he held in such profound respect, that he would not trust himself to
canvass his motives or his foibles. Moreover, he had no time to make any
remark, for Wamba thrust in his word, observing, “It was better, though
scarce easier, to be the best man among a hundred, than the best man of
two.”

Athelstane took the observation as a serious compliment; but Cedric, who better
understood the Jester’s meaning, darted at him a severe and menacing
look; and lucky it was for Wamba, perhaps, that the time and place prevented
his receiving, notwithstanding his place and service, more sensible marks of
his master’s resentment.

The pause in the tournament was still uninterrupted, excepting by the voices of
the heralds exclaiming—“Love of ladies, splintering of lances!
stand forth gallant knights, fair eyes look upon your deeds!”

The music also of the challengers breathed from time to time wild bursts
expressive of triumph or defiance, while the clowns grudged a holiday which
seemed to pass away in inactivity; and old knights and nobles lamented in
whispers the decay of martial spirit, spoke of the triumphs of their younger
days, but agreed that the land did not now supply dames of such transcendent
beauty as had animated the jousts of former times. Prince John began to talk to
his attendants about making ready the banquet, and the necessity of adjudging
the prize to Brian de Bois-Guilbert, who had, with a single spear, overthrown
two knights, and foiled a third.

At length, as the Saracenic music of the challengers concluded one of those
long and high flourishes with which they had broken the silence of the lists,
it was answered by a solitary trumpet, which breathed a note of defiance from
the northern extremity. All eyes were turned to see the new champion which
these sounds announced, and no sooner were the barriers opened than he paced
into the lists. As far as could be judged of a man sheathed in armour, the new
adventurer did not greatly exceed the middle size, and seemed to be rather
slender than strongly made. His suit of armour was formed of steel, richly
inlaid with gold, and the device on his shield was a young oak-tree pulled up
by the roots, with the Spanish word Desdichado, signifying Disinherited. He was
mounted on a gallant black horse, and as he passed through the lists he
gracefully saluted the Prince and the ladies by lowering his lance. The
dexterity with which he managed his steed, and something of youthful grace
which he displayed in his manner, won him the favour of the multitude, which
some of the lower classes expressed by calling out, “Touch Ralph de
Vipont’s shield—touch the Hospitallers shield; he has the least
sure seat, he is your cheapest bargain.”

The champion, moving onward amid these well-meant hints, ascended the platform
by the sloping alley which led to it from the lists, and, to the astonishment
of all present, riding straight up to the central pavilion, struck with the
sharp end of his spear the shield of Brian de Bois-Guilbert until it rung
again. All stood astonished at his presumption, but none more than the
redoubted Knight whom he had thus defied to mortal combat, and who, little
expecting so rude a challenge, was standing carelessly at the door of the
pavilion.

“Have you confessed yourself, brother,” said the Templar,
“and have you heard mass this morning, that you peril your life so
frankly?”

“I am fitter to meet death than thou art” answered the Disinherited
Knight; for by this name the stranger had recorded himself in the books of the
tourney.

“Then take your place in the lists,” said Bois-Guilbert, “and
look your last upon the sun; for this night thou shalt sleep in
paradise.”

“Gramercy for thy courtesy,” replied the Disinherited Knight,
“and to requite it, I advise thee to take a fresh horse and a new lance,
for by my honour you will need both.”

Having expressed himself thus confidently, he reined his horse backward down
the slope which he had ascended, and compelled him in the same manner to move
backward through the lists, till he reached the northern extremity, where he
remained stationary, in expectation of his antagonist. This feat of
horsemanship again attracted the applause of the multitude.

However incensed at his adversary for the precautions which he recommended,
Brian de Bois-Guilbert did not neglect his advice; for his honour was too
nearly concerned, to permit his neglecting any means which might ensure victory
over his presumptuous opponent. He changed his horse for a proved and fresh one
of great strength and spirit. He chose a new and a tough spear, lest the wood
of the former might have been strained in the previous encounters he had
sustained. Lastly, he laid aside his shield, which had received some little
damage, and received another from his squires. His first had only borne the
general device of his rider, representing two knights riding upon one horse, an
emblem expressive of the original humility and poverty of the Templars,
qualities which they had since exchanged for the arrogance and wealth that
finally occasioned their suppression. Bois-Guilbert’s new shield bore a
raven in full flight, holding in its claws a skull, and bearing the motto,
“Gare le Corbeau”.

When the two champions stood opposed to each other at the two extremities of
the lists, the public expectation was strained to the highest pitch. Few
augured the possibility that the encounter could terminate well for the
Disinherited Knight, yet his courage and gallantry secured the general good
wishes of the spectators.

The trumpets had no sooner given the signal, than the champions vanished from
their posts with the speed of lightning, and closed in the centre of the lists
with the shock of a thunderbolt. The lances burst into shivers up to the very
grasp, and it seemed at the moment that both knights had fallen, for the shock
had made each horse recoil backwards upon its haunches. The address of the
riders recovered their steeds by use of the bridle and spur; and having glared
on each other for an instant with eyes which seemed to flash fire through the
bars of their visors, each made a demi-volte, and, retiring to the extremity of
the lists, received a fresh lance from the attendants.

A loud shout from the spectators, waving of scarfs and handkerchiefs, and
general acclamations, attested the interest taken by the spectators in this
encounter; the most equal, as well as the best performed, which had graced the
day. But no sooner had the knights resumed their station, than the clamour of
applause was hushed into a silence, so deep and so dead, that it seemed the
multitude were afraid even to breathe.

A few minutes pause having been allowed, that the combatants and their horses
might recover breath, Prince John with his truncheon signed to the trumpets to
sound the onset. The champions a second time sprung from their stations, and
closed in the centre of the lists, with the same speed, the same dexterity, the
same violence, but not the same equal fortune as before.

