Ivanhoe, Walter Scott [the lemonade war series txt] 📗

me to be true prisoner, rescue or no rescue,” answered

the Norman, exchanging his tone of stern and determined obstinacy

for one of deep though sullen submission.

“Go to the barbican,” said the victor, in a tone of authority,

“and there wait my further orders.”

“Yet first, let me say,” said De Bracy, “what it imports thee to

know. Wilfred of Ivanhoe is wounded and a prisoner, and will

perish in the burning castle without present help.”

“Wilfred of Ivanhoe!” exclaimed the Black Knight---“prisoner, and

perish!---The life of every man in the castle shall answer it if

a hair of his head be singed---Show me his chamber!”

“Ascend yonder winding stair,” said De Bracy; “it leads to his

apartment---Wilt thou not accept my guidance?” he added, in a

submissive voice.

“No. To the barbican, and there wait my orders. I trust thee

not, De Bracy.”

During this combat and the brief conversation which ensued,

Cedric, at the head of a body of men, among whom the Friar was

conspicuous, had pushed across the bridge as soon as they saw the

postern open, and drove back the dispirited and despairing

followers of De Bracy, of whom some asked quarter, some offered

vain resistance, and the greater part fled towards the

court-yard. De Bracy himself arose from the ground, and cast a

sorrowful glance after his conqueror. “He trusts me not!” he

repeated; “but have I deserved his trust?” He then lifted his

sword from the floor, took off his helmet in token of submission,

and, going to the barbican, gave up his sword to Locksley, whom

he met by the way.

As the fire augmented, symptoms of it became soon apparent in the

chamber, where Ivanhoe was watched and tended by the Jewess

Rebecca. He had been awakened from his brief slumber by the

noise of the battle; and his attendant, who had, at his anxious

desire, again placed herself at the window to watch and report to

him the fate of the attack, was for some time prevented from

observing either, by the increase of the smouldering and stifling

vapour. At length the volumes of smoke which rolled into the

apartment---the cries for water, which were heard even above the

din of the battle made them sensible of the progress of this new

danger.

“The castle burns,” said Rebecca; “it burns!---What can we do to

save ourselves?”

“Fly, Rebecca, and save thine own life,” said Ivanhoe, “for no

human aid can avail me.”

“I will not fly,” answered Rebecca; “we will be saved or perish

together---And yet, great God!---my father, my father---what will

be his fate!”

At this moment the door of the apartment flew open, and the

Templar presented himself,---a ghastly figure, for his gilded

armour was broken and bloody, and the plume was partly shorn

away, partly burnt from his casque. “I have found thee,” said he

to Rebecca; “thou shalt prove I will keep my word to share weal

and woe with thee---There is but one path to safety, I have cut

my way through fifty dangers to point it to thee---up, and

instantly follow me!”*

The author has some idea that this passage is imitated from the appearance of Philidaspes, before the divine Mandane, when the city of Babylon is on fire, and he proposes to carry her from the flames. But the theft, if there be one, would be rather too severely punished by the penance of searching for the original passage through the interminable volumes of the Grand Cyrus.

“Alone,” answered Rebecca, “I will not follow thee. If thou wert

born of woman---if thou hast but a touch of human charity in thee

---if thy heart be not hard as thy breastplate---save my aged

father---save this wounded knight!”

“A knight,” answered the Templar, with his characteristic

calmness, “a knight, Rebecca, must encounter his fate, whether it

meet him in the shape of sword or flame---and who recks how or

where a Jew meets with his?”

“Savage warrior,” said Rebecca, “rather will I perish in the

flames than accept safety from thee!”

“Thou shalt not choose, Rebecca---once didst thou foil me, but

never mortal did so twice.”

So saying, he seized on the terrified maiden, who filled the air

with her shrieks, and bore her out of the room in his arms in

spite of her cries, and without regarding the menaces and

defiance which Ivanhoe thundered against him. “Hound of the

Temple---stain to thine Order---set free the damsel! Traitor of

Bois-Guilbert, it is Ivanhoe commands thee!---Villain, I will

have thy heart’s blood!”

“I had not found thee, Wilfred,” said the Black Knight, who at

that instant entered the apartment, “but for thy shouts.”

“If thou be’st true knight,” said Wilfred, “think not of me

---pursue yon ravisher---save the Lady Rowena---look to the noble

Cedric!”

“In their turn,” answered he of the Fetterlock, “but thine is

first.”

And seizing upon Ivanhoe, he bore him off with as much ease as

the Templar had carried off Rebecca, rushed with him to the

postern, and having there delivered his burden to the care of two

yeomen, he again entered the castle to assist in the rescue of

the other prisoners.

One turret was now in bright flames, which flashed out furiously

from window and shot-hole. But in other parts, the great

thickness of the walls and the vaulted roofs of the apartments,

resisted the progress of the flames, and there the rage of man

still triumphed, as the scarce more dreadful element held mastery

elsewhere; for the besiegers pursued the defenders of the castle

from chamber to chamber, and satiated in their blood the

vengeance which had long animated them against the soldiers of

the tyrant Front-de-Boeuf. Most of the garrison resisted to the

uttermost---few of them asked quarter---none received it. The

air was filled with groans and clashing of arms---the floors were

slippery with the blood of despairing and expiring wretches.

