Ivanhoe, Walter Scott [the lemonade war series txt] 📗
- Author: Walter Scott
- Performer: -
Book online «Ivanhoe, Walter Scott [the lemonade war series txt] 📗». Author Walter Scott
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-Boeuf; “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-Boeuf. 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-Boeuf, 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-Boeuf, 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?”
“Sir Knight,” replied Rowena, “the grange which you contemn hath
been my shelter from infancy; and, trust me, when I leave it
---should that day ever arrive---it shall be with one who has not
learnt to despise the dwelling and manners in which I have been
brought up.”
“I guess your meaning, lady,” said De Bracy, “though you may
think it lies too obscure for my apprehension. But dream not,
that Richard Coeur de Lion will ever resume his throne, far less
that Wilfred of Ivanhoe, his minion, will ever lead thee to his
footstool, to be there welcomed as the bride of a favourite.
Another suitor might feel jealousy while he touched this string;
but my firm purpose cannot be changed by a passion so childish
and so hopeless. Know, lady, that this rival is in my power, and
that it rests but with me to betray the secret of his being
within the castle to Front-de-Boeuf, whose jealousy will be more
fatal than mine.”
“Wilfred here?” said Rowena, in disdain; “that is as true as that
Front-de-Boeuf is his rival.”
De Bracy looked at her steadily for an instant.
“Wert thou really ignorant of this?” said he; “didst thou not
know that Wilfred of Ivanhoe travelled in the litter of the Jew?
---a meet conveyance for the crusader, whose doughty arm was to
reconquer the Holy Sepulchre!” And he laughed scornfully.
“And if he is here,” said Rowena, compelling herself to a tone of
indifference, though trembling with an agony of apprehension
which she could not suppress, “in what is he the rival of
Front-de-Boeuf? or what has he to fear beyond a short
imprisonment, and an honourable ransom, according to the use of
chivalry?”
“Rowena,” said De Bracy, “art thou, too, deceived by the common
error of thy sex, who think there can be no rivalry but that
respecting their own charms? Knowest thou not there is a jealousy
of ambition and of wealth, as well as of love; and that this our
host, Front-de-Boeuf, will push from his road him who opposes his
claim to the fair barony of Ivanhoe, as readily, eagerly, and
unscrupulously, as if he were preferred to him by some blue-eyed
damsel? But smile on my suit, lady, and the wounded champion
shall have nothing to fear from Front-de-Boeuf, whom else thou
mayst mourn for, as in the hands of one who has never shown
compassion.”
“Save him, for the love of Heaven!” said Rowena, her firmness
giving way under terror for her lover’s impending fate.
“I can---I will---it is my purpose,” said De Bracy; “for, when
Comments (0)