In this second encounter, the Templar aimed at the centre of his
antagonist’s shield, and struck it so fair and forcibly, that his spear
went to shivers, and the Disinherited Knight reeled in his saddle. On the other
hand, that champion had, in the beginning of his career, directed the point of
his lance towards Bois-Guilbert’s shield, but, changing his aim almost in
the moment of encounter, he addressed it to the helmet, a mark more difficult
to hit, but which, if attained, rendered the shock more irresistible. Fair and
true he hit the Norman on the visor, where his lance’s point kept hold of
the bars. Yet, even at this disadvantage, the Templar sustained his high
reputation; and had not the girths of his saddle burst, he might not have been
unhorsed. As it chanced, however, saddle, horse, and man, rolled on the ground
under a cloud of dust.

To extricate himself from the stirrups and fallen steed, was to the Templar
scarce the work of a moment; and, stung with madness, both at his disgrace and
at the acclamations with which it was hailed by the spectators, he drew his
sword and waved it in defiance of his conqueror. The Disinherited Knight sprung
from his steed, and also unsheathed his sword. The marshals of the field,
however, spurred their horses between them, and reminded them, that the laws of
the tournament did not, on the present occasion, permit this species of
encounter.

“We shall meet again, I trust,” said the Templar, casting a
resentful glance at his antagonist; “and where there are none to separate
us.”

“If we do not,” said the Disinherited Knight, “the fault
shall not be mine. On foot or horseback, with spear, with axe, or with sword, I
am alike ready to encounter thee.”

More and angrier words would have been exchanged, but the marshals, crossing
their lances betwixt them, compelled them to separate. The Disinherited Knight
returned to his first station, and Bois-Guilbert to his tent, where he remained
for the rest of the day in an agony of despair.

Without alighting from his horse, the conqueror called for a bowl of wine, and
opening the beaver, or lower part of his helmet, announced that he quaffed it,
“To all true English hearts, and to the confusion of foreign
tyrants.” He then commanded his trumpet to sound a defiance to the
challengers, and desired a herald to announce to them, that he should make no
election, but was willing to encounter them in the order in which they pleased
to advance against him.

The gigantic Front-de-Bœuf, armed in sable armour, was the first who took the
field. He bore on a white shield a black bull’s head, half defaced by the
numerous encounters which he had undergone, and bearing the arrogant motto,
“Cave, Adsum”. Over this champion the Disinherited Knight obtained
a slight but decisive advantage. Both Knights broke their lances fairly, but
Front-de-Bœuf, who lost a stirrup in the encounter, was adjudged to have the
disadvantage.

In the stranger’s third encounter with Sir Philip Malvoisin, he was
equally successful; striking that baron so forcibly on the casque, that the
laces of the helmet broke, and Malvoisin, only saved from falling by being
unhelmeted, was declared vanquished like his companions.

In his fourth combat with De Grantmesnil, the Disinherited Knight showed as
much courtesy as he had hitherto evinced courage and dexterity. De
Grantmesnil’s horse, which was young and violent, reared and plunged in
the course of the career so as to disturb the rider’s aim, and the
stranger, declining to take the advantage which this accident afforded him,
raised his lance, and passing his antagonist without touching him, wheeled his
horse and rode back again to his own end of the lists, offering his antagonist,
by a herald, the chance of a second encounter. This De Grantmesnil declined,
avowing himself vanquished as much by the courtesy as by the address of his
opponent.

Ralph de Vipont summed up the list of the stranger’s triumphs, being
hurled to the ground with such force, that the blood gushed from his nose and
his mouth, and he was borne senseless from the lists.

The acclamations of thousands applauded the unanimous award of the Prince and
marshals, announcing that day’s honours to the Disinherited Knight.

CHAPTER IX

——In the midst was seen
A lady of a more majestic mien,
By stature and by beauty mark’d their sovereign Queen.

And as in beauty she surpass’d the choir,
So nobler than the rest was her attire;
A crown of ruddy gold enclosed her brow,
Plain without pomp, and rich without a show;
A branch of Agnus Castus in her hand,
She bore aloft her symbol of command.

THE FLOWER AND THE LEAF

William de Wyvil and Stephen de Martival, the marshals of the field, were the
first to offer their congratulations to the victor, praying him, at the same
time, to suffer his helmet to be unlaced, or, at least, that he would raise his
visor ere they conducted him to receive the prize of the day’s tourney
from the hands of Prince John. The Disinherited Knight, with all knightly
courtesy, declined their request, alleging, that he could not at this time
suffer his face to be seen, for reasons which he had assigned to the heralds
when he entered the lists. The marshals were perfectly satisfied by this reply;
for amidst the frequent and capricious vows by which knights were accustomed to
bind themselves in the days of chivalry, there were none more common than those
by which they engaged to remain incognito for a certain space, or until some
particular adventure was achieved. The marshals, therefore, pressed no farther
into the mystery of the Disinherited Knight, but, announcing to Prince John the
conqueror’s desire to remain unknown, they requested permission to bring
him before his Grace, in order that he might receive the reward of his valour.

John’s curiosity was excited by the mystery observed by the stranger;
and, being already displeased with the issue of the tournament, in which the
challengers whom he favoured had been successively defeated by one knight, he
answered haughtily to the marshals, “By the light of Our Lady’s
brow, this same knight hath been disinherited as well of his courtesy as of his
lands, since he desires to appear before us without uncovering his
face.—Wot ye, my lords,” he said, turning round to his train,
“who this gallant can be, that bears himself thus proudly?”

“I cannot guess,” answered De Bracy, “nor did I think there
had been within the four seas that girth Britain a champion that could bear
down these five knights in one day’s jousting. By my faith, I shall never
forget the force with which he shocked De Vipont. The poor Hospitaller was
hurled from his saddle like a stone from a sling.”

