Ivanhoe, Walter Scott [the lemonade war series txt] 📗
- Author: Walter Scott
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that of the night-raven?---Come before my couch that I may see
thee.”
“I am thine evil angel, Reginald Front-de-Boeuf,” replied the
voice.
“Let me behold thee then in thy bodily shape, if thou be’st indeed
a fiend,” replied the dying knight; “think not that I will blench
from thee.---By the eternal dungeon, could I but grapple with
these horrors that hover round me, as I have done with mortal
dangers, heaven or hell should never say that I shrunk from the
conflict!”
“Think on thy sins, Reginald Front-de-Boeuf,” said the almost
unearthly voice, “on rebellion, on rapine, on murder!---Who
stirred up the licentious John to war against his grey-headed
father---against his generous brother?”
“Be thou fiend, priest, or devil,” replied Front-de-Boeuf, “thou
liest in thy throat!---Not I stirred John to rebellion---not I
alone---there were fifty knights and barons, the flower of the
midland counties---better men never laid lance in rest---And
must I answer for the fault done by fifty?---False fiend, I defy
thee! Depart, and haunt my couch no more---let me die in peace
if thou be mortal---if thou be a demon, thy time is not yet
come.”
“In peace thou shalt NOT die,” repeated the voice; “even in death
shalt thou think on thy murders---on the groans which this castle
has echoed--- on the blood that is engrained in its floors!”
“Thou canst not shake me by thy petty malice,” answered
Front-de-Boeuf, with a ghastly and constrained laugh. “The
infidel Jew---it was merit with heaven to deal with him as I did,
else wherefore are men canonized who dip their hands in the blood
of Saracens?---The Saxon porkers, whom I have slain, they were
the foes of my country, and of my lineage, and of my liege lord.
---Ho! ho! thou seest there is no crevice in my coat of plate
---Art thou fled?---art thou silenced?”
“No, foul parricide!” replied the voice; “think of thy father!
---think of his death!---think of his banquet-room flooded with
his gore, and that poured forth by the hand of a son!”
“Ha!” answered the Baron, after a long pause, “an thou knowest
that, thou art indeed the author of evil, and as omniscient as
the monks call thee!---That secret I deemed locked in my own
breast, and in that of one besides---the temptress, the partaker
of my guilt.---Go, leave me, fiend! and seek the Saxon witch
Ulrica, who alone could tell thee what she and I alone witnessed.
---Go, I say, to her, who washed the wounds, and straighted the
corpse, and gave to the slain man the outward show of one parted
in time and in the course of nature---Go to her, she was my
temptress, the foul provoker, the more foul rewarder, of the deed
---let her, as well as I, taste of the tortures which anticipate
hell!”
“She already tastes them,” said Ulrica, stepping before the couch
of Front-de-Boeuf; “she hath long drunken of this cup, and its
bitterness is now sweetened to see that thou dost partake it.
---Grind not thy teeth, Front-de-Boeuf---roll not thine eyes
---clench not thine hand, nor shake it at me with that gesture of
menace!---The hand which, like that of thy renowned ancestor who
gained thy name, could have broken with one stroke the skull of a
mountain-bull, is now unnerved and powerless as mine own!”
“Vile murderous hag!” replied Front-de-Boeuf; “detestable
screech-owl! it is then thou who art come to exult over the ruins
thou hast assisted to lay low?”
“Ay, Reginald Front-de-Boeuf,” answered she, “it is Ulrica!---it
is the daughter of the murdered Torquil Wolfganger!---it is the
sister of his slaughtered sons!---it is she who demands of thee,
and of thy father’s house, father and kindred, name and fame
---all that she has lost by the name of Front-de-Boeuf!---Think
of my wrongs, Front-de-Boeuf, and answer me if I speak not truth.
Thou hast been my evil angel, and I will be thine---I will dog
thee till the very instant of dissolution!”
“Detestable fury!” exclaimed Front-de-Boeuf, “that moment shalt
thou never witness---Ho! Giles, Clement, and Eustace! Saint Maur,
and Stephen! seize this damned witch, and hurl her from the
battlements headlong---she has betrayed us to the Saxon
Saint Maur! Clement! false-hearted, knaves, where tarry ye?”
“Call on them again, valiant Baron,” said the hag, with a smile
of grisly mockery; “summon thy vassals around thee, doom them
that loiter to the scourge and the dungeon---But know, mighty
chief,” she continued, suddenly changing her tone, “thou shalt
have neither answer, nor aid, nor obedience at their hands.
---Listen to these horrid sounds,” for the din of the
recommenced assault and defence now rung fearfully loud from the
battlements of the castle; “in that war-cry is the downfall of
thy house---The blood-cemented fabric of Front-de-Boeuf’s power
totters to the foundation, and before the foes he most despised!
---The Saxon, Reginald!---the scorned Saxon assails thy walls!
---Why liest thou here, like a worn-out hind, when the Saxon
storms thy place of strength?”
“Gods and fiends!” exclaimed the wounded knight; “O, for one
moment’s strength, to drag myself to the ‘melee’, and perish as
becomes my name!”
“Think not of it, valiant warrior!” replied she; “thou shalt die
no soldier’s death, but perish like the fox in his den, when the
peasants have set fire to the cover around it.”
“Hateful hag! thou liest!” exclaimed Front-de-Boeuf; “my
followers bear them bravely---my walls are strong and high---my
comrades in arms fear not a whole host of Saxons, were they
headed by Hengist and Horsa!---The war-cry of the Templar and of
the Free Companions rises high over the conflict! And by mine
honour, when we kindle the blazing beacon, for joy of our
defence, it shall consume thee, body and bones; and I shall live
to hear thou art gone from earthly fires to those of that hell,
which never sent forth an incarnate fiend more utterly
diabolical!”