Through this scene of confusion, Cedric rushed in quest of

Rowena, while the faithful Gurth, following him closely through

the “melee”, neglected his own safety while he strove to avert

the blows that were aimed at his master. The noble Saxon was so

fortunate as to reach his ward’s apartment just as she had

abandoned all hope of safety, and, with a crucifix clasped in

agony to her bosom, sat in expectation of instant death. He

committed her to the charge of Gurth, to be conducted in safety

to the barbican, the road to which was now cleared of the enemy,

and not yet interrupted by the flames. This accomplished, the

loyal Cedric hastened in quest of his friend Athelstane,

determined, at every risk to himself, to save that last scion of

Saxon royalty. But ere Cedric penetrated as far as the old hall

in which he had himself been a prisoner, the inventive genius of

Wamba had procured liberation for himself and his companion in

adversity.

When the noise of the conflict announced that it was at the

hottest, the Jester began to shout, with the utmost power of his

lungs, “Saint George and the dragon!---Bonny Saint George for

merry England!---The castle is won!” And these sounds he rendered

yet more fearful, by banging against each other two or three

pieces of rusty armour which lay scattered around the hall.

A guard, which had been stationed in the outer, or anteroom, and

whose spirits were already in a state of alarm, took fright at

Wamba’s clamour, and, leaving the door open behind them, ran to

tell the Templar that foemen had entered the old hall. Meantime

the prisoners found no difficulty in making their escape into the

anteroom, and from thence into the court of the castle, which was

now the last scene of contest. Here sat the fierce Templar,

mounted on horseback, surrounded by several of the garrison both

on horse and foot, who had united their strength to that of this

renowned leader, in order to secure the last chance of safety and

retreat which remained to them. The drawbridge had been lowered

by his orders, but the passage was beset; for the archers, who

had hitherto only annoyed the castle on that side by their

missiles, no sooner saw the flames breaking out, and the bridge

lowered, than they thronged to the entrance, as well to prevent

the escape of the garrison, as to secure their own share of booty

ere the castle should be burnt down. On the other hand, a party

of the besiegers who had entered by the postern were now issuing

out into the court-yard, and attacking with fury the remnant of

the defenders who were thus assaulted on both sides at once.

Animated, however, by despair, and supported by the example of

their indomitable leader, the remaining soldiers of the castle

fought with the utmost valour; and, being well-armed, succeeded

more than once in driving back the assailants, though much

inferior in numbers. Rebecca, placed on horseback before one of

the Templar’s Saracen slaves, was in the midst of the little

party; and Bois-Guilbert, notwithstanding the confusion of the

bloody fray, showed every attention to her safety. Repeatedly he

was by her side, and, neglecting his own defence, held before her

the fence of his triangular steel-plated shield; and anon

starting from his position by her, he cried his war-cry, dashed

forward, struck to earth the most forward of the assailants, and

was on the same instant once more at her bridle rein.

Athelstane, who, as the reader knows, was slothful, but not

cowardly, beheld the female form whom the Templar protected thus

sedulously, and doubted not that it was Rowena whom the knight

was carrying off, in despite of all resistance which could be

offered.

“By the soul of Saint Edward,” he said, “I will rescue her from

yonder over-proud knight, and he shall die by my hand!”

“Think what you do!” cried Wamba; “hasty hand catches frog for

fish---by my bauble, yonder is none of my Lady Rowena---see but

her long dark locks!---Nay, an ye will not know black from white,

ye may be leader, but I will be no follower---no bones of mine

shall be broken unless I know for whom.---And you without armour

too!---Bethink you, silk bonnet never kept out steel blade.

---Nay, then, if wilful will to water, wilful must drench.

---‘Deus vobiscum’, most doughty Athelstane!”---he concluded,

loosening the hold which he had hitherto kept upon the Saxon’s

tunic.

To snatch a mace from the pavement, on which it lay beside one

whose dying grasp had just relinquished it---to rush on the

Templar’s band, and to strike in quick succession to the right

and left, levelling a warrior at each blow, was, for Athelstane’s

great strength, now animated with unusual fury, but the work of a

single moment; he was soon within two yards of Bois-Guilbert,

whom he defied in his loudest tone.

“Turn, false-hearted Templar! let go her whom thou art unworthy

to touch---turn, limb of a hand of murdering and hypocritical

robbers!”

“Dog!” said the Templar, grinding his teeth, “I will teach thee

to blaspheme the holy Order of the Temple of Zion;” and with

these words, half-wheeling his steed, he made a demi-courbette

towards the Saxon, and rising in the stirrups, so as to take full

advantage of the descent of the horse, he discharged a fearful

blow upon the head of Athelstane.

Well said Wamba, that silken bonnet keeps out no steel blade. So

trenchant was the Templar’s weapon, that it shore asunder, as it

had been a willow twig, the tough and plaited handle of the mace,

which the ill-fated Saxon reared to parry the blow, and,

descending on his head, levelled him with the earth.

“‘Ha! Beau-seant!’” exclaimed Bois-Guilbert, “thus be it to the

maligners of the Temple-knights!” Taking advantage of the dismay

which was spread by the fall of Athelstane,