“Boast not of that,” said a Knight of St John, who was present;
“your Temple champion had no better luck. I saw your brave lance,
Bois-Guilbert, roll thrice over, grasping his hands full of sand at every
turn.”

De Bracy, being attached to the Templars, would have replied, but was prevented
by Prince John. “Silence, sirs!” he said; “what unprofitable
debate have we here?”

“The victor,” said De Wyvil, “still waits the pleasure of
your highness.”

“It is our pleasure,” answered John, “that he do so wait
until we learn whether there is not some one who can at least guess at his name
and quality. Should he remain there till night-fall, he has had work enough to
keep him warm.”

“Your Grace,” said Waldemar Fitzurse, “will do less than due
honour to the victor, if you compel him to wait till we tell your highness that
which we cannot know; at least I can form no guess—unless he be one of
the good lances who accompanied King Richard to Palestine, and who are now
straggling homeward from the Holy Land.”

“It may be the Earl of Salisbury,” said De Bracy; “he is
about the same pitch.”

“Sir Thomas de Multon, the Knight of Gilsland, rather,” said
Fitzurse; “Salisbury is bigger in the bones.” A whisper arose among
the train, but by whom first suggested could not be ascertained. “It
might be the King—it might be Richard Cœur-de-Lion himself!”

“Over God’s forbode!” said Prince John, involuntarily turning
at the same time as pale as death, and shrinking as if blighted by a flash of
lightning; “Waldemar!—De Bracy! brave knights and gentlemen,
remember your promises, and stand truly by me!”

“Here is no danger impending,” said Waldemar Fitzurse; “are
you so little acquainted with the gigantic limbs of your father’s son, as
to think they can be held within the circumference of yonder suit of
armour?—De Wyvil and Martival, you will best serve the Prince by bringing
forward the victor to the throne, and ending an error that has conjured all the
blood from his cheeks.—Look at him more closely,” he continued,
“your highness will see that he wants three inches of King
Richard’s height, and twice as much of his shoulder-breadth. The very
horse he backs, could not have carried the ponderous weight of King Richard
through a single course.”

While he was yet speaking, the marshals brought forward the Disinherited Knight
to the foot of a wooden flight of steps, which formed the ascent from the lists
to Prince John’s throne. Still discomposed with the idea that his
brother, so much injured, and to whom he was so much indebted, had suddenly
arrived in his native kingdom, even the distinctions pointed out by Fitzurse
did not altogether remove the Prince’s apprehensions; and while, with a
short and embarrassed eulogy upon his valour, he caused to be delivered to him
the war-horse assigned as the prize, he trembled lest from the barred visor of
the mailed form before him, an answer might be returned, in the deep and awful
accents of Richard the Lion-hearted.

But the Disinherited Knight spoke not a word in reply to the compliment of the
Prince, which he only acknowledged with a profound obeisance.

The horse was led into the lists by two grooms richly dressed, the animal
itself being fully accoutred with the richest war-furniture; which, however,
scarcely added to the value of the noble creature in the eyes of those who were
judges. Laying one hand upon the pommel of the saddle, the Disinherited Knight
vaulted at once upon the back of the steed without making use of the stirrup,
and, brandishing aloft his lance, rode twice around the lists, exhibiting the
points and paces of the horse with the skill of a perfect horseman.

The appearance of vanity, which might otherwise have been attributed to this
display, was removed by the propriety shown in exhibiting to the best advantage
the princely reward with which he had been just honoured, and the Knight was
again greeted by the acclamations of all present.

In the meanwhile, the bustling Prior of Jorvaulx had reminded Prince John, in a
whisper, that the victor must now display his good judgment, instead of his
valour, by selecting from among the beauties who graced the galleries a lady,
who should fill the throne of the Queen of Beauty and of Love, and deliver the
prize of the tourney upon the ensuing day. The Prince accordingly made a sign
with his truncheon, as the Knight passed him in his second career around the
lists. The Knight turned towards the throne, and, sinking his lance, until the
point was within a foot of the ground, remained motionless, as if expecting
John’s commands; while all admired the sudden dexterity with which he
instantly reduced his fiery steed from a state of violent emotion and high
excitation to the stillness of an equestrian statue.

“Sir Disinherited Knight,” said Prince John, “since that is
the only title by which we can address you, it is now your duty, as well as
privilege, to name the fair lady, who, as Queen of Honour and of Love, is to
preside over next day’s festival. If, as a stranger in our land, you
should require the aid of other judgment to guide your own, we can only say
that Alicia, the daughter of our gallant knight Waldemar Fitzurse, has at our
court been long held the first in beauty as in place. Nevertheless, it is your
undoubted prerogative to confer on whom you please this crown, by the delivery
of which to the lady of your choice, the election of to-morrow’s Queen
will be formal and complete.—Raise your lance.”

The Knight obeyed; and Prince John placed upon its point a coronet of green
satin, having around its edge a circlet of gold, the upper edge of which was
relieved by arrow-points and hearts placed interchangeably, like the strawberry
leaves and balls upon a ducal crown.

In the broad hint which he dropped respecting the daughter of Waldemar
Fitzurse, John had more than one motive, each the offspring of a mind, which
was a strange mixture of carelessness and presumption with low artifice and
cunning. He wished to banish from the minds of the chivalry around him his own
indecent and unacceptable jest respecting the Jewess Rebecca; he was desirous
of conciliating Alicia’s father Waldemar, of whom he stood in awe, and
who had more than once shown himself dissatisfied during the course of the
day’s proceedings. He had also a wish to establish himself in the good
graces of the lady; for John was at least as licentious in his pleasures as
profligate in his ambition. But besides all these reasons, he was desirous to
raise up against the Disinherited Knight (towards whom he already entertained a
strong dislike) a powerful enemy in the person of Waldemar Fitzurse, who was
likely, he thought, highly to resent the injury done to his daughter, in case,
as was not unlikely, the victor should make another choice.