“Hold thy belief,” replied Ulrica, “till the proof reach thee
---But, no!” she said, interrupting herself, “thou shalt know,
even now, the doom, which all thy power, strength, and courage,
is unable to avoid, though it is prepared for thee by this feeble
band. Markest thou the smouldering and suffocating vapour which
already eddies in sable folds through the chamber?---Didst thou
think it was but the darkening of thy bursting eyes---the
difficulty of thy cumbered breathing?---No! Front-de-Boeuf, there
is another cause---Rememberest thou the magazine of fuel that is
stored beneath these apartments?”
“Woman!” he exclaimed with fury, “thou hast not set fire to it?
---By heaven, thou hast, and the castle is in flames!”
“They are fast rising at least,” said Ulrica, with frightful
composure; “and a signal shall soon wave to warn the besiegers to
press hard upon those who would extinguish them.---Farewell,
Front-de-Boeuf!---May Mista, Skogula, and Zernebock, gods of the
ancient Saxons---fiends, as the priests now call them---supply
the place of comforters at your dying bed, which Ulrica now
relinquishes!---But know, if it will give thee comfort to know
it, that Ulrica is bound to the same dark coast with thyself, the
companion of thy punishment as the companion of thy guilt.---And
now, parricide, farewell for ever!---May each stone of this
vaulted roof find a tongue to echo that title into thine ear!”
So saying, she left the apartment; and Front-de-Boeuf could hear
the crash of the ponderous key, as she locked and double-locked
the door behind her, thus cutting off the most slender chance of
escape. In the extremity of agony he shouted upon his servants
and allies—“Stephen and Saint Maur!---Clement and Giles!---I
burn here unaided!---To the rescue---to the rescue, brave
Bois-Guilbert, valiant De Bracy!---It is Front-de-Boeuf who
calls!---It is your master, ye traitor squires!---Your ally
---your brother in arms, ye perjured and faithless knights!---all
the curses due to traitors upon your recreant heads, do you
abandon me to perish thus miserably!---They hear me not---they
cannot hear me---my voice is lost in the din of battle.---The
smoke rolls thicker and thicker---the fire has caught upon the
floor below---O, for one drought of the air of heaven, were it to
be purchased by instant annihilation!” And in the mad frenzy of
despair, the wretch now shouted with the shouts of the fighters,
now muttered curses on himself, on mankind, and on Heaven itself.
---“The red fire flashes through the thick smoke!” he exclaimed;
“the demon marches against me under the banner of his own element
---Foul spirit, avoid!---I go not with thee without my comrades
---all, all are thine, that garrison these walls---Thinkest thou
Front-de-Boeuf will be singled out to go alone?---No---the
infidel Templar---the licentious De Bracy---Ulrica, the foul
murdering strumpet---the men who aided my enterprises---the dog
Saxons and accursed Jews, who are my prisoners---all, all shall
attend me---a goodly fellowship as ever took the downward road
---Ha, ha, ha!” and he laughed in his frenzy till the vaulted
roof rang again. “Who laughed there?” exclaimed Front-de-Boeuf,
in altered mood, for the noise of the conflict did not prevent
the echoes of his own mad laughter from returning upon his ear
---“who laughed there?---Ulrica, was it thou?---Speak, witch, and
I forgive thee---for, only thou or the fiend of hell himself
could have laughed at such a moment. Avaunt---avaunt!------”
But it were impious to trace any farther the picture of the
blasphemer and parricide’s deathbed.
CHAPTER XXXI
Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more,
Or, close the wall up with our English dead.
--------------- And you, good yeomen,
Whose limbs were made in England, show us here
The mettle of your pasture---let us swear
That you are worth your breeding.
King Henry V
Cedric, although not greatly confident in Ulrica’s message,
omitted not to communicate her promise to the Black Knight and
Locksley. They were well pleased to find they had a friend
within the place, who might, in the moment of need, be able to
facilitate their entrance, and readily agreed with the Saxon that
a storm, under whatever disadvantages, ought to be attempted, as
the only means of liberating the prisoners now in the hands of
the cruel Front-de-Boeuf.
“The royal blood of Alfred is endangered,” said Cedric.
“The honour of a noble lady is in peril,” said the Black Knight.
“And, by the Saint Christopher at my baldric,” said the good
yeoman, “were there no other cause than the safety of that poor
faithful knave, Wamba, I would jeopard a joint ere a hair of his
head were hurt.”
“And so would I,” said the Friar; “what, sirs! I trust well that
a fool---I mean, d’ye see me, sirs, a fool that is free of his
guild and master of his craft, and can give as much relish and
flavour to a cup of wine as ever a flitch of bacon can---I say,
brethren, such a fool shall never want a wise clerk to pray for
or fight for him at a strait, while I can say a mass or flourish
a partisan.” And with that he made his heavy halberd to play
around his head as a shepherd boy flourishes his light crook.
“True, Holy Clerk,” said the Black Knight, “true as if Saint
Dunstan himself had said it.---And now, good Locksley, were it
not well that noble Cedric should assume the direction of this
assault?”
“Not a jot I,” returned Cedric; “I have never been wont to study
either how to take or how to hold out those abodes of tyrannic
power, which the Normans have erected in this groaning land. I
will fight among the foremost; but my honest neighbours well know
I am not a trained soldier in the discipline of wars, or the
attack of strongholds.”
“Since it stands thus with noble Cedric,” said Locksley, “I am
most willing to take on me the direction of the archery; and ye
shall hang me up on my own Trysting-tree, an
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