And so indeed it proved. For the Disinherited Knight passed the gallery close
to that of the Prince, in which the Lady Alicia was seated in the full pride of
triumphant beauty, and, pacing forwards as slowly as he had hitherto rode
swiftly around the lists, he seemed to exercise his right of examining the
numerous fair faces which adorned that splendid circle.

It was worth while to see the different conduct of the beauties who underwent
this examination, during the time it was proceeding. Some blushed, some assumed
an air of pride and dignity, some looked straight forward, and essayed to seem
utterly unconscious of what was going on, some drew back in alarm, which was
perhaps affected, some endeavoured to forbear smiling, and there were two or
three who laughed outright. There were also some who dropped their veils over
their charms; but, as the Wardour Manuscript says these were fair ones of ten
years standing, it may be supposed that, having had their full share of such
vanities, they were willing to withdraw their claim, in order to give a fair
chance to the rising beauties of the age.

At length the champion paused beneath the balcony in which the Lady Rowena was
placed, and the expectation of the spectators was excited to the utmost.

It must be owned, that if an interest displayed in his success could have
bribed the Disinherited Knight, the part of the lists before which he paused
had merited his predilection. Cedric the Saxon, overjoyed at the discomfiture
of the Templar, and still more so at the miscarriage of his two malevolent
neighbours, Front-de-Bœuf and Malvoisin, had, with his body half stretched
over the balcony, accompanied the victor in each course, not with his eyes
only, but with his whole heart and soul. The Lady Rowena had watched the
progress of the day with equal attention, though without openly betraying the
same intense interest. Even the unmoved Athelstane had shown symptoms of
shaking off his apathy, when, calling for a huge goblet of muscadine, he
quaffed it to the health of the Disinherited Knight. Another group, stationed
under the gallery occupied by the Saxons, had shown no less interest in the
fate of the day.

“Father Abraham!” said Isaac of York, when the first course was run
betwixt the Templar and the Disinherited Knight, “how fiercely that
Gentile rides! Ah, the good horse that was brought all the long way from
Barbary, he takes no more care of him than if he were a wild ass’s
colt—and the noble armour, that was worth so many zecchins to Joseph
Pareira, the armourer of Milan, besides seventy in the hundred of profits, he
cares for it as little as if he had found it in the highways!”

“If he risks his own person and limbs, father,” said Rebecca,
“in doing such a dreadful battle, he can scarce be expected to spare his
horse and armour.”

“Child!” replied Isaac, somewhat heated, “thou knowest not
what thou speakest—His neck and limbs are his own, but his horse and
armour belong to—Holy Jacob! what was I about to say!—Nevertheless,
it is a good youth—See, Rebecca! see, he is again about to go up to
battle against the Philistine—Pray, child—pray for the safety of
the good youth,—and of the speedy horse, and the rich armour.—God
of my fathers!” he again exclaimed, “he hath conquered, and the
uncircumcised Philistine hath fallen before his lance,—even as Og the
King of Bashan, and Sihon, King of the Amorites, fell before the sword of our
fathers!—Surely he shall take their gold and their silver, and their
war-horses, and their armour of brass and of steel, for a prey and for a
spoil.”

The same anxiety did the worthy Jew display during every course that was run,
seldom failing to hazard a hasty calculation concerning the value of the horse
and armour which was forfeited to the champion upon each new success. There had
been therefore no small interest taken in the success of the Disinherited
Knight, by those who occupied the part of the lists before which he now paused.

Whether from indecision, or some other motive of hesitation, the champion of
the day remained stationary for more than a minute, while the eyes of the
silent audience were riveted upon his motions; and then, gradually and
gracefully sinking the point of his lance, he deposited the coronet which it
supported at the feet of the fair Rowena. The trumpets instantly sounded, while
the heralds proclaimed the Lady Rowena the Queen of Beauty and of Love for the
ensuing day, menacing with suitable penalties those who should be disobedient
to her authority. They then repeated their cry of Largesse, to which Cedric, in
the height of his joy, replied by an ample donative, and to which Athelstane,
though less promptly, added one equally large.

There was some murmuring among the damsels of Norman descent, who were as much
unused to see the preference given to a Saxon beauty, as the Norman nobles were
to sustain defeat in the games of chivalry which they themselves had
introduced. But these sounds of disaffection were drowned by the popular shout
of “Long live the Lady Rowena, the chosen and lawful Queen of Love and of
Beauty!” To which many in the lower area added, “Long live the
Saxon Princess! long live the race of the immortal Alfred!”

However unacceptable these sounds might be to Prince John, and to those around
him, he saw himself nevertheless obliged to confirm the nomination of the
victor, and accordingly calling to horse, he left his throne; and mounting his
jennet, accompanied by his train, he again entered the lists. The Prince paused
a moment beneath the gallery of the Lady Alicia, to whom he paid his
compliments, observing, at the same time, to those around him—“By
my halidome, sirs! if the Knight’s feats in arms have shown that he hath
limbs and sinews, his choice hath no less proved that his eyes are none of the
clearest.”

It was on this occasion, as during his whole life, John’s misfortune, not
perfectly to understand the characters of those whom he wished to conciliate.
Waldemar Fitzurse was rather offended than pleased at the Prince stating thus
broadly an opinion, that his daughter had been slighted.

“I know no right of chivalry,” he said, “more precious or
inalienable than that of each free knight to choose his lady-love by his own
judgment. My daughter courts distinction from no one; and in her own character,
and in her own sphere, will never fail to receive the full proportion of that
which is her due.”

Prince John replied not; but, spurring his horse, as if to give vent to his
vexation, he made the animal bound forward to the gallery where Rowena was
seated, with the crown still at her feet.

“Assume,” he said, “fair lady, the mark of your sovereignty,
to which none vows homage more sincerely than ourself, John of Anjou; and if it
please you to-day, with your noble sire and friends, to grace our banquet in
the Castle of Ashby, we shall learn to know the empress to whose service we
devote to-morrow.”

Rowena remained silent, and Cedric answered for her in his native Saxon.

“The Lady Rowena,” he said, “possesses not the language in
which to reply to your courtesy, or to sustain her part in your festival. I
also, and the noble Athelstane of Coningsburgh, speak only the language, and
practise only the manners, of our fathers. We therefore decline with thanks
your Highness’s courteous invitation to the banquet. To-morrow, the Lady
Rowena will take upon her the state to which she has been called by the free
election of the victor Knight, confirmed by the acclamations of the
people.”

So saying, he lifted the coronet, and placed it upon Rowena’s head, in
token of her acceptance of the temporary authority assigned to her.

“What says he?” said Prince John, affecting not to understand the
Saxon language, in which, however, he was well skilled. The purport of
Cedric’s speech was repeated to him in French. “It is well,”
he said; “to-morrow we will ourself conduct this mute sovereign to her
seat of dignity.—You, at least, Sir Knight,” he added, turning to
the victor, who had remained near the gallery, “will this day share our
banquet?”

The Knight, speaking for the first time, in a low and hurried voice, excused
himself by pleading fatigue, and the necessity of preparing for
to-morrow’s encounter.

“It is well,” said Prince John, haughtily; “although unused
to such refusals, we will endeavour to digest our banquet as we may, though
ungraced by the most successful in arms, and his elected Queen of
Beauty.”

So saying, he prepared to leave the lists with his glittering train, and his
turning his steed for that purpose, was the signal for the breaking up and
dispersion of the spectators.

Yet, with the vindictive memory proper to offended pride, especially when
combined with conscious want of desert, John had hardly proceeded three paces,
ere again, turning around, he fixed an eye of stern resentment upon the yeoman
who had displeased him in the early part of the day, and issued his commands to
the men-at-arms who stood near—“On your life, suffer not that
fellow to escape.”

The yeoman stood the angry glance of the Prince with the same unvaried
steadiness which had marked his former deportment, saying, with a smile,
“I have no intention to leave Ashby until the day after to-morrow—I
must see how Staffordshire and Leicestershire can draw their bows—the
forests of Needwood and Charnwood must rear good archers.”

“I,” said Prince John to his attendants, but not in direct
reply,—“I will see how he can draw his own; and woe betide him
unless his skill should prove some apology for his insolence!”

“It is full time,” said De Bracy, “that the
‘outrecuidance’ 19 of these peasants should be
restrained by some striking example.”

Waldemar Fitzurse, who probably thought his patron was not taking the readiest
road to popularity, shrugged up his shoulders and was silent. Prince John
resumed his retreat from the lists, and the dispersion of the multitude became
general.

In various routes, according to the different quarters from which they came,
and in groups of various numbers, the spectators were seen retiring over the
plain. By far the most numerous part streamed towards the town of Ashby, where
many of the distinguished persons were lodged in the castle, and where others
found accommodation in the town itself. Among these were most of the knights
who had already appeared in the tournament, or who proposed to fight there the
ensuing day, and who, as they rode slowly along, talking over the events of the
day, were greeted with loud shouts by the populace. The same acclamations were
bestowed upon Prince John, although he was indebted for them rather to the
splendour of his appearance and train, than to the popularity of his character.

A more sincere and more general, as well as a better-merited acclamation,
attended the victor of the day, until, anxious to withdraw himself from popular
notice, he accepted the accommodation of one of those pavilions pitched at the
extremities of the lists, the use of which was courteously tendered him by the
marshals of the field. On his retiring to his tent, many who had lingered in
the lists, to look upon and form conjectures concerning him, also dispersed.

The signs and sounds of a tumultuous concourse of men lately crowded together
in one place, and agitated by the same passing events, were now exchanged for
the distant hum of voices of different groups retreating in all directions, and
these speedily died away in silence. No other sounds were heard save the voices
of the menials who stripped the galleries of their cushions and tapestry, in
order to put them in safety for the night, and wrangled among themselves for
the half-used bottles of wine and relics of the refreshment which had been
served round to the spectators.

Beyond the precincts of the lists more than one forge was erected; and these
now began to glimmer through the twilight, announcing the toil of the
armourers, which was to continue through the whole night, in order to repair or
alter the suits of armour to be used again on the morrow.

A strong guard of men-at-arms, renewed at intervals, from two hours to two
hours, surrounded the lists, and kept watch during the night.

CHAPTER X

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

JEW OF MALTA

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We stand commissioned, each of us,” answered the squire of
Reginald Front-de-Bœuf, “to offer a hundred zecchins in ransom of these
horses and suits of armour.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Enough,” said the Disinherited Knight, “thou knowest my
promise.”

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

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

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

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

“Nay, by St Dunstan,” replied Gurth, “that I will not
do.”

“How, knave,” replied his master, “wilt thou not obey my
commands?”

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

“See him contented, however, thou stubborn varlet,” said the
Disinherited Knight.

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

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

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

“But, father,” said Rebecca, “you seemed to give the gold to
Prince John willingly.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Art thou Isaac the Jew of York?” said Gurth, in Saxon.

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

“That is not to the purpose,” answered Gurth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My master has disposed of them already,” said Gurth.

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

“I have heads for cross-bow bolts in it,” said Gurth, readily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Eighty zecchins,” said Gurth, surprised at the question.

“In this purse,” said Rebecca, “thou wilt find a hundred.
Restore to thy master that which is his due, and enrich thyself with the
remainder. Haste—begone—stay not to render thanks! and beware how
you pass through this crowded town, where thou mayst easily lose both thy
burden and thy life.—Reuben,” she added, clapping her hands
together, “light forth this stranger, and fail not to draw lock and bar
behind him.” Reuben, a dark-brow’d and black-bearded Israelite,
obeyed her summons, with a torch in his hand; undid the outward door of the
house, and conducting Gurth across a paved court, let him out through a wicket
in the entrance-gate, which he closed behind him with such bolts and chains as
would well have become that of a prison.

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

CHAPTER XI

1st Outlaw: Stand, sir, and throw us that you have about you;
If not, we’ll make you sit, and rifle you.
Speed: Sir, we are undone! these are the villains
That all the travellers do fear so much.
Val: My friends,—
1st Out: That’s not so, sir, we are your enemies.
2d Out: Peace! we’ll hear him.
3d Out: Ay, by my beard, will we;
For he’s a proper man.

TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What money hast thou, churl?” said one of the thieves.

“Thirty zecchins of my own property,” answered Gurth, doggedly.

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

“I hoarded it to purchase my freedom,” said Gurth.

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

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

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

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

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

“The Disinherited Knight,” said Gurth.

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

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

“What is thine own name and lineage?”

“To tell that,” said Gurth, “might reveal my
master’s.”

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

“By his good lance,” answered Gurth.—“These bags
contain the ransom of four good horses, and four good suits of armour.”

“How much is there?” demanded the robber.

“Two hundred zecchins.”

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

Gurth did so.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It is, however, as I say,” said Gurth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not if THOU canst scathe him,” replied the
Captain.—“Here, fellow,” continued he, addressing Gurth,
“canst thou use the staff, that thou starts to it so readily?”

“I think,” said Gurth, “thou shouldst be best able to reply
to that question.”

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

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

“If thou be’st a miller,” answered Gurth, undauntedly, making
his weapon play around his head with equal dexterity, “thou art doubly a
thief, and I, as a true man, bid thee defiance.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here the thieves stopt.

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XII

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

CHAUCER

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The tumult was presently increased by the advance of the second rank on either
side, which, acting as a reserve, now rushed on to aid their companions. The
followers of Brian de Bois-Guilbert shouted—“Ha! Beau-seant!
Beau-seant! 20

“—For the Temple—For the Temple!” The opposite party
shouted in answer—“Desdichado! Desdichado!”—which
watch-word they took from the motto upon their leader’s shield.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XIII

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

ILIAD

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

“Front-de-Bœuf must prepare to restore his fief of Ivanhoe,” said
De Bracy, who, having discharged his part honourably in the tournament, had
laid his shield and helmet aside, and again mingled with the Prince’s
retinue.

“Ay,” answered Waldemar Fitzurse, “this gallant is likely to
reclaim the castle and manor which Richard assigned to him, and which your
Highness’s generosity has since given to Front-de-Bœuf.”

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

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

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

Waldemar, whose curiosity had led him towards the place where Ivanhoe had
fallen to the ground, now returned. “The gallant,” said he,
“is likely to give your Highness little disturbance, and to leave
Front-de-Bœuf in the quiet possession of his gains—he is severely
wounded.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Take heed to yourself for the Devil is unchained!”

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

“This may be a false alarm, or a forged letter,” said De Bracy.

“It is France’s own hand and seal,” replied Prince John.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Prince John coloured as he put the question, “What is thy name,
yeoman?”

“Locksley,” answered the yeoman.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A Hubert! a Hubert!” shouted the populace, more interested in a
known person than in a stranger. “In the clout!—in the
clout!—a Hubert for ever!”

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

“I will notch his shaft for him, however,” replied Locksley.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XIV

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

WARTON

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I think,” said he, after a moment’s pause, “that my
brother proposed to confer upon his favourite the rich manor of Ivanhoe.”

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

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

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

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

Front-de-Bœuf would have replied, but Prince John’s petulance and levity
got the start.

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

“They go before us indeed in the field—as deer before dogs,”
said Malvoisin.

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

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

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

While, with smooth and smiling cheek, the courtiers, each in turn, followed
their Prince’s example, and aimed a shaft of ridicule at Cedric, the face
of the Saxon became inflamed with passion, and he glanced his eyes fiercely
from one to another, as if the quick succession of so many injuries had
prevented his replying to them in turn; or, like a baited bull, who, surrounded
by his tormentors, is at a loss to choose from among them the immediate object
of his revenge. At length he spoke, in a voice half choked with passion; and,
addressing himself to Prince John as the head and front of the offence which he
had received, “Whatever,” he said, “have been the follies and
vices of our race, a Saxon would have been held ‘nidering’,”
21 (the most emphatic term for abject
worthlessness,) “who should in his own hall, and while his own wine-cup
passed, have treated, or suffered to be treated, an unoffending guest as your
highness has this day beheld me used; and whatever was the misfortune of our
fathers on the field of Hastings, those may at least be silent,” here he
looked at Front-de-Bœuf and the Templar, “who have within these few
hours once and again lost saddle and stirrup before the lance of a
Saxon.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“‘Conclamatum est, poculatum est’,” said Prior Aymer;
“we have drunk and we have shouted,—it were time we left our wine
flagons.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XV

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

BASIL, A TRAGEDY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The tribe of Benjamin?” said Fitzurse; “I comprehend thee
not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XVI

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

PARNELL

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And I pray you, good Christian brother,” replied the anchorite,
“to disturb me no more. You have already interrupted one
‘pater’, two ‘aves’, and a ‘credo’, which
I, miserable sinner that I am, should, according to my vow, have said before
moonrise.”

“The road—the road!” vociferated the knight, “give me
directions for the road, if I am to expect no more from thee.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“About two months,” answered the father hastily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“‘Drink hael’, Holy Clerk of Copmanhurst!” answered the
warrior, and did his host reason in a similar brimmer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I hope, Sir Knight,” said the hermit, “thou hast given no
good reason for thy surname of the Sluggard. I do promise thee I suspect thee
grievously. Nevertheless, thou art my guest, and I will not put thy manhood to
the proof without thine own free will. Sit thee down, then, and fill thy cup;
let us drink, sing, and be merry. If thou knowest ever a good lay, thou shalt
be welcome to a nook of pasty at Copmanhurst so long as I serve the chapel of
St Dunstan, which, please God, shall be till I change my grey covering for one
of green turf. But come, fill a flagon, for it will crave some time to tune the
harp; and nought pitches the voice and sharpens the ear like a cup of wine. For
my part, I love to feel the grape at my very finger-ends before they make the
harp-strings tinkle.” 22

CHAPTER XVII

At eve, within yon studious nook,
I ope my brass-embossed book,
Portray’d with many a holy deed
Of martyrs crown’d with heavenly meed;
Then, as my taper waxes dim,
Chant, ere I sleep, my measured hymn.

Who but would cast his pomp away,
To take my staff and amice grey,
And to the world’s tumultuous stage,
Prefer the peaceful Hermitage?

WARTON

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

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

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

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

The knight in the meantime, had brought the strings into some order, and after
a short prelude, asked his host whether he would choose a
“sirvente” in the language of “oc”, or a
“lai” in the language of “oui”, or a
“virelai”, or a ballad in the vulgar English. 23

“A ballad, a ballad,” said the hermit, “against all the
‘ocs’ and ‘ouis’ of France. Downright English am I, Sir
Knight, and downright English was my patron St Dunstan, and scorned
‘oc’ and ‘oui’, as he would have scorned the parings of
the devil’s hoof—downright English alone shall be sung in this
cell.”

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

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

THE CRUSADER’S RETURN.

1.

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

2.

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

3.

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

4.

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

5.

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

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

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

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

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

And so saying, he reached the harp, and entertained his guest with the
following characteristic song, to a sort of derry-down chorus, appropriate to
an old English ditty. 24

THE BAREFOOTED FRIAR.

1.

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

2.

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

3.

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

4.

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

5.

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

6.

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

7.

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

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

“I uncanonical!” answered the hermit; “I scorn the
charge—I scorn it with my heels!—I serve the duty of my chapel duly
and truly—Two masses daily, morning and evening, primes, noons, and
vespers, ‘aves, credos, paters’—”

“Excepting moonlight nights, when the venison is in season,” said
his guest.

“‘Exceptis excipiendis’” replied the hermit, “as
our old abbot taught me to say, when impertinent laymen should ask me if I kept
every punctilio of mine order.”

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XVIII

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

ETTRICK FOREST

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

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

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

The Saxon had been under very intense and agonizing apprehensions concerning
his son; for Nature had asserted her rights, in spite of the patriotic stoicism
which laboured to disown her. But no sooner was he informed that Ivanhoe was in
careful, and probably in friendly hands, than the paternal anxiety which had
been excited by the dubiety of his fate, gave way anew to the feeling of
injured pride and resentment, at what he termed Wilfred’s filial
disobedience.

“Let him wander his way,” said he—“let those leech his
wounds for whose sake he encountered them. He is fitter to do the juggling
tricks of the Norman chivalry than to maintain the fame and honour of his
English ancestry with the glaive and brown-bill, the good old weapons of his
country.”

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

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

“Thither,” said Rowena, “do I NOT go; and I pray you to
beware, lest what you mean for courage and constancy, shall be accounted
hardness of heart.”

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

He went accordingly to the banquet, of which we have already mentioned the
principal events. Immediately upon retiring from the castle, the Saxon thanes,
with their attendants, took horse; and it was during the bustle which attended
their doing so, that Cedric, for the first time, cast his eyes upon the
deserter Gurth. The noble Saxon had returned from the banquet, as we have seen,
in no very placid humour, and wanted but a pretext for wreaking his anger upon
some one.

“The gyves!” he said, “the
gyves!—Oswald—Hundibert!—Dogs and villains!—why leave
ye the knave unfettered?”

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

“To horse, and forward!” said Cedric.

“It is indeed full time,” said the noble Athelstane; “for, if
we ride not the faster, the worthy Abbot Waltheoff’s preparations for a
rere-supper 25 will be altogether spoiled.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XIX

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

ORRA, A TRAGEDY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of all the train none escaped except Wamba, who showed upon the occasion much
more courage than those who pretended to greater sense. He possessed himself of
a sword belonging to one of the domestics, who was just drawing it with a tardy
and irresolute hand, laid it about him like a lion, drove back several who
approached him, and made a brave though ineffectual attempt to succour his
master. Finding himself overpowered, the Jester at length threw himself from
his horse, plunged into the thicket, and, favoured by the general confusion,
escaped from the scene of action. Yet the valiant Jester, as soon as he found
himself safe, hesitated more than once whether he should not turn back and
share the captivity of a master to whom he was sincerely attached.

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

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

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

“Only a trick of the times,” said Wamba; “they are all
prisoners.”

“Who are prisoners?” exclaimed Gurth, impatiently.

“My lord, and my lady, and Athelstane, and Hundibert, and Oswald.”

“In the name of God!” said Gurth, “how came they
prisoners?—and to whom?”

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

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

“Whither?—and for what purpose?” said the Jester.

“To rescue Cedric.”

“But you have renounced his service but now,” said Wamba.

“That,” said Gurth, “was but while he was
fortunate—follow me!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The yeoman returned in the course of a few minutes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hush—be silent,” said Gurth. “Offend him not by thy
folly, and I trust sincerely that all will go well.”

CHAPTER XX

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

Devotion borrows Music’s tone,
    And Music took Devotion’s wing;
And, like the bird that hails the sun,
    They soar to heaven, and soaring sing.

THE HERMIT OF ST CLEMENT’S WELL

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

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

“Where is the Miller?” was his first question.

“On the road towards Rotherham.”

“With how many?” demanded the leader, for such he seemed to be.

“With six men, and good hope of booty, if it please St Nicholas.”

“Devoutly spoken,” said Locksley; “and where is
Allan-a-Dale?”

“Walked up towards the Watling-street, to watch for the Prior of
Jorvaulx.”

“That is well thought on also,” replied the
Captain;—“and where is the Friar?”

“In his cell.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What devil’s matins are you after at this hour?” said a
voice from without.

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

“Mad priest,” answered the voice from without, “open to
Locksley!”

“All’s safe—all’s right,” said the hermit to his
companion.

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

“Who is he?” answered the hermit; “I tell thee he is a
friend.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And what is his name, then?” demanded Locksley.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

While they were thus employed, Locksley led the knight a little apart, and
addressed him thus:—“Deny it not, Sir Knight—you are he who
decided the victory to the advantage of the English against the strangers on
the second day of the tournament at Ashby.”

“And what follows if you guess truly, good yeoman?” replied the
knight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Swearest thou, Holy Clerk?” said the Black Knight.

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

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

“What! is it Front-de-Bœuf,” said the Black Knight, “who has
stopt on the king’s highway the king’s liege subjects?—Is he
turned thief and oppressor?”

“Oppressor he ever was,” said Locksley.

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

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

CHAPTER XXI

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

ORRA, A TRAGEDY

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

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

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

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

“That concerns thee nothing,” answered his companion.

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

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

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

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

“Psha,” replied the Templar, “what hast thou to
fear?—Thou knowest the vows of our order.”

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

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

“What! wouldst thou stoop to the waiting damsel?” said De Bracy.

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

“By the mass, thou meanest the fair Jewess!” said De Bracy.

“And if I do,” said Bois-Guilbert, “who shall gainsay
me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“‘A brother’s love,’ cried the generous Harold,
‘and the fair earldom of Northumberland.’

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

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

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

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

“The baffled envoy,” continued Cedric, pursuing with animation his
tale, though it interested not the listener, “retreated, to carry to
Tosti and his ally the ominous answer of his injured brother. It was then that
the distant towers of York, and the bloody streams of the Derwent, 26 beheld that direful conflict, in
which, after displaying the most undaunted valour, the King of Norway, and
Tosti, both fell, with ten thousand of their bravest followers. Who would have
thought that upon the proud day when this battle was won, the very gale which
waved the Saxon banners in triumph, was filling the Norman sails, and impelling
them to the fatal shores of Sussex?—Who would have thought that Harold,
within a few brief days, would himself possess no more of his kingdom, than the
share which he allotted in his wrath to the Norwegian invader?—Who would
have thought that you, noble Athelstane—that you, descended of
Harold’s blood, and that I, whose father was not the worst defender of
the Saxon crown, should be prisoners to a vile Norman, in the very hall in
which our ancestors held such high festival?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XXII

My daughter—O my ducats—O my daughter!
———O my Christian ducats!
Justice—the Law—my ducats, and my daughter!

MERCHANT OF VENICE

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

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

The whole appearance of the dungeon might have appalled a stouter heart than
that of Isaac, who, nevertheless, was more composed under the imminent pressure
of danger, than he had seemed to be while affected by terrors, of which the
cause was as yet remote and contingent. The lovers of the chase say that the
hare feels more agony during the pursuit of the greyhounds, than when she is
struggling in their fangs. 27

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The unhappy Jew returned a feeble affirmative.

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

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

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

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

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

“I swear to you, noble knight,” said the Jew “by all which I
believe, and by all which we believe in common—-”

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

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

“Seest thou, Isaac,” said Front-de-Bœuf, “the range of iron
bars above the glowing charcoal?— 28 on that warm
couch thou shalt lie, stripped of thy clothes as if thou wert to rest on a bed
of down. One of these slaves shall maintain the fire beneath thee, while the
other shall anoint thy wretched limbs with oil, lest the roast should
burn.—Now, choose betwixt such a scorching bed and the payment of a
thousand pounds of silver; for, by the head of my father, thou hast no other
option.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Here,” replied Front-de-Bœuf, “here it must be
delivered—weighed it must be—weighed and told down on this very
dungeon floor.—Thinkest thou I will part with thee until thy ransom is
secure?”

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

“The word of a Norman noble, thou pawn-broking slave,” answered
Front-de-Bœuf; “the faith of a Norman nobleman, more pure than the gold
and silver of thee and all thy tribe.”

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

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

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

“If thou meanest yonder Saxon churls,” said Front-de-Bœuf,
“their ransom will depend upon other terms than thine. Mind thine own
concerns, Jew, I warn thee, and meddle not with those of others.”

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

“Shall I twice recommend it,” said Front-de-Bœuf, “to a son
of Israel, to meddle with his own concerns, and leave those of others
alone?—Since thou hast made thy choice, it remains but that thou payest
down thy ransom, and that at a short day.”

“Yet hear me,” said the Jew—“for the sake of that very
wealth which thou wouldst obtain at the expense of thy—-” Here he
stopt short, afraid of irritating the savage Norman. But Front-de-Bœuf only
laughed, and himself filled up the blank at which the Jew had hesitated.

“At the expense of my conscience, thou wouldst say, Isaac; speak it
out—I tell thee, I am reasonable. I can bear the reproaches of a loser,
even when that loser is a Jew. Thou wert not so patient, Isaac, when thou didst
invoke justice against Jacques Fitzdotterel, for calling thee a usurious
blood-sucker, when thy exactions had devoured his patrimony.”

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

“I care not what he did,” said Front-de-Bœuf; “the question
is, when shall I have mine own?—when shall I have the shekels,
Isaac?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Art thou in thy senses, Israelite?” said the Norman,
sternly—“has thy flesh and blood a charm against heated iron and
scalding oil?”

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

“We shall see that,” said Front-de-Bœuf; “for by the blessed
rood, which is the abomination of thy accursed tribe, thou shalt feel the
extremities of fire and steel!—Strip him, slaves, and chain him down upon
the bars.”

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

CHAPTER XXIII

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

TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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